Acquired taste- hip hop lyrics

Yeah rubbed you the wrong way- then fused the bond in Epoxy

And malachite clay- hoping to lay thick values of acquired taste

And "subordinate your fears so you don't insubordinate"

Part of a plan to give you a taste for loving what initially you hate

Less an acquired taste- more an undeniable altered state

I'll dissipate with the destruction of both time and space

Meanwhile I'll just fizzle out- then get recycled into a storm cloud

With each ascension gaining new knowledge into what it's like

To be the Water from which this universe was made hoping

To someday bust this rustic clay back to slate from which

A new human race can emerge- yeah that's right it's the upsurge

Of the downstroke of a Pierrpoint axe, hoping to violently remind you

That life's what matters most, this time redirecting energy to become a

Ghost- misanthrope from a missing hope, yet somehow willing to send

The well-brambled saving goat- before the "kill Icarus" chanters give Isaac

The vote- yeah it's a plan to circulate a virus into all the Hololenses

That will show brainwashed denizens their vision's hidden Mote

And speak like a cyclone to Job- every word an affront to the

Frontal lobe, that thought it could calculate every move, but which

Forgot that fate comes like tarot pulls, swift, soundless, and unbearable

Plan B is master art of "no planning" , and bravely look over edge of Abyss

Milton wrote his doves wings charmingly spanning, then brandish

The essence of calamity, protesting cloud nine with a thirteenth knot

Then I’ll commit to ad hoc mankind's clay back to old-school sludge-rock,

Claiming right to create own afterlife and while aiming to dissolve

Into a self-awareness overdose caught between you brain-lobes

Aiming to create art that's not always visually stunning but is

As essential to accurately seeing things as rod-cone

Camaraderie co-oping the co-opting and then overturning of

Gnostic draw-dropping and then back to Agnostic original state

Of things, which provided void giving Mamaluk space to create

And craft a Self out of myths fabric , which was then forced

Onto our reality- I'll trace the winding shapes of labyrinth

That diagrams the Saving Grace, formalist trying to claim

That the formless has its proper space, reducing your

Once factual reality to artifact best viewed in halls of

Museum glass- you were created somewhere in the

Chasm between the first yawn and the first gasp

Turntablist sparks catalysis turning of tables between

The Riff raff and mavericks while subjecting both

To my forces of spin/drift, and pull mayhem out the

Hat like a Biblical Ahab cedes to Captain Ahab aftermath

Hey- I’m a new Rhymesayer meanwhile you and your crowd

Of blase wall-gazers are huffing miasma-headrush of

Believing you’re onto something major yet find tying your shoes a

A Mystery-caper, barely beyond what your brain is made for

Cover is blown- Sleeping Beauty cloaking yourself in

Facades of masculinity wandering far from source

Of accurate feedback and now drifting

I’m caught between fuming vision tinted Quinacridone

And trying to force thoughts into the minds of all

The Worker Drones, hyper-constructively I might add

He was Home-alone so he constructed me out

Of clay and loam, but I predictably mixing with

The other creations like matches meet napalm