“Three Rocks Blessed”- Dälek
Our slaughter lies in drinking malts and not the porters
This ordinary revolutionary lived and fought that modern Malay
Mainstay in mainstream, but swam upriver full steam
With no liver
Hard to figure, logistics and logic entangled
Mangled figures in shadows pose no threats
This interlude escapes me, kept my tongue wet
Daily variation varies on technique one speaks
Dälek dead verse no rehearse when two meet
Magnetic poles read like dead sea scrolls
Competish got beat like Rick did Lucy
In sky with diamonds,
Kept in army jacket lining
Sense what that facial structure’s hiding
Shifty eyes shift like the sands of time,
Eternal.
Reaching for that dagger in their boot
Or their burner.
Urban turmoil got me coiled like cobra,
Never sober.
My soma thrown off the cliffs of Dover.
3 rocks blessed before them hit the floor
Took the bottle to the chest, til the head said, “No more!”
Pleasures of a man who’s poor
Revel in the pain i endure
Known to utter ramblings of winos off of straight head
Young poor and hated, a darker shade kid
Caught them eye sores, mad jaded
Kept my vocals gated
Recessive traits emerge when resting on crates
Sipping ancient grapes, altering mindstates
This life on crumbled papes of a street poet
Kickin gutter poems, at 8 ohms
Unbalanced chrome speaks my misery
Forgotten history through modern griot
These kids don’t rock, speaking on what they have-not.
Swore to god they hot like them weed spots
And quick to pull that Glock
But where those skills they got?
Where’s my culture?
3 rocks blessed before them hit the floor
Took the bottle to the chest, til the head said, “no more!”
Pleasures of a man who’s poor.
Revel in the pain i endure
Transformation of norm to higher apex
Truth got stretched like latex
Their concern now lay on paychecks
Outer lobes got annexed,
Dramas play like hamlet,
On modern stage.
This script to ears fall vague.
Now look this mess you made
Caused me to invade type christian on crusade
Should do you in like Cain did Able
And render you disabled
Should wrap this mic cable round your vertebrae
Till your vocal’s strained
Some say I’m deranged
I ate the paint-chips off the window pane,
Just to dull the pain
Must maintain.
“What is to be done about pain?
It’s a question which has compelled Man, the State, and the Arts for much of their common history.
One speaks not of physical pain, whose end is forecast in its beginning, either by cure or death. But, rather that psychic pain which is the agony of the soul and the mind.
The cry of the tormented is pain’s commonest articulation, without words, without any meaning except the existence of pain itself.
It pleads for mercy, and shrieks in the excess of an inability to endure. Pleadings cease and are overtaken by a rage so shattering that it flails the heavens and draws back the tormentors in appalled bewilderment that what they have so heedlessly done could produce such clamor…”
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