These are the sounds of blackness
If we stay measured by our grinding we’ll never sharpen up our axis
Scene stealers bring the heat but it seems we lack match practice
Not light on our feats, we’re dancers when we ought to be actors.
We stage plays until we’re lost in scrabble like crabs in a labyrinth
Quoting Lauryn Hill until our X -Factor becomes an ex-factor
Command and conquer has me on red alert with our allies fakin’ basement jax
Hipsters’ hula hoop with hegemony until free style is legalized and we remain blood donors
We say the onus is on us to own us so that we are for us by us
Yet mantras dissolve like sugar cane in coffee cups because nobody wears F.U.B.U
Its heir conditioning
We love a smiley culture, accepting urban as our synonym
Lost in the dark the loan sharks claim all the benefits
We do the mathematics while the denominator plays percentages
The N is friend and nemesis yet the beaten tracks remain pendulums
I’m so stirred by the barge pole to our differences I boil with my pencil tips
I question time while I mastermind stealing money from penitentiaries
There’s no full disclosure why we play Uncle Tom to get Meredith
Bludgeoned by the tomato in the melting pot, our fruits become vegetables.
Insanity is palpable when we become cordial, edible, diluting our primordial forces
3 percent leviathan there’s simply no denying the 97 percent are buying us.
Hoodies and patois mean gangster until the right people license it
I turn off the radio because folk only listen to what the pirates’ ship
Twerking their blurred lines old as the night sky
Don’t be naive as the promise of fidelity during a summer of 69
They may think they’re robbing thick; it’s more like shopping from Be Wise.
Do popular culture aborigines need a rabbit proof fence?
Questions posing for the picture I hate this i-coonography
Boys dancing in their Jordan’s we see no trainers like Michael
Worship at the church of struggle using perception as the bible
We’re making up the numbers
It ain’t fair ground with these Malibu minded
Coconut shy stunters
See though frames display anything, it’s self-love before any man
Soul raw like Tracy Emin giving birth to a tribe of Eminems
I fight for coffee’s place at the table and inhale the war of the roses for water has no enemies
Where choice is a figure of speech undressed by extra capital
We’ve all got across to bear, don’t call me Paddington
Survival tactics like silver back ants in Saharan Africa
Best work in the sun, rest in the shade, upgrade your engine room
I mean there’s no use plucking Garveyisms like the last feathers of a Christmas turkey hoping the message strikes when even the teachers aren’t learning
London’s bridge is burning; I’ve got Fanon, Farrakhan, and Martin Luther to listen to
Living’s a tough job we’ve got to make it out of the inner view
With these, the sounds of blackness.