Tyler Durden's blog: "Brass Knuckle Poets Society"

Unarmed, I'm sharper than a knife, death stare in my eyes - no child, no wife.  The war drum in my heart is my guiding light.  I know when to retreat, but there's no flight, ready to surge and down to fight.  I live my life like I've already died; Mars raised me right, a beast groomed for the arena where my trade is plied, fed strain and strife.  My heart is hollow and the pain is ripe, broken and rebuilt - immune to blight.  I severed my ties... to my body's hunger, and my mind's desire for a pleasant sight.  The Grey is where I ride.  I rebuke the black and the white, and blur the lines. Chaotic Good let's me do what I would through the prowess of mind and might.  The Game's my spouse, 'cause the sickest bitch is My Life...

I'mma tell ya' like this, I don't give two shits about ya' penny-annie-ass politics, galactic ego, and little dick... syndrome, yeah, you make me sick.  You Napoleonic tick, you's a  sour-ass bitch.  I stunt on you parasitic little pricks... habitually, just to get my kicks.  Why the fuck you think I ride, like this?  I'm polished priceless, like I was picked by an African kid.  So, kick rocks, or get clipped.  The Eagle don't need to land when he flies this legit.  The rule books get ripped - I hedged against the risk.  I don't talk trash, I just react quick.  Brass knucks equal death kiss; these soft-ass chumps equal breakfast.  Respected tactics equal bastards backless and breathless.  I don't need to snatch a chain, but I'll sever a necklace.  Witness the ruckus and get tucked by an Irish kid.  I rock knock out skills, and I pack a magic dick.  I'm tractor beam attractive; I'll look at your chick and lick my lips, smoother than a magic trick.  That's why I don't back down, tha's why my swag is so sick.  

 

In judgment I laugh, as the scales are cast; At the wave of a hand, I rot every cache. I will bring empires to rubble, and nations to ash. Thy Kingdom is crushed - from the first to the last. On the black steed I ride, malignant and fast. You will kneel in pain, as the will of FAMINE is passed. A heavenly crescendo harkens, "COME AND SEE!!!" And, the One who is worthy, with seven horns and seven eyes, total dominion and divinity, unleashes the third seal and frees me. It is, as it was prophesied to be. I do not discriminate between prestige, or extreme poverty. I am John Six-Five-Six - The Rider Pale Destiny. The absence of light, is the color of my steed. He whinnies in a mixture of rage, pain and agony, while meter bells jingle rhythmically, Thunder pounds, as we gallop across the Seven Seas. I am here, and I am F-A-M-I-N-E. I raise my scales, and judgment is upon Thee. To all those who lived in blasphemy, who would not repent, who turned their back towards The King, worshipped false deities and sold their souls for currency: "For a penny each, you will have three measures of barley and a measure of wheat. Your day's wages will be a penny - how will you eat?" There will be no one to beseech. "But, I will not hurt the oil and wine, my Beloved Damned; you will SEE: They are sacramental to the Christians, and are rooted the most deeply." This is an end to growth; only starvation will be seen. Unprecedented destruction will be cast upon economies. Nations will crumble, as I cast drought, emaciation and blight across everything. I bring the way for Disease and I follow the second beast, War and weeping... who was preceded by the Anti-Christ, who came with his bow of peace. We are the Tribulation, and to the floor, shall fall every knee. It was envisioned by John in dreams, and we Four Horsemen will bring it to be. I lead the way for Eternal Hell - The Rider Death, who closely follows me.

I'm an eighties baby; I never really got to find out what significance Destro's genetic make-up was, in comparison to the other COBRA.  So... I just took control of him... and savved him out.

I'll yoke you out, like an albino boa; rear naked choke from Destro,

latisimus dorsi flex, like a king cobra.

Trapezius corded, no spectacles awarded - instead, afforded it's the Red

Hand of Ulster.

Nature's color-coded.  The more spectacular the markings,

the more potent the poison. 

My copperhead stare polar, but so much

colder.

I got that anaconda coil, bone-breaking serpentine swag at my

disposal.  So, heed the warning soldier.

I'll reproach you wit' venom - you get no

cold shoulder.  The general issue can't soil my order.

Approach a master seargent and get shown no quarter. 

I'll hug you 'til your bones are broken and your wardrobe soiled.

I could just go viper and bite your fuckin' face off; leave you caroded, 

and spoiled.  The tactics, formless cause chaos and disorder. 

You're walkin' uphil, approachin' a boulder.  I don't call the rollers,

S-A-double-V'll bowl you over. 

My detonator'll tear a whole through your border, the frequency

recorded.

I walk away, like mission accomplished...

after I trigger the plastique, nails and mortars. 

I wrote this in honor of my Fams... I wanted to put a piece together, written from my whole Team's perspectives, or voices, individually...

Much Love, Fella's...

 

Each1 Teach1 (Drow1):

All I need is one word - I'll flip it around,

poison you with my pen, and tag you while you're down.

Scar you with the scalpel: carve "Drow One" on your brow.

The Town laughs at you, now - no more smiles, and it hurts to frown,

crucial like thorns and crown; your master comes to mind, every time you

furrow your brow. 

Crimson shines in my honor, and drips trickle to the ground.

I’ll Teach Each One the power of the palindrome… phonetics and vowels,

Learn you how to bow - how does that sound?

You see me in the mirror - Make you catch your breath, like I covered

your mouth. 

No more up-side, tha's how it's goin' down - the Admiral on the prow. 

All my chieftains together, gathered around – scimitars to the center of

the Table, ready to row;

You pale in comparison to the prowess of the war hounds on the prowl:

Thrones pulled back, helmets take the place of the crowns, and hearts

pound as the war drums resound.

 

Ant The Rant:

I’m Armada – I’ll turn your glorious fleet into the dullest.  My ballast is

armored; war sales unfurled are the fullest. 

My brass Knuckle Wind has evolved quick. I’ll throw the Rubix Cube at

you, after I solve it. 

I see through the bullshit. It’s been my gift since semen in the cervix. 

20-15, I’m the sniper on the culprit.  I’m locked and loaded, search and

seizure when I serve spit. 

I’m the Reverend on the pulpit – I’ll scold you like a cold whip; you a

bold bitch.  I’ll reframe your thought process – redefine what you know

it’s…

A cold Cali life, and this kid is not sullen, handy wit’ the trigger,

aggravation instigates the pullin’…

Down to get gully, go goblin, make you gobble the bullets.  I could give

you gospel, or rip out your gullet.    

I’ll Rant at you, laugh at you… hand you a grenade, manipulate your

mind state, make you pinch the pin and pull it...

Sculpt you like Michaelangelo, or scalp your mullet,

Al Bundy you in some cement shoes, stuff you in the Subaru, and it’s

Laker’s to the fullest.

Crush you like an Ant, exterminate, extinguish… go Vercingetorix on the

Caesar – I’ll dominate your culture, I mean this… subvert you into

subservience, and prima nocte on your cleanest.

 

Archetype:

One man’s ceilin’ is a warrior’s floor; The Protoype, wingspan larger than

any that came before; Predator, The Griffin’ with talons galore.

My vision scans the basin, as I soar, I see my prey as vulnerable as a

baby mole. 

I drop into my death dive, there’s no need to roar – silent flying panther,

weapons extended, as they beg for gore.

I caress the cirrus, while these simps trick to whores; I’m the yin and

yang, in a world of world wars.

My mindstate’s like your grandfather’s predecess-or; I tax my core, my

spirit, my temple, elevate the weight, and beg for more.

The war hammer feels like a toy; an extension of myself, like the tusks

on a boar.

I’m a theologian: I could bless you, or meditate over your corpse.  I’m

the First Form – my style can’t be taught, sold, traded or told…

Inherently bold.  I was born and Hephaestus smashed the mold; I’m the

Archetype, and I’ll cave in your door, with my Brass Knuckle sword.

I abhor your soul, I throw bolts at you – no self-awareness equals no

remorse, when I dismantle your form.

You’re a parasite, a cold sore, viewed through the eyes of Thor – I could

deny knew you your weapon, as you die – no Valkyries arrive to escort

you to the Source..

Snatch the coins from your orbital bones, no fee for the Boatman, you

can’t cross the Ford.

You sit in ignorance, on Bliss’ plateau – no desire to ask why, or what

for… you couldn’t walk in my shoes – Hades is just too cold.

 S-A-double-V:

I write wit’ an orange pen – I dip it in blood and burn the tip, until it’s

smolderin’.

I flip my hat to the back, yeah the one wit’ the orange brim – I write a

sin, and then I write a prayer, commence to look into the future, like a

soothsayer.

I’m like Sun Tzu Kavorkian.  I’m colder than… the peaks of Mount

Olympus and older than… the Book of Life. 

I’m a Capricorn, which means I’ve lived more than twice… an old soul with

an urge to rise; ambidextrous with the knives – unorthodox, switches to

right.

A Savv wit’ refined canines and an urge to bite.  I could mentor you, or

ride like a rogue assassin in the night…

Ronin Samurai – convince you to commit seppuku, or take out your whole

crew;

You can see it in my Brass Knuckle Eyes – Aurora Borealis, or Blue Death

– you decide.

I’ve made all the styles mine; I strain my frame, and grind my Einstein

mind, supplement my temple wit’ protein and nitric oxide.

My aura rubs you the wrong way, you can feel it inside.  The war drum is

my heart beat, that’s why I grin when I fight.

I’m like Brian Boru: I make chaos unite… cloud your vision, and blight

your insight, scout out your whole pride and take advantage of your

team, like a rip-tide…

Disciple you and teach you how to ride, change your name from Saul to

Paul, and let you fight to die on my side.