
Date of issue: 10.08.2017
Song language: English
Poet (Black Bean) |
Ghiath Matar is dead, roses are not armour |
In my neighbourhood, it was become a poet or a farmer |
Welcome back avatar, Mevlevi |
Whirling while I’m boiling a pacifier |
Hold hisself like J’zargo in Winterhold |
Reality, I’m in Fargo reading dinner poems |
Wincing at the virtue signaling |
Jejune is Dirk Diggler staring at the ceiling post-coitus |
Swerving through moral detours most boisterous |
Black beans and deco spilt on my loafers |
I’m back on my Black Bukowski bullshit |
Fuck your notepad, wrote a poem with a toolkit |
Shocking moment as the pupil thought |
«Me and my niggas is a school of thought» |
Shocking moment as the pupil thought |
«Me and my niggas is a school of thought» |
I wanna suggest that the poets are finally the only people who know the truth |
about us. |
Soldiers don’t, statesmen don’t, priests don’t, union leaders don’t. |
Only the poets, that’s my first proposition. |
The second proposition is what I |
really want to get at tonight, and it sounds mystical: I think in a country |
like ours, in a time like this, when something awful is happening to a |
civilization when it ceases to produce poets. |
And what is even more crucial, |
when it ceases in any way whatever to believe in the report that only poets |
can make |