1. |
A Lynching
02:18
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I will not kiss your fucking flag.
Fringes taste of dystopia,
bows for a cloth dripping in blood;
waves flexing the gallows
deep in the rift of American dreams.
You, dead eyed and blue,
hitting and running—allies are roadkill.
Bloody pipelines on fire
DACA tuitions burn in the wind
where black faces fade under goose-stepped boots;
beautiful ebony shattered by concrete.
Snakes retracing steps flaming their path
over native-skinned rugs.
Knives made from the hammers:
whitish hot heat in a whirlwind of spit
skins splatter paint graves—pouring more value
into ignited cross.
Eyes watching each other, more care for lunch
than the grass that they burn.
They’ll cut out my tongue when I scream, “let us be.”
They’re saving their matches for kikes, cunts, and fags.
They’ll toss us dead half nigger/spics out to sea
because we do not matter under the stars of your flag.
Your red crowns
match your white sheets
and blue blood.
Congratulations making
everything
great again.
[Confederate wet dreams
incubus for our fears.
They’ll surely hang us since we don’t belong here.
They’ll will hang us since we don’t belong here.]
They’ll cut out my tongue when I scream “let us be.”
They’re saving their matches for kikes, cunts, and fags.
They’ll toss us dead half nigger/spics out to sea
because we do not matter under the stars of your flag.
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2. |
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Thanks for the history or lack thereof,
I’m obliged.
It’s kinda strange being strangers filled with light.
Misplaced allegiance finding it harder to say
where your family used to live
or when they came here anyway.
Now disinterests turned to spite:
festering—and you have no fucking culture
You can read and you can write,
but you can never learn a life.
Three decades later
know you’ll never be pro.
Keep spilling coffee on your keyboard
destroying everything you start;
some ego broken on a Crosley.
Mom made sure you could act
like all the whitish kids at school
who weren’t picked on or laughed at.
Now you wonder if that was best for you or someone else.
You can read and you can write,
but you’ll never learn a life.
Cut out my tongueCut out my tongueCut out my tongueCut out my tongue
Cortar mi lenguaCortar mi lenguaCortar mi lenguaCortar mi lengua
Your paper mâché tongue can’t taste the fly wings in my stew.
Your paper mâché tongue can’t taste the fly wings in my stew
because wallets brand you just like steer on puppet strings
(and) white roaches eat your children:
swallows them whole while you fucking sleep.
Stitch my blood in your history books
word for word
with ivory hands.
Stitch my blood to your history books
and call me pocho
one more time.
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3. |
NegaNigger
01:36
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1! 2! 3! 4!
That black grime underneath the cafeteria stove,
you ask if that’s a relative of mine?
You say, “sorry for patting you on the back
cuz I don’t know if the lashes have healed up yet.”
But relax! It’s just a fucking joke
when you say, “you do not act black enough, nigger.”
You want to rest
your head on these big black
mammy lips of mine
then call me a gorilla faced mother fucker?
“Oh, just laugh. It is a fucking joke!”
when you say,
“you
do not
act black enough,
nigger.
You
do not
act black enough.”
Go ‘head, as(xe)k that one more thing?
“Why don’t you tell me to go stand in front of some Home Depot,
or get a degree in hopping walls?
Come on, man! Burn me back! Throw me to the hands of La Migra.
Beat those whites to the vitriol, and give me exactly what I deserve.”
This hurts us all
But you’re just so funny.
Ha ha ha.
So fucking funny
(that) I am
crying.
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4. |
Whitelash
02:47
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CLOSE YOUR EYES NOW
SQUEEZE THE LIFE OUT
(The) hand that holds the switch
fingers apt to itch.
Nothing better than
(the) comfort of a ditch
trenches huddled deep
waiting patiently.
Nothing better than
naked honesty.
Hold your nose and try
to forget the crimes.
Nothing better than
an easy compromise.
Red states dripping forth
from the tiki torch
from the whitelashed neck
(and) all that came before.
We were all thinking it (this time).
Angel on the shoulder would admit
to throwing hope in all the caskets
Destroy the present Destroy the present Destroy the present Destroy the present
Destroy the present Destroy the present Destroy the present Destroy the present
BURN THE FLAGS NOW
PULL THE STATUES DOWN
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5. |
Not Worth a Damn
03:54
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Never meant to give up on anything
But plant my feet across the Rubicon;
a coward’s glory on the farthest shore.
Keep these blinders on a dead horse
(and) kick her till I’m sore—gimme more gimme more
gimme more gimme more
What is this resistance? What is it but
the nightmare reflection of my fever ships?
Lashed, entwined, wound tight—binding the sky
to a pale horizon.
The vanishing point—the lie.
I want it all for free,
but don’t tread on me.
I always believed
it should come easily
The city’s gone septic
and the future has a gun to my head.
Close ranks, circle the wagons.
This is gonna be our last chance.
Who am I
without
you?
Who am I
without
an excuse?
Who am I without…
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6. |
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Two friends are walking away,
just scattered ashes off some lakeside,
now total strangers alone
just smoking weed and cracking jokes.
It’s been two decades and change:
they both look different but still the same.
One pulled away and retreated,
the other ran as fast as light.
Now this is all
no matter how far you’ve gone
—childish bullshit controls you.
Really tryna make it again
even after fighting and talking shit.
Now you‘ve got a couple of kids
yeah, your wife’s always hated me.
Partly why I ran so far—
I was mostly too scared to react.
Ran away and started again,
forgot to write you back into my life.
So this is it.
Since this just how far I’ve come,
childish banter consumes you.
Wreckage!
I’ve caused the colossus
to buckle beneath its own!
Now I just dwell in my failure
pretending the ignorance heals all wounds.
Exhaustion
canyons mess.
Self-sabotage. Self-sabotage.
So this is it—since this just how far I’ve come,
it’s happening.
This childish banter consumes you.
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7. |
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A toll for the window ahead: anointed.
A small price to pay for a choice between them.
A fork in the road like a light directing,
but these are the paths we’ve been got
so take one.
Age comes with beauty and longing,
(and) fear is the cavern of hope.
Chained to the floor, I’m stuck watching
my own dancing shadow convoke.
I am a sucker for feeling most likely since I barely can.
So I can just keep it in plastic and stash it away until then.
A son of stars,
a basket of Christ.
I’ll turn my cheek
since you don’t mind.
Is a coffin really only after?
Since the word is just a symbol,
isn’t coffin how you normally emote?
I’m as weird as I expected
but it’s really something watching
the mirror—you get older by the liver spot.
A circle only ends
when you take your hand away.
Death and interest.
So it goes.
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8. |
Shit Brown
01:47
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I’m the ghost of Christmas past
(probably Easter, but a ghost).
Not too sure of where I’m at
or where the fuck I’m supposed to go.
Hide all the brown in your eyes!
Hide all the brown in your eyes!
I have no native tongue to turn
and barely know the one I’ve got.
Of all the storylines I’ve learned,
mines the dumbest one I’ve bought
Hide all the brown in your eyes! Hide all the brown
Hide all the brown in your eyes! in your eyes
Hide all the brown in your eyes! boy.
Hide all the brown in your eyes!
Let dandelions pour their spores inside your poisoned skin.
Trade it all for porcelain and tame your mother’s wild tongue
and you’ll be one of us
you’ll be one of us
you’ll be one of us
you’ll be one of us
and we’ll pretend you exist
pretend you exist
otherwise, kid, you are gonna fucking
DROWN!
DROWN!
DROWN!
DROWN!
DROWN!
DROWN!
DROWN
but we’ll pretend you exist
pretend you exist
pretend you exist
pretend you exist
and you’ll be one of us
you’ll be one of us.
Just cut out those
shit brown eyes.
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9. |
Polite Young Man
04:15
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I must be fucked in the head
because I didn’t catch how you had
called me a “polite young man
and not some hoodlum in a hoodie
expected of colored skin.”
Well you can stop staring at my toes.
There are no snakes in my eyes.
You wouldn’t know suffering
You wouldn’t know suffering
You wouldn’t know othered skin
slammed face first on the hood of a Honda.
You wouldn’t know suffering
You wouldn’t know suffering
You wouldn’t know 12 gunshots
that deafen nights. Just skittles as weapons.
So tell me once again
how it’s no one’s fault when children die,
when hollow points take fathers
and eat mother’s hearts alive.
I want to see your face at the end of the world
circled by crows
where there’s a gun in your hand,
a gun in your hand.
Seared off your fingerprints,
but the gun’s in your fucking hand.
You wouldn’t know suffering
You wouldn’t know suffering
You wouldn’t know bullet holes
that sear seatbelts of a man surrendered.
You wouldn’t know suffering
You wouldn’t know suffering
You wouldn’t know cigarette ash
that tighten nooses around black necks.
You wouldn’t know suffering
You wouldn’t know suffering
You wouldn’t know othered skin
slammed face first on the hood of a Honda.
You wouldn’t know suffering
You wouldn’t know suffering
You wouldn’t know 12 gunshots
that deafen nights. Just skittles as weapons.
Stop! Please! Don’t! Shoot!
STOP! PLEASE! DON’T! SHOOT!
“Black boy, brown boy,
act like you’re white
(and) hide that target on your back
and maybe we’ll call you a citizen.
Dance boy! Dance boy
to this gaslight bebop.
(To) the weight of nonexistence
that was made just for your tapping shoes.
Please surrender for your own good.
Black boy. Brown boy.
Act like you are white.
Black boy. Brown boy.
Act like you are a citizen.”
Your breath
down my neck
holds me
like a cop’s hand—
the one not busied
with a pistol,
(and) I can’t breathe.
I cannot breathe.
"I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background."
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10. |
La Mariposas
03:59
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Do you wanna play
hide and seek
the way they did
backpacks worn as flak jackets?
Did you see there was light
in all their eyes?
Futures dressed up
as roaring flames
when you pardoned bullets
masked as tsunamis.
You are a bastard.
You are a bastard.
You stole their breaths
for 2A’s life support
and sent them spiderwebs
pregnant with flies.
They should have been
chasing butterflies,
(but) now they’re trapped as cocoons
where hugs are distanced by dirt
and friends hear recess bells
as bombs in the hallways.
You are a bastard.
You are a bastard.
Don’t swear to God.
You’re not doing the right thing.
You are a bastard.
[Deberían perseguir mariposas]
They should Your thoughts
have been and prayers
chasing put them
butterflies, in graves
but your thoughts when they should
and prayers have been
put them chasing
in graves. butterflies.
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11. |
Tar Baby
05:24
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17 years spent with nightmares of patricide.
Blood boiled, a bull-rushed father falls in charred spoons
while son is red faced, red eyed
can’t get the image of a crack pipe out of his head—
stains that chip father’s lips
make kisses burn the forehead,
make hugs from dad hurt so bad.
17 years turned to cancer from Bonzo’s war—
battering rams stifle good nights and lullabies
while son was red faced, red eyed
can’t get the image of a criminal out of the mirror
“Your future is a .45 that hold your hands in the air”
and the silence is normal with zip ties on the wrist and no last kiss.
17 years sober; still hides the blood in the veins.
Says it’s, “weighed down by tar, the sirens told me so.”
Father was red faced, red eyed
can’t get the image of a black man out of his head—
a cacophony of badges screaming in his ears,
pressing his cheek to a hood and holds fire to his lips,
but son breaks the spoons.
Picks dad up, dust him off over and over and over again
“Mom will see you with sunsets as you both get older
and older and older and older.”
Lighters are smashed, washed chalk lines, keeps father
sober. Sober. Sober. Sober.
Son broke the spoons,
washed off the chalk lines.
You don’t deserve this.
No cop boots on your neck.
No thorns to cut away at your skin.
They wanted you to fail.
“57 years and you are still breathing.
No bruises, just embraces that feel so good.
It feels so good
Please break out of your casket
Please, no need for sorries
when they tried to roast you, drown you
hang you—but they had no string handy.
Please hold me over your head
like the stars you wished upon
when you pushed me on the swings
wanting it to last forever.
You are not your demons.
You are a good man
You are a good man
You are a good man
You are a great dad,
and don’t let them call us tar babies;
we’re not stains on their white concrete.
Don’t let them call us tar babies;
We’re not stains on their white concrete.”
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12. |
F.W.A.
06:12
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I. Abolish I.C.E.
Forget the names
get the numbers.
There are no stories,
just excuses.
They came together.
Separate them:
animals
belong in cages.
This is who we are,
This is what we do.
Hate it all you want—
you’re still one of us.
Concrete floors
tear open blisters.
Shut the doors,
lock the windows.
It’s not like
they’re our own kids—
they’re not crying
if no one hears them.
This is who we are,
This is what we do.
Hate it all you want—
you’re still one of us.
II. why does my community make me feel like i'm crazy
Now I’m alone with some paint in my hand
about to spray windows like hearts in the sand,
and this is the tinge that I’m given:
now it’s the flag that waves.
Compelled to cause havoc and scare all my friends.
Deterred from self-love since I’m supposed to be man,
but my body rejects me
since I hate the rules you’ve set.
But thanks. Thanks for the shirt.
Thanks, yeah, but it hurts.
Since I’m a loser who doesn’t resist,
habits developed back when we were kids
I’d rather blame you for it,
rather reject all fault.
So now as I age and get closer to death
(I’m) less prone to whining or wasting my breath.
But old dogs die hard as hell—
my habits just learn new tricks
So thanks. Thanks for the burn.
No, there’s nothing to learn.
III. Kill All Rapists
Throw those fuckers in the dumpster,
burn them with their scholarships
cashed out by the coaches
who cut off their own ears.
Buzz of streetlights scream
like women drowned in tears.
“Put rhinestone on the pepper spray
cuz boys won’t learn a damn thing.”
Well, fuck you
and your blinders
and your courtrooms
and your rubbers
protecting murder weapons
barely hidden in a jockstrap.
Time will come when rats
will take your hearts,
take your skin.
Take your cocks,
take your bones:
things that don’t belong to you.
You
don’t
deserve
culture.
You
don’t
deserve
language.
You
don’t
deserve
a second chance:
kill
all
rapists!
IV. Another Lynching
We’ll cut off your head
once you’ve taken all that’s free
set it on fire inside of a brown paper bag,
Toss the remains with your other trash in polluted seas
because you will not matter
when we tear stars out from the flag.
For now, I leave revenge hopelessly to God
as well water is poisoned,
the bucket whittled from the cross.
Swear the coal mine is fine
while waist deep in dead canaries
and the gauze is hidden
as we watch the voyeur bleed.
V. ¡Callate, Pendejo!
We are waiting
for you to die,
colorless vice grips
snapped at the wrist.
You won’t be martyr
just ash in the sky
and when your heart explodes
no one will miss you.
No one will miss you.
¡No besaré tu pinche bandera!
FUCK
WHITE
AMERICA!
We are waiting
for you to die,
colorless vice grips
snapped at the wrist.
You won’t be martyr
just ash in the sky
and when your heart explodes
no one will miss you.
No one will miss you.
No one will fucking miss you.
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tudors Long Beach, California
P.O.C. fronted Noise Punk from the Los Angeles area. Always lower case the "t."
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