The sad vine of invention is not pretending to be a mirror or revert back to childhood but the science couldn't unbegin and undead stars rise again as supernovae. Malik was meek and lost his belt on your ass. It fell there like a wand he had to lift every time the siren came or the shiner showing or the urge to run. Parthenogenesis, c'mon. Is that really what happens. These black ones come out from the sun like children again. Reborn, a double verb about how and when we've been immortal ever since dieing for them. Ten thousand light years away, the burned-out core of a dead star quietly circles a sun-like companion. Though the stellar corpse shows no signs of life, it is a cosmic vampire, biding its time as it slowly becomes its mate. The word vampire will not do in the corridor, nor martyr nor reformer and the categories swarm silent in the anarchy of ensemble time. Nor will the faint gimmick of western spirituality that stole the romance of blood to describe itself to a pricetag: affordable, blow-up fort, and the people who drag it up get low from it, nor will it do. Honesty is a rude grin. Maybe even violent. Get your myth true. Get it together. Live, you crazy motherfucker, and organize your shit. Not a pep talk. Not another mother constricting with judgment. The glory was only vinyl and nullified by how-- The myth was the event it crowded around and held together as it aged gracefully, disintegrating into better music. The lucky loops of my lips promising it back to him. More graceful than meek. A faker. But also so sincere. A sinnerman, where you gonna run to kind who never panics and never runs and is therefore far into the tone of arrivance. Getting there. You know, just about at the place he's expected when a veer rips the page off the rack. A trance of seven colors and come out huffing wishbone ash and draconian and pale as the wind and making up a color or hue for the pause of the unword coming through as love, they like it when a nigga is unreliable. Listening through the vent to him mumbling, can't tell weather the voices are joyous or despairing but I get the strong urge to ask them to stop praying and stand unrepentant in edgeless robes. Malik decorates his choir with a flood of bells felt sane again and fell down in the elevation of it
