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vagabond maurice - fukemachizuki / good morning vietnam (93' till infinity) كلمات الأغنية

[chorus]
this is how we chill from 93′ till/
this is how we chill from 93′ till/
this is how we chill from 93 /
till infinity (and beyond)

[verse]
calligraphy in hieroglyphics / that’s why
i’m spitting them murals
phases through the phrases, saxophone tone
compose swords, spoken words, written in that chicken
checkity, scratch(ing) on that vinyl of break beats / and baselines
my whole universe immersed in the sunshine / translated
between the glimmer of my t–th – huh
inflections in the groove, jailbirds singing the blues
reflected on, the cadence of cl!cking handcuffs (we, are)
breaking them bonds, on the philosopher stoned luck
discover my finale thoughts, in the garden of eden
we reading the book of genesis, while sinning down the river styx
(this is the) black exodus, for immortal kids who remained artist in the / (huh)
shadow of colossi / halting juggernauts, in the knots / of the pull /
of the full moon / where we scribe similes through these s synonyms
the best laid plans, of mice and men, can never ascend / so
critique me while i’m alive
so when i die these lines can be immortalized
through the celestial of../

one spirit
one love
one time for that mind
to make your soul
….bloom

[chorus]
this is how we chill from 93′ till/
this is how we chill from 93′ till/
this is how we chill from 93 /
till infinity (and beyond)

[good mourning vietnam / 93’ till infinity – poem]

there’s a poem;
i’ve always wanted to write you
but like a middle-aged war veteran
afraid of ghost stories, i haven’t
conjured the courage to politic
with phantom(s)—

—limb. memories
ouija board these words
until they attain perfect symmetry
on callused palms that vulcan grip pens
spent sleepless hours – no
dreamless hours – wait
awakened hours from midnight
graffing hip hop literary movements
on first waves, crash against sand bed

our hands are pruning now
drowning in sea sl!ck cheeks flavored salt
stinging brimmed eyelids hued tears
the symphony of hymns tuned to the key
of weeping, in an orchestra of a community
holding the frequency of your soul upon four
shimmering pillars, labeled by the four elements
of hip hop

john nguyen
though my hands quivered with the shaman
who broke beats to break dance at the funeral
celebrating your spirit, i found sanctuary
in the concept that you, vietnam
would descend into a grave soundtracked
by the ceremony of beat boxers and rhythms
in a cathedral tagged:
montrose cemetery

how appropriate
for it to be abbreviated – m.c
like microphone check – one, two, one, two
like master of ceremonies
like mover of crowds
like microphone controller
you midnight commanding manifesto
magna carta music commentator, majestic in magnetic complexities
like moses splitting the sea, we watched the seed of your tree bloom
you mentor to chicago

somewhere in uptown
steve moon prescribes one last purple metropolis psalm
to the multi-cultural youth project’s soldiers
who march on in the absence of their general
like forty-seven samurai wielding katana
bladed pens inked ‘uprise’, their revolution
will be recorded in a cipher alongside

denizen kane
who will scribe vietnam’s name in the
downbeat of microphones, whispered
on cosmic breaths amplified until
his legacy can

breathe
poet

you whose vernacular fractured opponents
into bone shards till dust, and cusped strangers
with arms too short to box with god, but an embrace
wide enough to envelope heaven, i wondered
how a casket could cradle a human with such
unfathomable energy cradled in the weight
of their heart, without that casket
breaking

when you left us
i found out how fragile i am
found out, how fragile we are
we feel the loss, but we are not
lost

found, discovering the hieroglyphics
reverberating in the cadence of each
mixtape, in every verse, we bask in the
solace of your baseline, the percussion
of your music brandished the war drums
to a movement within the threshold of your
philosopher stone heart, which manifested
the tempo of love in the frequency of beats

i wept, at your funeral
like a middle-aged war veteran
uncovering the courage to confront
apparitions, from a distance, when your temple
descended into the grave, like atlantis to sea
draped in the octaves of our community
i wondered if anyone noticed
how your soul
ascended

celestial spirit rocking a fitted halo
unifying sight with the seven colors of the rainbow
and ears in tune to the seven notes of the musical scale
you’ve made that journey home and bask in paradise now

probably, sleepless
working on that collaboration with nujabes
after freestyling with 2pac
where biggie stood jaw dropped
on the sidelines with j dilla
who’d almost snap his neck
with the swish of each head nod
synonymous with your rhymes
highlighted by guru’s disgusted
scrunched face syncopated
with each punchline

your catch phrase was, “i got you.”
it’s now time for us, your community
to let you know, we got you

do you hear it?
god is on the turn tables now
and she’s playing
your song

- vagabond maurice

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