I could be that believable gypsy in a ski mask they call me a secret so I sing in the cut
The rubber gesture guts guesses at what it is coming through the sound
I'M SCREAMING
a confession of laughter through suffering an African proverb thing I mean turning intensity against itself as a mode of assimilation has its own language good diction I’ll always miss Malcolm stay on topic we were talking about Black hypocrites invisible hypocrisy like Blackness like that small plaintiff nudge like backstage ugly neon gutter rider sweat hugging the blue lit rafters and you laughed to keep from screaming skimmed the air for amphetamines it’s crazy to know how to say anything to make anything meaningful/sinful soulful kinfolk as it is this tenderness in me is razor scores carved into the concrete tunnel between Angela and Fred Hampton The interviewer asks are you in love with him and she cannot even be bashful anymore or caveat to revolution his corpse at the window dancing peeping clinging clamouring her screams the supple smell of before rain is dwelling on the Black song asking it back to itself she just sat there in the dark room under the grey mushrooming spotlight and giggled in that direct shrill pitch she could never disguise not beneath afros not beneath straight perms or braids or rage or dread or origin fading into war grin I'M SCREAMING she answered and they enter that silence together
