What is this place?
These men
with gold where their words break and they end
their time keeping nothing but stones
and fool gold
stones worth the weight of ten working class winters
lending kids to the skull in their wish
if there was one
What is this place?
Where greed came into all the mouths
like empty does the chest
and spoke nothings in the pitch of street
and the worn heart of a hound
a dim machine twitching in the chest of potential
hidden beneath the scar-tissue strength
a bar-bell'd built
Who will come kill me?
When I call these men milk made of weak
fat with numb as they dish dung to the hunger
It is an echo of yourself in the world
that you're hearing
them yell
Who will come kill me?
Taking their rings off like women
because I will swear on their weakness
They are the gun sons of what's done
latter day knights
weakened at the bone with the weight of their poor words
A lot of riskless nights turning a coin around in their throats
lips leaking the poison
eating at the honor of rap
forcing the blood from the cunning of kids
from the future of things
So they are starved for the gristle of meaning
that which can be gnashed
between teeth and never ate
only passed
So I call them
I call them lambs to the lion they steal from
and sic my pen on their thinnest of ghosts
and know
they don't wake and take bullets with water like vitamins
even savage with mornings
dagger the side of their face with the rising sun
No, they sleep hard in a silk thicket
and the cured skin of the scared and spent
And I know they will be but ribs in the dirt
the sound of their songs becoming muds in a landfill
eyes filled with a crowd of maggots
And the young go numb to the played bones of your weakness
across the only once of what's done
gangster of trifles
throw out your gold teeth and see how they roll
licking your wounds in a white king's lap
falling in love with all guns
For rappers,
there is no hell
there is only fans
and you willl go there
and you will be cut from the cave where your words sour
to the edge of your ears and then strung
and then made to move with the grace of what's puppet
till you're cut from the cave where your words sour
to the soles of your feet and then fed through a fire
to the dusk of what's done
to the absence you grew
circa your birth and a death
your eyes filled with a crowd of maggots and mud
jewelry loose on your bones
like you were on your meaning
These men
with gold where their words break and they end
their time keeping nothing but stones
and fool gold
stones worth the weight of ten working class winters
lending kids to the skull in their wish
if there was one
What is this place?
Where greed came into all the mouths
like empty does the chest
and spoke nothings in the pitch of street
and the worn heart of a hound
a dim machine twitching in the chest of potential
hidden beneath the scar-tissue strength
a bar-bell'd built
Who will come kill me?
When I call these men milk made of weak
fat with numb as they dish dung to the hunger
It is an echo of yourself in the world
that you're hearing
them yell
Who will come kill me?
Taking their rings off like women
because I will swear on their weakness
They are the gun sons of what's done
latter day knights
weakened at the bone with the weight of their poor words
A lot of riskless nights turning a coin around in their throats
lips leaking the poison
eating at the honor of rap
forcing the blood from the cunning of kids
from the future of things
So they are starved for the gristle of meaning
that which can be gnashed
between teeth and never ate
only passed
So I call them
I call them lambs to the lion they steal from
and sic my pen on their thinnest of ghosts
and know
they don't wake and take bullets with water like vitamins
even savage with mornings
dagger the side of their face with the rising sun
No, they sleep hard in a silk thicket
and the cured skin of the scared and spent
And I know they will be but ribs in the dirt
the sound of their songs becoming muds in a landfill
eyes filled with a crowd of maggots
And the young go numb to the played bones of your weakness
across the only once of what's done
gangster of trifles
throw out your gold teeth and see how they roll
licking your wounds in a white king's lap
falling in love with all guns
For rappers,
there is no hell
there is only fans
and you willl go there
and you will be cut from the cave where your words sour
to the edge of your ears and then strung
and then made to move with the grace of what's puppet
till you're cut from the cave where your words sour
to the soles of your feet and then fed through a fire
to the dusk of what's done
to the absence you grew
circa your birth and a death
your eyes filled with a crowd of maggots and mud
jewelry loose on your bones
like you were on your meaning