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A​.​M. Project

from Transcending Toxic Times by The Last Poets

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lyrics

The Media has been alerted to the brave new World with action packed comedies full of Navy SEALs and dirty blondes. Welcome to the Revolution where ex-CIA madmen go AWOL in children’s cartoons. No deposit no return. A sickness prevails in the land… the keepers of the watch are fondling the children. Youthful madness chasing games around the fire. Malt liquor grins dripping with the sacrifice of innocence. The blood in their eyes smile so defiantly at their wounds. Teasing and following laughter to its death. Dancing in the joys of casual violence and polite discussions of their senseless acts. Screaming songs of big time and champagne into the dreams of open sores that lurk and scheme in the shadows of clouds of smoke. Begging for slow rides in silent ambulances to well stocked morgues where rhythm and blues oozes out of muted loudspeakers. Wholesale genocide at discount prices. America love it or leave it. Bloated egos with small minds baptizing murder in the name of God and everything we hold sacred. Mickey Mouse… Donald Duck… forever let us wave our banners High High High… Sitting here in the midst of falling leaves overwhelmed by this symphony of freedom. Letting go… Letting go… of others who want to claim all of this as their own. A rat makes its presence known keeping all… things real. Screeching… and scurrying to nowhere fast. Trapped in its own greed and grandiose visions of self-destruction. Women caressing jagged tears while kissing their frustrations with stolen moments. Their pain exploding into the darkness of shall I try this one more time. Cocaine has become the law and order of Big business and corruption riding through the streets on the frowns of rookie cops who relieve their frustration in the cold blooded antics of shoot to kill. My Country… sweet land of napalm and unwritten poems of Soprano saxophones crying for those tears that are stuck in reverse and the latest cable t.v. channel. And I hear the voice of nature whisper the victory is yours if you want it. The victory is yours if you want it. Love the children in the beginning to save them from the end. Somewhere I Hear a revival. Somewhere I hear bop playing. The voice across the waters Standing in the dark. Mintons was a Shrine to the Diaspora. Mink speaking in the tongues of his ancestors denouncing the frail mediocrity of you people didn’t come from anything. Somewhere I hear a revival. Somewhere I hear bop playing. It is paying in the hip hop walks of young boys who hit strange notes with hands on triggers. Bam… Bam… Bam… Max roach picks up the beat. Rhythms from the bush. Passionate and vital information. Intense stares into the memories… of Warriors… lovers of children and the protection of women who now seek protection in the distant and foreign fears of dying at the hands of desperate choices. Bird lives. Bird lives… in the death to all you hip ofay Lies lost in the darkness of oversized berets. Sucking my blood with your well publicized and try juvenile poetry. I play for the gods. I play for Allah. I play for all those souls… lost in your pretentious smiles and cool jazz as I continue my journey home. You stole my father. You stole my mother. And now you try to deny this one last tribute to God. You will not rejoice in my death. You can’t kill bop… the brotherhood is strong. Get ‘em Junior. Get ‘em Junior. Up jumps Miles bobbing and weaving. Sticking and moving. Going against traffic on a one way street. Loving… all the women in the crowd and in their dreams. Miles… the warm afterglow of an African Sunset. Someday my Prince will come. Someday my Prince will come. Miles turning his back on guaranteed death and low life insinuations perpetuated the perverted fantasies of the founding Fathers of these United States of… Fuck you mothafuckas! Fuck you mothafuckas!... Miles was our gators and lizards. He was our silk shirts and hickey freemans. He was our cool slow walks into the wind. He was our delicious smile on the face of extreme and bitter rejections. Get ‘em Junior. Get ‘em Junior. That sound… What is that sound? So clean. So fluid. Emotions so hot in the passing of Summer into Autumn. The magnificence of awakening to something so rare… so new. Images dreaming softly in slow dances that wrap themselves so tightly around our doubts. I touch your face. You touch mine. He is so tender with our needs. So strong in our desire to be free. The definitions of his statement colors the skyline. He was that one last feeling of logic before needle punctured the vein. He was the music the morning after the resurrection of pain and prayers in the twisted honor and slight applause of demons and folk heroes stabbing us in the back. He was a love Supreme. He was a love Supreme. And I hear the voice of Nature whisper, the victory is yours if you want it. The victory is yours if you want it. Somewhere I hear a revival. Somewhere I hear bop playing… in the faces of Southern old men full of Northern pain. It is Dizzy, Sonny, Jackie, Philly Joe, Kenny, Charlie Clifford and many many more if you listen to the laughter of the children in the Projects and their sense of rhythm to survive. Bop is learning how to be yourself to feel the beauty inside. No more slick street games in the anticipation of growing… and pushing… pushing… forward coming into full expression. Long way from home. So close to love. The spirit wants to move. My mind frozen in worthless flesh. Back from the dead by Allah’s mercy. Leaving the Devil standing in the pain, leaving the pain alone. I give my salaams to the right and left. Good has become a kind and loving companion. Bad was only a test of faith. I now find strength in the humility of this moment. This eternal moment of peace to all… of those who come to understand that bop is love… and love… is all… you are and ever will be. And I hear the voice of nature whisper, the victory is yours if you want it. The victory is yours if you want it!

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from Transcending Toxic Times, released May 10, 2019

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The Last Poets New York, New York

This Wind You Hear Is The Birth Of Memory. When The Moment Hatches In Time’s Womb, There Will Be No Art Talk. The Only Poem You Will Hear Will Be The Spear Point Pivoted Into The Punctured Marrow Of The Villain, And The Timeless Native Son Dancing Like Crazy To Retrieved Rhythms Of Desire Faded Into Memory. Therefore, We Are The Last Poets Of The World. ... more

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