Poet (Black Bean) - Milo

Ghiath Matar is dead, roses are not armour

In my neighbourhood, it was become a poet or a farmer

Welcome back avatar, Mevlevi

Whirling while I’m boiling a pacifier

Hold hisself like J’zargo in Winterhold

Reality, I’m in Fargo reading dinner poems

Wincing at the virtue signaling

Jejune is Dirk Diggler staring at the ceiling post-coitus

Swerving through moral detours most boisterous

Black beans and deco spilt on my loafers

I’m back on my Black Bukowski bullshit

Fuck your notepad, wrote a poem with a toolkit

Shocking moment as the pupil thought

«Me and my niggas is a school of thought»

Shocking moment as the pupil thought

«Me and my niggas is a school of thought»

I wanna suggest that the poets are finally the only people who know the truth

about us.

Soldiers don’t, statesmen don’t, priests don’t, union leaders don’t.

Only the poets, that’s my first proposition.

The second proposition is what I

really want to get at tonight, and it sounds mystical: I think in a country

like ours, in a time like this, when something awful is happening to a

civilization when it ceases to produce poets.

And what is even more crucial,

when it ceases in any way whatever to believe in the report that only poets

can make