Decoding panties with Dakota Fanning. Granted, I’m no Peyton Manning, when it comes to urban planning. Yet my enchanted cultural jamming can be demanding to those with bad grammar. You hard gee? Not hardly more like Jeff Hardy and Charles Barkley playing hockey on Atari produced by Hank Shocklee. Ungodly malarkey the smooth hollow molly. Drink our fill. Built to spill neutral milk glib. Sitting in with Freddie Gibbs and Mad Lib got dibs on your nibs; flip scripts, sink ships, eat squid, skipped kids and worked mids. Heaven forbid that I slid in like El Cid on a takeover bid for the city of Madrid. Self-esteem teems when you possess big dreams and a scheme team writing reams of seamed themes. Toppling regimes sliced beats and genes like Ed Gein so clean, that Dilla’s ghost gave up on donuts lost hope in blue notes. The corpses bloat then float; missed the boat. Gloat with the throat tropes. Cope with the dope. They write so rote now the only hope to emote is a noose to Norman Bates fashioned from his drapes.
Nay they gravitate towards this earthquake, enticing them with Chillwave IPA’s brewed by Great Lakes. Escapades escaped in Escalades only to find them feeding me grapes and milkshakes. Balked then squawked so I chalked it up to trench coats and gun scopes. Snug ropes fashioned from pope’s clothes shopworn and outgrown. Heard you piss and moan when I was found home alone enrobed, honing the philosopher stone prone. Her safety zone got blown by my calzone. Went rogue on the bone till the birds had flown.
Disc jockey that folly. You rhyming in cockney that’s sloppy. I’m rhyming Nagasaki. Haughty cough coffee posse snobby about carbon copy literati whose prose’s potty, foggy, groggy with a volley soggy as kohlrabi. In Hobby Lobby sipping sake with femi-nazis listening to Liberachi. Cocky poppy with the paparazzi. The Fonzie of my Old Milwaukee. While the Joanie and Chachis chasing Mazaratis, I’m chasing the illuminati in a broke down jalopy called my body. Embody everybody with the motley origami darkly. Quasi kamikaze mommies like the mariachi. Use to playing zombie now they play proxy to this orthodoxy. I promptly epoxied dodgy matriarchy to a stodgy patriarchy, garnished it with parsley. Hid the salami melting into my melancholy nonchalant.
What do you want?
An adjuvant for the gaunt font that you flaunt.
What do you see?
Absentee emcees driving SUVs so bourgeois.
What do you believe?
Find a reprieve from poetry conceived from naive seed.
What do you need?
Reconvene mainstream greed; feed it weed and mead till it bleeds the heresy of disbelief.
Teenwolf (James Van Horn) under his Tightly Woven Lattice production moniker is hard at work recording and mixing the follow up to Dead Cats Self-Titled. The sophomore album is called Decoding Panties. He bought an MPC and has begun learning the arts of sampling, looping and sequencing to make all future releases self-produced and mixed. All Tightly Woven Lattice, Dead Cats, and Teenwolf information and product can be accessed via https://tightlywovenlattice.bandcamp.com/ and www.facebook.com/TightlyWovenLattice. For booking email: firstname.lastname@example.org attention James.