Week 41
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Were you born here mistaking the sounds of cars for waves
breaking over highways, regardless the moonphase?
My moon-face Buddhas like sun-face flowers
our sutras, shooting stars from ivory towers
My idle hands bloody my lips, hangnails clipped
I'm just a bike-thief running in the city of Dis
My leitmotif, strike on the threes, fade into balance
That's boom-bap's cadence for the spoon-fed violence
Spat on my wounds, bathe 'em in salt, boon for the raven
Then I self-immolate to a tune for your entertainment
Hip-hop is just the ruins of a dynasty past
In which life was given dearly 'til the diary latch
The cataclysm of a city with seven swords in her breast
The atavism of an epoch when poets were possessed
With deep thought-- so lemme drop a riddle in your wounds:
Why was every man a mason who has walked on the moon?
Ad-astra the an-arch, blast-off in an in-stant
Black-out from the G-force, cast-down with lieutenants
Crack-down, defendants get strikes despite bargains
Deterrent to violence, METAL GEARs walking Harlem
It's madness-- the basilisk's the new religion
This a better opium to get your head incision
In Outer Heaven I'm stacking plutonium-two-thirty-nine
My diplomacy backed with sunshine, undepleted
With the back-to-back World-War champs, undefeated
Like cataracts, multiply the fires over Egypt
Submitted October 12, 2019 at 03:30AM by PaladinBen https://ift.tt/2B5Cuuo
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