I'm back and I need to be consoled
Men keep dying and the scent of roadkill drives them through the night in the best locamotives / I can't hear myself think when you look at me like that, like I mean so much to you and nothing is more eloquent than nothing. I stole a few things from my former lives, men, ideas, symmetry, burdens, obsessions, allah, loss, gain, greed, bosshood and other neighborhoods overpopulated with soul and awe. I had to go deeper. The abyss is much older than the light. I had to eat the music, to physically eat it, to take it down into and through me. A black circular thing too large to take in but I had to take it in, to let it amount to springing forth or disintegrating into a whole. It was my turn at conditioning. It was my turn to be saved. Now I need to be consoled.
There's little in the way of public sorrow when a black man stuffs his puppet heart with stillness, it's trendy of him, part of his brand, and when he comes back the cannibals take offense and blame the devil for his talent at singing when he comes back to shine on, sinning from the first breath, if you're gonna judge, feeling some kinda way about his mothers. Why can't we just all be honest. Love is lethal because we're taught to hide it, from others, from ourselves, to turn the eternal ascetic. I no longer understand this game I'm winning one pain at a time, but I'm here and I need to be / consoled.
