BackIIBurn - Themselves

We back to relapse

On a block called «The Trap,»

Its windows blackened with rap

To them ten strong in the hack

Dragging this song

We back to redact them old tags on the wall

Names at half-mast, cast in a lawless black scrawl

Mere bylines at twilight beginning of getting a die right on

In three-to-four letter loyalties that dry before dawn

By habit or craft

My whole discograph

Is first murmur and last stab

Relentless as rent checks

My rep is a slur, curse, word, and a death threat

As for old fears, son, there ain’t no answer record yet

Spit oil slick talk, you might slip on the set list

I did slit a brittle novelist with one-ice line pick, kicked…

We back with both halves

To burn, bone, and last

And know that

No exile a return is entire just as

This ain’t all aftermath of a crash

Ask dax…

Motherfucker, guess who’s back…

We have returned to the ave.

of first things

And we’re back to burn the debris of beginnings

To my many lives' timeshare dimes and term-limit crews

I leave for each of you the bookkeeping that thieves do

At three in the morning beneath a bloodless moon

But I knotted no rope of licensing that I might leave you in Junes,

no icy Midas finery lining my B of A tomb

Only swap meet winnings unmoved in a rented room

In addition to the foul and mutual feeling used

So to my enemies true

To my mom’s new names and her hundred gurus

To them tired-guitar, light-on-heart, mind-on-marquee, try-hards… got nothing

but grudge for them, twice-robbed

A shadow plugged by art burning vice squads

Cross a career of called bluffs

Sensitive mics and puzzles in dust

Plus the peculiar alone of us

All not on posse cuts

I will put it one way: on you

No rotted rope oath, rehab robe

Long road ode.

Oakland winter know

The razor wind in my throat

Cut through your bird bone

Won’t quit at its hollow;

We not vox pop poll or Pitchfork prop swoll

No pay-stub mob mules, nor orthodox old school

South Bronx rap rules, simply diss song true

You?

Are you easy on being, do you heed the

Beat of blood or believe

In it heeding you or even short leashing you

Read tea leaves 'n' stars then start dry-heaving

Are you asleep or simply discreet

Cleaning in da sewer of the desire for a redeemer

Meaning:

Do you throw your back out dreaming?

To dive bars, my bent blinds

The three AMs of thirty year olds

And all else near gold, gone, dull, dim

Or sentient numb

Whether shining or shunned

None and all can come

And get un-done

By the two in the selves one

And they sung

Sung of the matter in a manner that held

One’s lone gun pen to one’s hunt-net drum

And they sung

With the kind of hunger wings once sprung from

And they sung

From the boiler room of buildings where your heroes get hung