The Dead Emcee Scrolls by Saul Williams Read Free Book Online Page A

sitting on the edge of my
    bed, slowly undressing. A night symbolic as the
    resurrection. I’m about to slide up in the kingdom
    of God with no protection.
    And I can guarantee a second coming. ‘Cause I
    already hear the drummer boy barumpumpum
    pumming. A host of angels look at me through
    your eyes. My first communion with my hands
    on your thighs. You’re catching the spirit, the Holy
    Ghost and the fire. Yo, this is wild.
    I’m every Jay-Z album played in reverse. I’m
    risen from blunt ash and stashed in a purse.
    I’m smuggled over borders, contraband, ‘though
    I rock. I paper. I scissor. Nah, NGH, no Glock.

CHAPTER 32
    I’m the aftermath of five percent you figure
    aftermath. One hundred twenty lessons cover
    one-third of my path. Two totes of what I spoke
    contents hit and system crash. The greenery of
    scenery, but essence dark as hash.
    Pay me cash. Simply ’cause what money means
    to you. Your currency has currently devalued
    what is true. When freedom rings through costly
    bling, it’s overdrawn, past due. The bankroll of
    an empty soul kept vaulted. Code and clues:
    NGH WHT, I represent the truth you claim to be.
    The hero of the eastern sky, the storm’s eye, westerly.
    Rough, rugged, raw, eternal law recited over beats.
    Some poetry to oversee the dance floor and the streets.

CHAPTER 33
    Feel the beat. Understand the rhythm that you seek.
    Let it be your guiding force you speak from when
    you speak. Hold your tongue just long enough to
    find your path, unique. Then spit the seeds the forest
    needs to garner what we reap.
    It ain’t deep. As simple as a breakbeat and some
    rhymes. Type of shit to nod your head while
    chillin with your dime. But hold her tight, ‘cause
    she just might read deep between the lines and start
    to think the words that she now reads are simply mine.
    Give them voice. Spit them over beats. Repeat. Rejoice.
    An anthem you can put in your own words or chant.
    Your choice. May heaven smile upon your earthly reign
    b-girls and boys, as it has upon mine: fancy pens on paper,
    poised.
    It’s divine. Every page a different sort of kiss. No, not
    for everyone. This pen is clenched in a black fist. And if
    that ain’t your cup of tea, perhaps, a glass of piss. So hold
    your nose and drink it down. Just think of it as Crys-.
    But if it is, if you don’t mind the source from whence
    I speak, and recognize you can’t disguise the source of
    every beat, then nod your head, girl, wind that waist,
    bend over, touch your feet. And go ahead and pop that
    thang. Yes, yes, cipher complete.

AMETHYST ROCKS

CHAPTER 1
    I stand on the corner of the block slinging
    amethyst rocks. Drinkin 40’s of mother
    earth’s private nectar stock. Dodgin cops.
    â€™Cause Five-O be the 666 and I need a fix
    of that purple rain. The type of shit that
    drives membranes insane. Oh yeah, I’m in
    the fast lane. Snorting candy yams. That free
    my body and soul and send me like Shazaam!
    Never question who I am. God knows.
    And I know God, personally. In fact, he
    lets me call him me. I be one with rain
    and stars and things, with dancing feet
    and watermelon wings. I bring the
    sunshine and the moon. And wind blows
    my tune.

CHAPTER 2
    Meanwhile I spoon powdered drumbeats
    into plastic, bags. Sellin kilos of kente scag
    Takin drags off of collards and cornbread
    Free-basin through saxophones and flutes
    like mad. The high notes make me space
    float. I be exhalin in rings that circle Saturn.
    Leavin stains in my veins in astrological patterns.
    Yeah, I’m Sirius B. Dogon NGHs plotted
    shit, lovely. But the feds are also plotting
    me. They’re trying to imprison my astrology.
    Put my stars behind bars. My stars in stripes.
    Using blood-splattered banners as nationalist
    kites. But I control the wind. That’s why they
    call it the hawk.

CHAPTER 3
    I am Horus. Son of Isis. Son of Osiris.
    Worshipped as Jesus. Resurrected