consolation (inspired by Butter Sunday, a poem by Gabrielle Octavia Rucker)

Four to the floor, Lord of the lore
You know, I'm never not keeping score
You know the name I'm not responding to anymore
Eyes lit by the holy flame of the Marshall sword
I suppose things have changed, nigga
Every drop of marrow barbarous, bloody, congealed, chunky grind
Cycles of the pepper mill, keep it funky slime
Young dreamers pussyfootin'
My fear wouldn't let me blink
The blacksmith at the sink, soaking hands of war

Well fed, my consolation
Well fed, my consolation
Well said, my conscience narrating
Well said, my conscience narrating
Well fed, my consolation
Well fed, my consolation
Well said, my conscience narrating
Well said, my conscience narrating
Intuit, breathe, what you feel is what you believe
Intuit, breathe, what you feel is what you believe
I know what it means to be
I know what it means to be
I know what it means to be

All types of fighting, from psychic to body blows
The troubles I been had that don't nobody know
Various puzzle tactics, linguist acrobatics
Mingus with the madness, Oolong in the Hydro Flask churning
Brain-burning holes in old favorites
Of course the rages ignite fires and those consume me, usually
Unless the sparkplugs is damp
Every night I rub the lamp and make my three wishes
Feedback symposium, min-max most of 'em
You know I'm cold with the die roll
Like most niggas from Chicago
Used to stand downtown in front that Picasso and say
"One day, Ferreira gon' ring like that"

Well fed, my consolation
Well fed, my consolation
Well said, my conscience narrating
Well said, my conscience narrating
Well fed, my consolation
Well fed, my consolation
Well said, my conscience narrating
Well said, my conscience narrating
Intuit, breathe, what you feel is what you believe
I study life around me