assassination of heroics
Your point of heroics you so excitingly take as risk
when it just means you’re a jackass, just took six bullets to the heart,
from a gun loaded with somebody’s unmentioned soul.
When your first word, first verb of action, should of penetrated,
cut through, bust somebody’s vessel, it left a flesh wound,
somebody took it and made you a mute,
because you won’t listening to the first verse of Do it Now: €
The first cut should be the deepest, to penetrate… €
No longer linked to nobody, somebody is the shit now.
Somebody won’t be silhouetted curses of ain’t it a dream
won’t be the first thing tagged as a backlash
ricocheted as pastime masquerades, as a nigger being lynched on a page.
Ain’t it made easy regular, unmade uneasy irregular
in whichever mode of horror, so subtly exhausted, so abruptly gassed-out.
€ From Mos Def’s Black on Both Sides album
Not nobody hears you sing a song so holy
disturbing my rest, with a new question mark
with a new need, that couldn’t be taken aback…
Not nobody can give you a proof of love as holy?
Not nobody can come up with a proof that love exist?
With it’s meant to be absolute? With it matrices
struggling to breathe as conditional decides
for us when we do unfold, gathering care for you
revealing silent songs of secret desires, desire
that rest with our bones, a ghost, we build
but never forget the wasted never leave mes.
Not nobody, I hear your song stories
please play your impressions again
as I keep hearing you dear, keeping you dear to me…
Back to nought, an empty barrel for a frame
an additive identity for a familar existence
drifting aimlessly in the maddening sea
on a shore that waves lonely a dance back and forth
with a disparaging sequestration, a stumbling knot of nobody
if only zero plus something equaled an upheaval from the
nothing not, a step from annihilation, a small remedy for the forlorn past.