Gold Teeth Will Roll - Themselves, Bracken

What is this place?

These men with gold where there words break and they end

Their time keeping nothing but stone and fool gold

Stones worth the weight of ten working class winters

Leading beginners to the skull in their wish

If their was one…

What is this place?

Where greed came into all the mouths

Like empty does the chest

And spoke nothings in the pitch of street

And the worn heart of a hound

Like a dim machine twitching in the chest of potential…

Who will come kill me?

When I call all these men milk made of weak

Fat with numb as they dish dung to the hunger

It is an echo of yourself in this world

That you’re hearing

Them yell

Who will come kill me?

Taking their rings off like women

Because I will swear on their weakness

They are the gunned sons of what’s done

Latter day knights

Weakened at the bone with the weight of their poor words

A lot of riskless mopes on the turn

Of a coin around in their throats

Lips leaking the poison eating at the honor of rap…

Forcing blood from the cunning of kids

From the future of things

So they are starved for the gristle of meaning

That which can be gnashed between teeth and never ate

Only passed

For real, save the children

So I call them…

I call them lambs to the lion they steal from

And sick my pen on their thinnest of ghosts

And do know they don’t wake and take bullets with water like vitamins

No, they sleep hard in a silk thicket

And the cured skin of the scared and spent

And we know they will be but ribs in the dirt…

The sound of their songs gone mud in a landfill

Eyes filled with a crowd of maggots and muds…

And so the young go numb

To the played bones of your weakness

Across the only once of what’s done…

Gangster of trifles

Throw out your gold teeth and see how they roll

Licking your wounds in a white kings lap

Falling in love with all guns…

For rappers, there is no hell

There is only fans and

You will go there…

And you will be cut from the cave where your words sour

To the edge of your ears, and then strung…

And then made to move with the grace of what’s puppet

Till your cut

From the cave where your words sour

To the soul of son and then fed through a fire to the dusk of what’s done…

To the absence you grew circa your birth and a death…

Your eyes filled with a crowd of maggots and mud

Jewelry loose on your bones

Like you were on your meaning

You ain’t no pharoah you’re an aimless error