Social: Deaths are the metronome ticks, so double time comes with a kick, breathing is whatever joke you make it, exhale in, to barter with men, you’re as valuable as the time you spend covered in reminders of hell.
Fuck, my brother is 20. You know it went by so fast the years felt like counting by seconds, empty new minutes, reincarnation, someone else in the mirror, the perk of beginners, multiple sinners, feelings non-wilted.
Summer in the evenings, needless to say, bullets don’t celebrate during parades, they raid, so fade will the fraudulent go, his parents said “be vicious when you’re being a hero” or it’s fake you know like being passive about an abortion date til it’s too late, a bullet to the late great cranium shows confetti, colorful soft dreams not affected by demons, in parenthood...
Everything valuable is easy to hide, when you’re messy enough to sell amongst the sale floor stuff. Standing saying buy this when you really mean hear this, no commission so you accept tips, your code of ethnics is to relish.
Foyer Foil: Son of Sam enters, you know the price they put on your head, betting you’ll repeat dying before your laid out dead for toms to remove. Oh groove with me sinister, I’m practically a visitor, in the season of the stiff breeze and cold knees, the soreness is the fact you could die over new trees, the roots of greed, niggas fuck around hitting legacies to build a dynasty, foul taking an eye for an owl, soul for a gown, I can’t fathom sailing on tombs like hotep blues in a towel, wrapped for Nile monsters, while being a tool for hot head tempers, I might lose my will to live like Van Gogh being shot by a teenager.
credits
from aftercare..,
released May 10, 2020
instrumental & lyrics by Antonio H. Escobar.
