About Me

Blac Garner
I'm seven different people. Six of them are dope ass rappers.

Gideon Wildflower
Most would call me a writer.. but most don't know what the fuck they're talking about.

We are both @APurpleUnicorn .

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

18 years of this shit? ... No Thank You.

hip hop faked it's own death so that it didn't have to deal with the lovechild it had with fame. it knew it shouldn't have been fucking with that crazy bitch anyway...
but the pussy..
the pussy was like diamond chains, velour suits, and big houses in the 'burbs.
The pussy was like drug money.
The pussy was like dreams.
Like waking up to a sunrise and seeing your kids off to school in a beautiful neighborhood.
fame's pussy was just that.
fucking famous.
and just like that
hip hop was fucking famous.
had all the little white kids lined up against the window
watching fame drop down to her knees
their little red noses pressed squarely on the panes
the breaths heavy
as they watched fame suck hip hop dry
hip hop faked it's own death so that it didn't have to deal with the lovechild it had with fame.
it knew it shouldn't have fucked with that crazy bitch anyway
Something in her eyes looked too much like insecurity
Something in her hair smelled too much like inadequacy
And now...
Something in her womb looks too much like hip hop
so hip hop faked it's own death
the formula's simple
shit get's too fucked
you either run or you die
and hip hop ain't never really been about no death

Thursday, November 18, 2010

What do you teach your children about me?

What do you teach your likkle children about me?

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

"The DropOut's Last Symphony" --Blac Garner

Even in pain, there is a song to be heard..
"The DropOut's Last Symphony" .. by Yours Truly

Monday, November 15, 2010

Letter To A Child Born in Poverty but Made of Dreams

Dear Child Born in Poverty but Made of Dreams,

Be bold. Be selfish.
The road you have to travel will be difficult.
Because the path laid out for you it must be paved,
every single dusky red brick, by your own hand
And I wish that I could say you'll be better for the experience
I wish I could say the children you see that have things handed to them
are going to end up worse off
Because it would make you feel better
it would lessen the load off of your shoulders
But dear sweet child born in poverty but made of dreams
I cannot say for certain if that is so
All I can say with certainty is that
Your path will be so harsh
there will be times when you hate everyone for not caring
there will be times when you're hungry enough to sell yourself
there will be times when the world seems to laugh at every motion you make
that fights your own untimely demise
Sweet beautiful child born in poverty but made of dreams
the world will do it's best to break you
But you must fight
You must resist
Because you are
the world's only hope.

Blac Garner

Untitled II: My Weekend

And the crazy thing is...
This isn't the dopest thing I did all weekend.
I love my life.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Favorite Rappers Pt. Uno

One of my favorite rappers today..

And this isn't even on his newest mixtape. Old Shit.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Second Handers

"Yes! And isn't that the root of every despicable action? Not selfishness, but precisely the absence of a self. Look at them. The man who cheats and lies, but preserves a respectable front. He knows himself to be dishonest, but others think he's honest and he derives his self-respect from that, second-hand. The man who takes credit for an achievement which is not his own. He knows himself to be mediocre, but he's great in the eyes of others. The frustrated wretch who professes love for the inferior and clings to those less endowed, in order to establish his own superiority by comparison. The man whose sole aim is to make money. Now I don't see anything evil in a desire to make money. But money is only a means to some end. If a man wants it for a personal purpose -- to invest in his industry, to create, to study, to travel, to enjoy luxury -- he's completely moral. But the men who place money first go much beyond that. Personal luxury is a limited endeavor. What they want is ostentation: to show, to stun, to entertain, to impress others. They're second handers. Look at our so-called cultural endeavors. A lecturer who spouts some borrowed rehash of nothing at all that means nothing at all to him-- and the people who listen and don't give a damn, but sit there in order to tell their friends that they have attended a lecture by a famous name. All second-handers.


A truly selfish man cannot be affected by the approval of others. He doesn't need it."

--Ayn Rand, "The Fountainhead"

Friday, November 5, 2010

Man Research

The brainchild of Blac Garner and Vince Hill.
Once we get enough money for equipment that's not shit,
We will shit on your favorite rapper...
But that's not the point.
The point is getting the music out of us because if we dont, we'll go crazy.
Our music is purely selfish.


Man Research-
man, so that we never forget our place in this universe. with all of it's beautiful limitations
research, as the catalyst between science and magic..


Tuesday, November 2, 2010

The World in My Head Pt. 2

“The people must have a voice!”

Alexander Nelson had to kneel quite a bit to bang his gnarled fist on the desk. He was a tall man but this action made his anger seem small and a little forced. Had the man on the other side of the desk been facing his direction it would have been this action that made his entire argument ineffective. As it stood, it was not. And he did not move his fist.

The cheery mahogany wood stood in defiant contrast to his rather violent motion. In fact, everything in the office of Mr. Pierce Spencer seemed to be mockingly pleasant. The lamp in the corner whispered a dull yellow across the ceiling that reflected onto the simply furnished field of deception below. Three walls opened up to a colossal window that Mr. Spencer often, as he found himself doing now, gazed out of with wonder. Spencer liked to pretend the button on the side of his chair, which he used to call his receptionist, was a remote control that if he wished, he could press and change the channel of his 24 hour view of the New York City skyline. He knew it was that easy. Reminding himself of this made him feel mighty and feeling mighty was of utmost importance to him, though to admit it would’ve made him quite uneasy. The curtains on each side of the window wall were black with white trim. Spencer hated to be too extravagant. He found it distastefully obvious. His desk, though almost as wide as his room, was as simple as the things on it. A silver, translucent paperweight shaped as a pyramid stood calmly on the slightly fluttering sands of paper beneath it. A small radio muttered softly, filling the air with a slight touch of Beethoven. A laptop, a pen, and a small box of tissues all sat patiently in the middle arranged in a fashion that seemed carelessly neat.

Nelson hated it. All of it.

And since his ego would not possibly allow him to see his hatred for himself in these items, he directed all of this energy towards the man sitting in the chair, staring wistfully out the window.

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

Spencer said these words slowly as if he could taste each one and regretted not keeping them in his mouth longer. He had not, at one point in the conversation, turned to face his attacker. He received a silent thrill overtly showing that he knew Nelson knew he was beneath him. All those who knew Spencer would describe him as a strange and quiet man. Spencer enjoyed this and he knew all those who knew him were idiots. He enjoyed that as well. He began to stroke his mustache, as he always did when he knew for sure his actions tormented someone.

“Have you not been listening? You cannot shut my newspaper down! We are the only independent source in this part of the city. By destroying us, you are destroying the voice of the people. I warn you Mr. Spencer…”

Nelson stopped talking when Spencer suddenly turned his chair around. As they locked eyes, Nelson could feel the hair on the back of his neck rise to meet his collar. Nelson was not an easily scared man but there was something in the look that Spencer now gave him that made him want to go home, pack his things, and leave for the other side of the world. Recognizing the desperation of easy prey, Spencer slowly clasped his hands together and staring directly through Nelson he began to speak in an even tone, similar to how one would speak to an angry child.

“You seem a little confused, Mr... eh, Nelson is it? In order to have a voice, one must have a mind. The people do not have a mind. They think whatever I want them to think, whenever I want them to think it. They are all totally plugged in to me. I could get it in my head that I want the sky to be pink and by tonight I will have everyone all over the world convinced beyond reason. You think your little shit newspaper matters? The average human being barely spends enough time off of the web to wipe their ass correctly let alone read a fucking paper.” Spencer cocked his head to the side. His lips slowly extended into a wide smile as a look of shocked anger began to spread on Nelson’s face.

“But, you know this already... Yes, I can see that. You understand that I hold more power in the tip of my pinky finger than you will ever have in your entire life. And yet, you cannot bring yourself to stop fighting. Well consider it an early Christmas gift. I’m putting you out of your misery, you blind, spineless twit. You’re no better than the rest of these idiots. Now you’ll be unemployed, just like them.”

Spencer liked watching his words settle amongst the furrows of the now red face of Mr. Nelson. But he turned his chair around anyway.

“You may see yourself out.”

Nelson almost shook with rage as he brought out his .50 cal Magnum.

“Go to hell,” he said.

“I’m looking at it,” replied Spencer.

He said his last words almost whimsically, with a satisfied smile on his face that told the crushing story of the human spirit.