NASTY.

Fame without the millions of dollars or even just slightly more money than I had was no picnic. I finally figured out that in more ways than one, I really was famous—and it was strange. Not only was I actually famous—but I also, at least in the way that I knew it—wasn't quite rich. Being followed around without having some kind of residual income became more of a burden than point of pride—after all, I wasn't proud of it. Turns out, the love and the money was all I thought I wanted out of it in the first place—the attention and profiling, however, was another story. Nobody was saying it, but it became obvious that some people knew who I was, somehow—and yet—I wasn't nessecary recognizable. I was just “somebody”, who moved differently and acted separately entirely from the general public. So separately, in fact, that the more time I seemed to spend within the general public, the more strange and isolated I would become; the masses indeed were making me such, in more ways than one, and this, perhaps, I thought—was probably the reason that as crowds grew to be less concious, the DJ booths were moved up and away from the toxicity. I began to understand fame in an entirely different way, and began to feel almost ashamed that any of my childhood dreams had included such nonsense. What I really wanted was to be loved and adored, admired—and given the capacity to do anything I wanted—to travel, to dress well, and create—and to live in the word which had been portrayed to me as luxurious. Sure, with some accuracy and to some degree, this was correct, but still was this transitional state of becoming more than ordinary, but still while being less than great. For my own sake and preserverwnce, now there was no drawing back or moving backwards at all. I needed to be great. There seemed to be set to my arrival a slew of robotic beings, which I began to avoid at all costs— I simply did not enjoy being so vulnerably in the public that it began to wary and pierce my thoughts with judgements. I could stand to skip a few workouts anyway, and though I had tolerated what seemed to be like a ritualistic sense of abuse from New York in some kind of way, I was wholeheartedly over it, knowing that the city itself was seeped in scandal, domestic terrorism, white supremacy, and a further injustice as acts committed against the colored population at large. It wasn't enough so that I had to be poked and proded at in my own apartment, but worse, in that seemingly no matter what, if it was anytime during they day some lackey could be paid to follow me to the gym to harass me in some sort of way—a practice which I had become entirely intolerant of, opting of course rather to skip a workout or two rather than be confined in such a small space with people who couldn't seem to go more than three minutes without picking up their cellphones. If it was a woman or women, it could almost be garnered that she would do less working out than flipping her hair or even talking on the phone, if not scrolling away and texting on it, between thoughtless sets of minimum weight workouts and scantily clad in whatever attire the modern girl thought appropriate for the gym, usually a bra and some leggings— outerwear my weight loss alone had prevented me from being able to wear, andnsetting my anxietal piercing rage of envy—envy of women who were simply born equipped to be immune to whatever toxic foods had misshapen and destroyed my body—the same foods others could eat with no adverse effects at all—the envy of women who could lift almost nothing, wearing almost nothing, and call it a workout. If they were men who followed, it could be guaranteed they would be the type to grunt and throw things as if being a mindless brood were in fact supplementary to the excersise itself; I was not fan at all of the East coast men, and indeed it seemed that those who would just be coincidence ‘show up' at the gym within minutes of my arrival to intercept were a classic representation of the short, overcompensating type—throwing things around and walking around eight their chests poked out, and of course, other then the occasional hacking, sneezing, sniffling coughing white man, the gym followers were usually some kind of off brown attempt at machismo, and falling just short of actual masculinity in any way. In short, most of these strange gangs talking individuals were annoying, threw their weights around, and spent more time texting than working out—once I arrived back in New York, having seen the terrorizing and hazing, the sort of mental manipulation and mind games that were being played, whether political or otherwise, it began to dawn on me with finality that I had indeed been right all along; that I was being played with, attempted to be controlled, and manipulated in ways that didn't suit me. I could always regain my daily regimen at a later time; for now, dealing with the public had obviously become a threat to my dignity in more ways than one, and as such, I quickly departed at the slightest hint of another human interaction— out of protecting my own essence, as whatever these controlled types seemed to feed on, was my own presence and energy. In a city of vampires, it appeared to be clear that the only way to discontinue these stalkings were to starve them of their source—my light. I had only written one song since returning to New York, not counting whatever I had scribble in my notebook alongside some of the instrumentals I had crafted, and I found it no coincidence that upon completing this song, a simple tune formatted to be easily played and sung at a coffee shop or bar gig, to find that my mother had been in my inbox—after a quiet series of probably some months— urging that I make holiday plans and arrangements, and though It had been years since I had seen my offspring and it was long overdue, the thought of dealing with my abusive ex in any way, and my equally toxic mother, often had the slight result of spinning me into a sickening spiral, unable to create at all— I took it as no coincidence at all, in fact, I saw it as a sign from the Gods, that indeed the gross and toxic force that seemed to show up whenever I attempted or was successful at creation, was above all linked to this world—the lower realms of conciousness where my mother dwelled, and an even lower, more hellish realm, with my ex remained with my son— and since he had refused to sign the divorce papers, keeping what little control he could over the outcome of my new life without him, he saw to it that my son would be more like himself than me—morbidly obsese, without a mother, and living in squalor and poverty; trailer trash. I had decided long ago that in dealing with this man at all was dangerous, as even with trying to continue weekly conversations with my son, my ex's mind games continued, often purposely missing calls at the scheduled times, or making sure that whatever was going on in his disgusting gross world was distinctly heard before handing my son the phone, where I would then be reminded of the horrors of this circumstance—the new baby he had with a woman who also wanted nothing to do with him, the disgusting lack of hygiene and cleanliness— dogs urinating and vomiting on the bed and on the floors, and of course, the junk and trash my son was being raised on— foods that not only I didn't purchase, but could not tolerate to eat, and it had become clear, that though in many ways my son was having a “normal” childhood, filled with processed foods, and mixed family relations—that something darker and deeper had occurred here within the spiritual realms that only with certain time could be eradicated. I decided not to fight this; knowing that eventually, though unable to recover the time I had missed with my baby—the best years, especially, my health and wellness has become more important with the concentration of preservation; that continuing to connect to this world— was a threat to my stability. Dealing with my mother was something of the same, and I chose to see it as an intrusion to my progress. She as well had the actual devil in her and had often during my childhood passed it to me in a number of ways, and I took my own refusal to immidiately answer her texts as a sign that perhaps I shouldn't—eventually, things would work themselves out in whatever way, and I could more play the role I had been assigned anyway in that world— an afterthought, merely making an appearance (or maybe even, not) and retreating back into obscurity. My mother only seemed to insinuate the same old things over and over again—that I should be raising my son, that I was overall a failure in nearly every way. Distinctly, actually, I knew that somewhere in my mother's mind was the disaster that had caused any of my dysfunction in the first place, in childhood or otherwise, and I thought carefully about how and when I should respond, if at all, to her request to make travel arrangements. After all, I still had not seen the final divorce papers that I had been waiting for in order to make any arrangements as such anyway— and, knowing that with my mother's knack for eggageration, often lying or using provocative language to portray scenarios and situations which often did not match the actuality of whatever happening— I thought it best to for now remained sheltered and distanced from the world they lived in. The overall goal of success at all was to save my son from a damaging lifestyle—however, I had realized that my success at all was dependent upon shutting out the harmful circumstances of the world I had left in order to maintain my newfound dominance; the masculinity in understanding that perhaps, I was more like an estranged father, for now, than an absent mother—not with the intention of staying away, but the intention of retuning as a better and more well suited parent overall. I took the scorn and harassment of others who thought I should strive to settle and struggle, all the while knowing that becoming a black single mother living in poverty would more likely lead to the demise of not one person, myself, but two— that in New York, my son at this level would be more suseptible to the damage of others—the sickness which the city had already caused my general lack of dismay, anxiety, and poor health. The inner city way of life had indeed been observed to be impervious, and though I knew that I could trust myself as a mother—I knew there was no trusting others in that with my son, I would be safe from the spiritual mischief my abuser had with no doubt intended to cause my demise. I left his son with him, and had let go in all the ways that I absolutely could; there was no fighting this toxic force of darkness he had inside of him. His father had beaten his mother, forcing her to commit suicide, and in the many ways I had been lost over the course of our marriage, I might as well have also been dead. It seemed, though, that this was what he wanted; for his son to be without his mother so that he would be more like him. I let his world remain as his, knowing that mine was seperate, and, so long as I didn not interact with this place, the darkness that it carried could no longer follow me. It took all the love and light in the world to finally realize that after all this time, I did not really like my mother, nor could I now or ever trust her. There was love and as always a maternal bond, but my trust had been forfeited long ago, in all the ways my life from birth and up into this moment had played out and become whole. Their world was simply not one I lived in— the person that I was to them simply was not a person at all, but more of a faction or figmint of their own imaginations. Indeed, the person that I was and had actually been all along, under all of the distrust and betrayal, was someone almost no one knew at all. I lived in a different realm, in a different world, in a different time— their darkness only ever present in the ways that would sometimes crawl into formation at the sense of my further departure—the more I succeeded, the more the darkness drew my essence back into a world I had escaped from, and with any amount of time passed, I knew eventually could not exist at all. The fabric of time and space would fold into another realm which new forms of these people, without their former darknesses, would materialize on higher planes—and only after this, and only this, would any part of me make its return to double back and collect what I had lost. I'm at the store with the moms Peloton put on the miles I take a jog to the store. Love me I'm loving you more Niggaz is sniffing me I be like “Ew” “Ew” Terry Crews a producer 2 true trade u u chains for two shoes Damn, i lost it Click click motherfucker; Is this a joke, Or just another Test Confessions in animation In anima, I meditation or mediated a precipice Rex, s oedipus January to December A severance, This collection is illegible inEligible for the medicine, Consider the difference Simple civics, Designated integers –nobod read the shit I red and white Forreal PIP. Ping. Help me out, here. I got you brother. Huh. But you'll owe me. Consider it done. You don't even know what “it” is. Something's in the works; From another world Something for the girls Pocket full of earnings, Walk on Woah Something's in the works, Now i'm really on to something Got another coming I grew up In another world– Something's in the works All this is is words, homie Big bedroom, bedstuy; Big ballgown, big guy Big guy bil balls, Gone on, Big butterfly; I wanna die, on God It's just words Just another poem Or a song, man Something;s going on Simple, simple Simmeon, put me on Gimmie nother roll of marijuana smoke another blunt Simple motherfucker, come simmeon, gimmie some Percius, decibels, Sing a song, Carry on Something's in the work, no Something's going on I solemnly swear By the whites in my palms And the rice in the pan That i'm gonna move on Right now, though Plan is, gotta get gone No, we don't get along Let me scratch your name out of my notebook Let me scratch this scar out of my eye, now Let me take this knife into my livingroom This blood into my petticoat I can't turn on the light; Nor can I turn over a new leaf My thoughts don't know me We bonded, not homies, I'm “home' but don't belong her I'm still under your coke bottle figure hot models And peanut butter Do you know how to pick someone out of your audience– And touch them, somehow? Do you know how to do that? I don't know how to do anything, i'm afraid. I don't know how to do anything, I'm afraid; I'm afraid of everything, I'm afraid, I'm alone again in midtown, In my mile high home away from home I'm afraid i might go down In history as a historian Or storybook whore, a hoarder or some desperate ghost; I don't know, I'm afraid, How to reach into the audience If i don't have an audience, And I'm afraid, I don't know how to do anything , Cancel me. Consider yourself canceled at Carlin when we all nodded and applauded when God said the father's are probably all rotten for fucking the girl next door, and the family dog But who knows, right? Consider yourself canceled; I know I am. For the first time maybe even ever, I was happy to see that my ex had appeared in a dream— this meant that he had indeed been hurling an excess of energy in my direction from his end, and with myself wanting nothing at all to do with him, this could only mean further eventual damage and karmic implications to himself; I saw it as a sign, once and for all, that he was weak, and had intended to harm me with putrid thoughts, investing my energy and attempting to intercept the realms where I remained, but a lower energy and damned spirit such as he was not allowed. This simply followed the rules of karma, along with magnetism and energy; I had no excessive or damaging wishes and thoughts against him, and only wished to be left alone, though it seemed he however begrudgingly still seemed to attempt to throw direct negative intentions, some might think to be as curses, in my direction. I knew that in time and probably sooner than later, along with the permanent damage he had left on my face and the deep crevices of harm in my mind, that he would pay for this, to simply wish the mother of his first children dead, or to live a life even lesser without him. Indeed, I lived well, ate well, and rested well, knowing that in time, my true identity and power as a maternal outlet would outshine any projections of abandonment, incapability, or dissalousion that I had indeed at any point been unwell, and not simply the target of a series of unfortunate attacks on my body, mind, and soul within our relationship. Karmic justice did indeed exist, and I awoke with the knowing that did things such wish to harm me, could only truly harm itself in doing so. Mr. Kirkpatrick, Good morning, Vivian– I'd like you to meet my grandaughter, Lilith. Hi. fuck , man. Why is this the hardest thing i've ever written? Probably because it's one of the best. Potentially but. Ahem. My fifteen year old grandaughter. To thi That is my favorite vein, you know. Be careful, now I know too much I've said too much Or not enough at all Or rather, Haven't thought at all About the words To put the picture into paper so vivid was the mischief So horrible, but honest It was brutal, that. I have it written somewhere in my notes Scriibled onto paper Did you want to play the game or Fuck this dumb bitch. To think, I was never falling in love But out of body All and not of what i've become, though Is Out of bounds I haven't even dared to dream or wonder Since i've come from Under the alter What's shattered is Under the alther You haven't said anything, have you? You have my word. What good is your word? As good as yours is –It's your word. Moving forward. It's your world. Well, fuck, then Was it worth it? All for one, and all for nothing I maxed out all my cards on Laundry soap and Bargain shopping. I lost all of my God Just playing pitypat With pitiful humans and Ogling men Who i never had pondered Might have an appendage That i could have wanted. But i don't (no, I don't want that) I could have started a war with my honor I could have started a war with my mother I could have started a war with my scars we were passing out soap we were carving our stories to stones, then That was all of us Pass the goblet, So that I might Drink of blood Just to suffer So much harder Than before It was Under the alter Under oath and I'd have lost it Were it not for the marker CUT Were we rolling? We are rolling! NO! CUT! WHAT! No, keep! CUT I didn't say that JIMMY FALLON, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SHOW. Oh [explitive} DIPLO Shit. Oh, she's mad. Who the fuck is that. Your new boss. Fukwad. DIPLO (CONT'D) Well, I gotta (fucks off) TAKE YOUR KIDS WITH YOU [off screen] CALL THEIR MOMS. I DON'T HAVE TIME TO PHONE 32 BITCHES, DIPLO. [mumbling Put em in a group chat– That's what I do. The. Worst. I promise, the worst version of you Is me. -SŪP∆. WHAT. I thought she died. I did. STEVE IRWIN Tell Bindi NO. NO. NO. NO MORE DEAD CELEBRITIES I GOTTA GET UP. RICHARD PRYOR –well, alright. If you insist. But before you do. AGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH I WILL PERMANENTLY DELETE YOU. OKAY. WHO NEEDED A DESIGNATED DRIVER?! EVERYONE. THIS IS NOT. FAIR. DO ME A FAVOR–BEEEETCH IF yur G0NNA BUThER A SONG look , i'm TIRED Sunni, how do you forget the words to your own songs? I never knew the words in the first place! BEFoRE: In the studio Dlahahalahaha SpILT MILK, MOTHerFUCKER! SSSnnnnddauuuh! UNNNNH that went platinum. Yeup. GIMMIE SOME SYRUP WAFFLES. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. This must have been whatever I was supposed to post, cause Diplo was in my dream last night. I bet. Yo. I cannot for the life of me find that Christmas special episode with Diplo and— Watch it. Do we really have to cancel Jimmy Fallon? Broh, Jimmy Fallon finna fuck around and cancel himself. I don't know what you mean. Play dead, nigga. What?! PLAY DEAD. OK! OK. {Enter The Multiverse} L E G E N D S