Boolean Rapology

If you don’t get it… don’t get it. This is iambic trigonometry, crazy good.  Eminem is in it, that place where poems turn to lava-hot poprocks, jumping off your tongue.   He’s wound up and out and in, trying beat by quarter-beat to escape or embrace the sex and death and electricity coiling around him.  He is spitting incisions and every gesture plays on molecules within and without like an impossible harmonic orchestra. I so dig it.

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