| Ghiath Matar is dead, roses are not armour
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| In my neighbourhood, it was become a poet or a farmer
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| Welcome back avatar, Mevlevi
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| Whirling while I’m boiling a pacifier
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| Hold hisself like J’zargo in Winterhold
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| Reality, I’m in Fargo reading dinner poems
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| Wincing at the virtue signaling
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| Jejune is Dirk Diggler staring at the ceiling post-coitus
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| Swerving through moral detours most boisterous
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| Black beans and deco spilt on my loafers
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| I’m back on my Black Bukowski bullshit
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| Fuck your notepad, wrote a poem with a toolkit
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| Shocking moment as the pupil thought
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| «Me and my niggas is a school of thought»
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| Shocking moment as the pupil thought
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| «Me and my niggas is a school of thought»
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| I wanna suggest that the poets are finally the only people who know the truth
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| about us. |
| Soldiers don’t, statesmen don’t, priests don’t, union leaders don’t.
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| Only the poets, that’s my first proposition. |
| The second proposition is what I
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| really want to get at tonight, and it sounds mystical: I think in a country
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| like ours, in a time like this, when something awful is happening to a
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| civilization when it ceases to produce poets. |
| And what is even more crucial,
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| when it ceases in any way whatever to believe in the report that only poets
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| can make |