For All The Brothers On TV Who Are Playing The Fool For A Dollar…

clown-2101495_1920For All The Brothers On TV Who Are Playing The Fool For A Dollar…

A simulacrum of a man, a copy of a copy of a soul, so distant from our ancestral fathers, as to be unreal in his form.  Maybe a ghost, an apparition, a dead fool, too far gone in the head to know his life is a sham.  So instead of living in the light, he lives in the shadows of his daily acts.  Televised acts that proceed with or without him.  And poor spirit, he is so focused on his scripted tasks, that he cannot see the way people exist outside of him, in dimensions beyond his thoughts, and seriously beyond his touch. Faked-out-nigger in the fake media-hyped-hoods.  Not knowing the sirens still howl without him being solid.  That the bangers still bang even though he is not there to witness their homicides on the corner.  Rotations still rotating even though he is a phony.  And how to blame him if he ain’t alive in the living sense.  A zombie, maybe, who woke up out of the grave, with amnesia in the hollow pockets of his head.  Cursed by the powder that seeped through his skin, when he opened the wrong door on the wrong street on the wrong side of the city, blowfish powders of venomous dust, that numbed his nerves into comatose oblivions.  Turning him into a chimera, a delusion, a phantom. Dissolving him into a bogeyman, a specter, a spook.  Poor buffoon who does his comic shows for free, ignorant as hell to the fact, that he is the onemanniggerdancer on the soap box, tap tap tapping wide smiles all teeth white against the blackness of his gaseous membranes they have the nerve to call darky-skin.  The invisible man if you consider his manhood real enough to be seen or unseen. And you could smack him out of the coffin, you could put coals, burning rocks in a spoon, under his tongue, and he still wouldn’t know he was fucked under the real lives of real worlds above his head.  Cause he would still be turning left spinning right according to how the puppet masters master the directions of his arms of his legs of his eyes, which don’t even allow him to see past his niggernostrils smelling only the odor of his own shackled corpse.  Enduring opposition in the thinking channels he’s been tuned into from the birth of his originally cloned self, and, thinking that expectations should be kept at a minimum when barely corporal, when barely conscious.  And time has taught this nebulous creature that hope is worse than his artificial existence, because even when it leads to what the other clowns call Civil Rights victories, it just ends up turning one fictitious role into another fabled life, a commercialized-life, in the darkness of his immaterial being.  So he lets the earth revolve rotate-spin-whirl-pirouette with or without him, as he grins his I-don’t-know-nothing grins, which speaks voluminous quantities, of just how much he knows, about being the niggermarionette, in their niggerfields of televised-cane.

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