The land where we feed off the confusion of our neighbors
and the profusion of contusions on the souls of our slavers
Layers of snot-slayers playing records to reminisce and kiss
dreams hopeless and laid to rest, couplets prepped to inflict
conscious, breathing, non-scheming thoughts, and the addict
breeds thick levels of indomitable shame, caked by the plan
to inject and infect blood-cells with the suburban sect of pain
restoration, rejuvenation of subconscious molecular regeneration
and the saxophone stylings of ahmad jamal call for the beckoned
fall of winter to shade the ochre rays spilling like a jazz-stuffed jar
as I spar with the inner-haidar and prevent the idyllic images of
costco-manufactured memories from being lathered in tar
The land where I shuffle shit-caked lines from foot to foot
while nervously smacking lips over the crimes of the crook
and judge pimpernels to holy-hell wearing my mask of truth
justice, and honor, as corrupt as ever, I emulate the protectorate
because grime and served time are parasites of the same
symbiotic tether, and never again will I jump o’er the bridge
rather cringe with the dolorous tint of self-sacrifice etched
across my edifice and embellish remnants of my inner-kid
while moving bits of what-should-have-been down into regretful pits
The land that isn’t a land, but a collection of truths woven into the
greatest lies to feed your family for two servings of vitamin C, and
rhythmic tones of teeth-scratching for a monthly fee of 12.13 to keep
smiles healthy and image-fuelers wealthy as they shoot from a spending
spree into the eventual fatigue and monotony of holding prestige
and ownership over the money-tree, even god took a bite of the apple
wondering what to do as he waited for eve to seize what he placed
as a tease, the scent carried heavily by an Eden breeze and the sin
of cease written down aeons later by fictitious map-makers turned
moral jailers molded death exhalers as they blow madness into
the ruffled papers of our generation’s conception of truth
The land where half the youth take shots every day and the other
half take shots in the chest for minimal pay, and plug metal
into indigenous natives who drove out the first tribes the exact same way
cry bloody murder for your brother when the others cough dust in the
annals of time, there’s no crime in conquering unless the act itself
is questioned, the morality of two centuries worth of manifest destiny
collapses in on me in the land of opportunity and city-slicking enemies
cross-dress in amulets of ancient egyptian anubis grips just to
cause me to question my insanity, when the banality and finality
of my total fate enters my veins, there’s a sharp moment of pain
and the rest fades away as the poles glisten grey
