you wake up...
on a box spring, after a night of turning and tossing
and are sickened by pangs of worry predilecting rusted coils
bums sprawled across what's yours, around a fire, deferential to warmth
little critters trickling into it to recieve shelter from storms
then you think, 'no sense in that,' throw some threads on your back
but naked is how you arrived to earth and thats how you'll go back
So with no solace from dressing fly, you look to polish your facade
scrape the dirt you've collected as your nose grows progessively long
You violently scrub a face with smoke and coat all pock marks hidden
til the clock exfoliates it to folds, and that pretty face gets wizened
taking a good look you ask 'who is this... just like his duplicates?'
In your face a nation of a-alikes prove how trite the future is
you don't plan to snuff the others, but dreams of something greater
just thickens the mist of paranoia that yours might foil theirs
cuz all assignations aside, these fuckers covet with your own make-up
and if you ain't on their same teams, they'll be hateful by any means
grinning with snaggle teeth soon capped, they'll dull what's articulate
Mute your decency and then take cracks at nullified genius
You're a butterfly crawled out the chrysalis when you're a little kid
but soon pistol-whipped in the rat race, or at least slapped in the face
So you look to fulfill the simple needs, breathing and eating too
...only for so long without the aid of respirator and feeding tube
Can't rely on your mother either, for all the nurturing, that's fact
because she just fucked a provider and you're the fat tax
Now desperation settles in; as if to intimate 'who's shook?'
your trembling fingers start inching for that reliable good book
But your fist clenches before your mind does and you pull back
and from high ground to the wolf pack,
you choose eyesight to the wool cap
clinging to a heritage that's terraced; you're at the top looking down
until you unanchor your carriage from all those who've perished
and from their sticky blood caked pages of tit for tat, fitted hats
'we'll get them for this or that,' thugs who find bliss in gats
Biding time during the day, most hide inside their own stalked prey
Throwing identity to the chopping block of impersonal forays
meandering errand boys without a sensitive bone
cuz they'd revoke their own souls if they were ever left alone
with nothing coming or going by way of rupture or explosion
you know to look to yourself for help - or else the black hole closes in
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