Fly Panorama:Tropen Museum Exhibit

Tropen Museum Exhibit in Amsterdam Steve Fly 33.

July 2013 free flow wronging of Steve fly

Friday, 5th July 2013....

My mind at sea on Hennessy writing silent essays about the silent NSA. Back to the letter, going out to all the people who hold freedom in their dome, stand by certain right to do whatchalike in your own home. Your own dome on yer’ neck, playhouse of a shuffled deck. Psychological scramble  letters through all channels, the backspeech of one who goes for sound down the cellar door rather than Pounds in the vault. It’s not your fault, you touched the web and got shocked with a mega volt. The electric man in the high castle, at the top by way of muscle and the hustle, gift of the gob, and ill -defined like the blob.

Heads nod in agreement, the government must undergo movement, rotation of different leaders
may slow the gears that churn earth into mud with crocodile tears. Beneath the layers the turf turned inside out, the only life found underground, beneath the surface, in the darkness and damp places, spaces where all races congress in unity, away from the masses, the fake living lie of life top side. In a topsy turvy world scurvy is gold, disease the cure, money manure.

The eye of providence on the dollar bill, what you thought. They store and watch everything, they track and tag, run and rag, slap and gag, punch and jab, note and tab, like and list, fix and twist, bend and brake, smudge and fake, steal and take, snitch and squeal, sign and seal. May the 30 seals of Amanta Mcara release the positive open forces.

Maybe the melting ice caps are the source of recent intelligence leaks. After just a few weeks and some tweaks the cold stream turned into a river, now boiling oceans have moved continents, stars line up and do not line up, asteroids spin, my pen died for this keyboard.

Take up a chump and drop a tasty lump on a sad kid that walk in Nike pump. Nobody jump.
You think I’m a grump, check my trump in your trunk, jazz smudge wickedness, test test test.
Strike it nice, be bright and don’t fight, feel, spinna reel, peel the seal from the sign, be mine. Fly.



Jump a land mine and make a notch in the road,
run like a motherfucker and leap like a toad
judges can’t test me in my super out mode
quick on my feets because I got a light load
in my humble abode all the voices flowed
out my house to place that makes people explode

When im watching TV, all my brains are feeling weary, and all of its not really, not nearly!
Better bagga book, better than yer’ bling, badda thana brudda, bitter fly ting. Up early.
bit your ear, byte your there, I nibble on the feet of the legs of your chair.

I got mad lures to pull you into my sewers, where brewers are doers and grow sweet fluwers
it may smell like manures and an old gang of pooers, but this shits truer than thruers, ma’ brewers.
Through and through you can rake up the stew, and force fuck the people to chew on the poo
Just say no and don’t do, what the eye tells you to do, them spies up the liffey are in a leaky canoe