The laziness was two guns opposite one another in a fucked up marsh, perched on the shoulders of crazy black soldiers who would come to be (march niggas) who would come to be
come to be come to be come to be bleed . another country story about haints glowing for caution tours on the train / climb //
like danger is famous in the war binoculars, all those eyes and we get southern to vocalize , where we bond sore tracks rhyme with addict heroine but act too master and slowly one black and some change remains
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Get to subtracting the word casual from every grammar in search of the healer they call vague to mean real / sure thing, every mercy gave revenge and even then I held the trigger like a course in the eternal present
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Press and curl patience. Conk and gravy persistence. Too easy. I mean, trying not to be black is the blackest thing you can do easy wonderment becomes proof of other tributaries to our refusal to change expect in the eternal present I mentioned the idea that all the myths are locked in music and silence went through it
and how the only obsession that could satisfy anyone is Michael Jackson and how even you are afraid of your own magic and the sad pale thoughts we habit about symmetry and purpose only to cast them off in squares and battle being mostly that coughed up image of machines in the grass trying to look unintentional as all the crime in chicago or across the road floating off my good time heart
and this vocalism Niggas are brats when they hate themselves, soldiers when they admit it // children no matter what black pleasure is sometimes unlike joy
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The laziness was a few of us, using our real names on the covers of books and albums, all proud and shit like minimalists for the shine
