Sun Ra Told Me

follow the leader and bring up the band
stand tall amongst spires of diminished
dim deep darkness robbing the spirits
of their burning light. the smell of
smoke seasons the corpses of communities scarred those scars come in the shape of sharp shrapnel

And the motor city is burning

these same scars tell untimed untold unwanted underrepresented epics, rather than tragedies instilled with generational pain. the record of
burnt flesh and broken limbs remain in the
vessels. epics transcend mortal capacities naturally, as hope never dies and no amount of rope can

halt the breath of conscious beings.
but who the fuck got time to think while under fire?

And the motor city is burning

written works often fail to mention the make
of the revolutionary hero, the very substance of individuals that blind masses with maize rays of alienated hope
is, in fact, the default. the leader of the band can only lead themself and attract the malicious gaze, lifting weight off burdened backs of laborers standing their ground atop the coals

And the motor city is burning

Speak your future fears out loud and find them
Clawing at your skin, shrieking in your native tongue Sparing few atoms between their cries and your face Demanding your acknowledgement that they do in fact Exist in the present. Save any anxiety about what’s to come While you shut your senses to the ghouls at the doorstep

I cannot approach you in your weakness, I am too strong.

The stench of your rationalization reeks of common smells Stemming from the collars coupled with blood diamonds
and belt buckles of carceral wardens patrolling hidden jailhouse Graveyards with our brethren. Citadels sprout due to your fear, Fertilizing its own physical manifestation to remind you once again that danger tends to not have patience

I cannot approach you in your weakness, I am too strong.

The fear that corrupts the will to listen to the plea bellowing
the truth you already know, the reality you already see
and the true danger that already exists is predicated on
What’s spoken by Death’s merchants. Your fear is a facade
and I see through it as you do, and as time greases their pudgy pockets
the merchants howl with glee as their open cooperation is mistaken for warnings

I cannot approach you in your weakness, I am too strong.