Afracanism, Hieroglyphics, stone scriptures.

Half bantu, full blown man, fully African, a small spect of granule from the horn of the continent.

My pigment is in check, word, Luhya born, swahili grown, knowledge transcends from maseno to that Vas- Coda- Portugal to the coast of Kenya, should I say more? Scripted Super heroes, the shadow master, Magere. you gatta dig deep if you wanna get more. Viking like tales, I’m giving you African supernatural Stone Age bits, way before Hollywood had Wakanda on New York times. I was on Luanda on my lines.

Please allow me to take you on this self propelled journey back in time on my non futuristic you don’t need a Musk to the stars, picture your self on a time capsule, Destination Egypt, 1500 BC. Even before the Great Wall of China, let’s take a break let the beat flow, wait, for the low drum snare to hit, then switch to scientific, my next stop be Hieroglyphics.

The known galaxy  at its place, let the stars align, Giza’s apex be the center of divine. Historical Pharaoh to Narmer, we gat Pyramids  that cant be explained by a layman. Skip that to forces in space, breath in, breath out, so i can explain..the constallation of the system that is galaxy, mathematical geniuses. Knowlodge infused from a far, far interlect, is derived from us.

The incomplete version. been a while on a writers cocoon block..Africanism is on a three part complete verses, coming soon.

Through my eyes, I see God.

A brief light into my next piece, I had to control emotions for story telling purposes, to hold the entire scripture in place. take the journey from the first part, always have to throw in the word play in... the story comes after God's eye vision.

My path in a specific timeline, timed perfect on this planet like my life line, lungs pumping, resercitation happening.    beeping medical entrapments, on a body when the soul is taking flight..scribbled, tuned it, twinned and threw it in. my last rhyme. years  passed, now I’m forty plus. Not yet spotting any shades of that gray, I hunt matter, favourite cup, that piece I hold, a sculptured skull. Knowledge I consume regardless whether black or white, love talking about the colour of texts that passes my eyes when I write, the pen I use might be red in colour, take a second, breathe in, I be the Lost Sun, I bring you humans meanings. my words like poetry gonna be studied sun years to come, each line dissected, metaphors awaiting the Oracles interpretations.

Demigod words.

Question is, how do I start this? Ain’t sure if this here piece be a 16 bars or a guitarist symphony speaking through a poem that my ink stained fingers scripted.

don’t sink in the wet sand, stride slowly past manifested evil to avoid this, here is the mystical sense that approaches, angle of death standing right, close to me, slide through as the Arc angle on the flip side of him left, is it meant to be? Or is it a part of me, when I stare out into the clear galaxy, my reflection is pure basic mortal, not a semi god, but a gifted Oracle, walk on this earth mystic like the flaming Phoenix, now in this century like the modern matrix, Defying all odds, rules of human physics. my thoughts stay clear, slight forgery of the Mona Lisa. few strokes the paint brush makes you come to terms with life or it’s paradox, be it summer or autumn, a Snow White paradise, winter or storm. His grace, the almighty keeps me calm, in the centre of it all. Take a step back and listen, These are steps I take when I can’t pay rent, steps I take when I don’t have a cent, this is when these words come to place, take shape, breathe in life and take flight. this is when religion of all kinds takes place, corrupts feeble minded, divide its so called brethren, destroys and eventually kills all men. this when you find God in cell block, locked in your own fate. Close your eyes, let the Lost Suns scriptures sink in, these Demigods words…the Lost Suns words.. peace to the gods.

40 Rhymes, my life on 40 plus lines.

Turning 40 tonight, dedicated to my mind and pen.

Seen half the earth, wrote on tabs and papers , half of my brain content, with pure intellect lacking confusion, still serving as a mammal at 40, surprised I made it this far, word to the Godly spirits and my mums angels around me. Nature, this air we breath, nick name them if you please, the five elements, conscious minded on a constant battle with basic laws of physics and science. 

The lost sun’s cortex dialects, my visions in a pen play be awkward, like that movie Back to the future, I don’t listen to beats, eyes see patterns, my brain consumes and breaks them into cords, while my ears like the worker bees produce nectar, that’s that sweet symphony. Easy, my feathered pen bleeds, metaphors hieroglyphic, the ancient one is here, try and carbon date my African years. 

Writing this, I’m forty moons now, should have been locked up at area 57, mathematics close to my heart, I used to board them forty sixes (46), once in a while when I was young. From 16 to 32, I’m trynna push my mental mic metal barrier. No more bars, if you feel me go back to eight, hiphop principals. I gat a body now with 40 layers of knowledge, spitting historical scriptures,  not Bible founded, but the apex, of the logic of the Pyramid Khufu with gallactical constellations that pass through.. word

 

These be my 40 rhymes, that break the documented 16 and 32 Hiphop bars, Heavenly form in a human like body now 40, as I jump on the silver surfers back, my destination is a distant galaxy. Immo see you after another 40 plus them other light years. plus still say peace to the gods, and all my Davinci minded, Burning bush tongued spiritual fire rhyme spitters. we been above basic Britannica, Bibles and encyclopaedias, our thoughts been pure hieroglyphic, I done been on that 40 rhymes, nothing less, conscious, the Lost Sun been on that lyrical scheme. step off, not back, emissions I produce be deadly as I ascend on my 40th, spitting 40 rhymes, my life on 40 plus lines.

Word.

Phoenix bird flames as it cries.

Dedicated to one of my young sons, Levis.. The Phoenix rises from the ashes, RIP to your human god. 

Catapillers fly but not all men walk, a shooting star just another flaming pebble in the sky, deep as the fore fathers words sound, the experiment of life happens but only once, a life span. You was born slapped with the first cry, senses opened up wide. Just being, with no programming, No tradition, no religion, no culture, no tricks. As the elements slowly chock you, all fighting to find ways into your essence, breath, the sun rays, the touch to feel as your cortex expands, galaxies don’t stand they still spin, generations pass by as you forget your first cry now you a man. Living in a world that has you misunderstood. Can’t remember your past if it was shitty and messed up, focus on a future that is unknown, that’s why this is a poem. Sink back to your past, coz there ain’t current without history, so there ain’t no you without that first cry. 

Listen close to this chapter, you was born as a cry baby. Now you grown up with a mind maybe, decisions to make like Brenda when she had a baby, life stinks, but life is real. Life takes time to unveil the Thrill.

Decipher this, this is the cypher.

 The best this year, the best is here..this beat is clear, the Bible be ancient,  I spit the new, New Testament, an evolved mind state, don’t need no beat, flip thoughts before the apple falls, scripts split the Red Sea then see Newton writing gravity thesis. master cords and symphonies without slitting my fingers, follow my train of thought. If you lost by now, step off this cypher, I stay underground only for cats who be after. my thoughts be right, check your history I didn’t go the Schumann route. My ears mastered sound, got help from angelic feathered friends, on how to synthesize unseen Melodie’s, mind reflects pure knowledge like the Egyptian pyramid apex, translates to a tongue that spills out metaphors hieroglyphics, if I use ink, it be dark perfected like Wolfgang, from this space to that space, glide through galaxies before NASA and their satellite stations cut off my skate board gliding through space, y’all earthlings label me with different shooting stars names, end this first scripture part, with the last name of the greatest Mozart, Amadeus, the magic flute, Link him three or four lines back, Wolfgang, decipher this, or step off this cypher.

One, Two, Three words.

I say two words, I’m talking about the street kids, the hungry homeless, I say two words..street vendors, them who have to run out every time the council rolls up.. it’s two words, 

State house, they gat the symbol for national unity, same space with pure impunity, government hard on street cats, they gat us on fences, pick one, you gat a family that needs to eat, flip your mind to she’s in a hospital about to deliver, I say three words, Kenyan health care,  back to two words, street hustlers, on walls face front. Government officials, two words, big cars, back left, in Africa. Two words their stomachs be full. Mos def and west I gatta speak from the east of the horn..two words, Africa, Kenya. I should have used my rhymes right, my mind in a mental fight like, two words, national history, or a Pickett fence life like three words, elections don’t matter..metaphors wasted on this here chapter..I’ll let my mind creep into the next sequence, life it self, knowledge it self is life. two words Lost Sun. Two words, soul search.. three words, scrolls, written, pen gospel. Moses staff, white piece of paper, not knowing what’s its destiny is, miracles that might get spilt. The innocence of that page, pure no rage, till Nairobi the scene crept in, two words, Stephen King, one word CUT, no sequel, thoughts roam free, the black guy doesn’t die in my movies. Fishburne, I be Morpheus, killing you with two final words, Follow me.