St. Martin

Oh, Black Christ of the Andes
My brother just called me a coon
Called me a white-washed, half-caste Jamaican
Forgive he know not what he do

My family pics look like checkerboards or chess
And this Mary Lou groove holds space up in my chest
Or my stomach, hold it down till the acid bubbles on it
And it starts to gas my head with soliloquies and sonnets
Bass starts to groove like the valleys in your vinyl
All this untreated pain awakes within me something primal
No, It's not healthy and it's bound to leave me trapped
But I do it 'cos the fact is I'm happy when I'm sad
Blood
I sit alone and smoke weed until my mind breaks
Meet a god inside, parley and swap devine tapes
She said her name was Nina, like the teacher, so I greet her
I feel I've always known you, but it's surely nice to meet ya
She spoke to me about constant inspiration
And how that shit's important when your history been taken
Told her 'bout this little seed that's growing in my head
It's a chance to grow some roots, but be sure to keep it fed
Instead. I hit the hole, drinking, snorting, fucking, feeling nothing
Look the mirror in his eye till he can't even tell I'm bluffing
Fuck it, I was shit, yeah, I ain't shit
But I hear Nina scratching at my soul like 'Pussy wan fi quit?' Cool
Just know if you do
That your days be full of blues and blacks and greys
And your nights will stark strip-lighting rays
I will never let you sleep and I will never give you peace
The itching in the creases of your brain will never cease
So I deal with the daily pain of dreams above my station
Bouts of deep depression followed by extreme elation
I'm trying to find a source of me and boil it down to something good
And pump it out of plastic cones and big old boxes made of wood

Oh, Black Christ of the Andes
My brother just called me a coon
Called me a white-washed, half-caste Jamaican
Forgive he know not what he do