I was debating with some probable racists a couple of weeks ago and a geezer picked me up on how I was saying what I was saying by asking what my stance on the BLM movement was. I told him, ends up he's a decent bloke and a producer. One convo led to another and he's put music with 'Playing' and I'm going to play it tonight.
They’re playing you. I’m not saying you…ain’t right and there is no way that you…are wrong but this has gone on far too long.
Who told you that you were better? Can I see the letter…where it proves that your thighs are better than their eyes or their lips are better than your hips?
Who said ‘this is a race war?
Was it in a place known for:
‘Independent thought’? Or ‘mind control’?
Does it nurture or nourish the soul? Or is your money, time & loyalty it’s ultimate goal?
When I say they’re playing you, I’m not saying you, I’m saying me because there’s no way I’m free from the clutches of their power.
They do it on the hour; They’ll tell us how to feel about another subject, they do not expect us to object to their content or the context, they’ll bypass the sub-text, then tell us what to feel next, ‘cos everything they show us has some pretext to keep us caught up in the pretence that our life makes sense, ‘cos you should protect the innocent, admire the 1% despise the 99% ‘cos you are different.
The reason you ‘must be’ BETTER is because of a letter written by the British government explaining their intent to categorise and thereby create discontent in the slave environment (or as we call them now the working class) to hate each other not the government.
They are playing me. I won’t join in, because you see, I like to win, pretend I’m free and open the door for all to see, saying ‘I know they’re playing me, making me believe I’m free to protest on behalf of you and me and then telling another lie so there’s beef between you and I…well I’m not playing because that’s I lie you did not invent, that was our government.
On a moonlit beach shadows of clouds played on the rocks. Shaman-Ca watched as the horse Bezeal trotted the rock in rhythm with the sea and air.
"I will dance 'til my spirit bleeds. Worlds spin fast and you stamp your feet." She called across the cove.
"Your body moves to an ancient beat." Replied the white horse in joy of the age of the crones' spirit.
Shaman-Ca wondered where Bezeal had been. The scratches and dirt on his body smelled strange to her.
Bezeal was tired, for he had galloped to release the smells and his energy was sapped.
"I am tired. I needed to run I have been to the City and could do no more than trot for three days. No room." Bezeal explained.
The old goblin woman shouted from her ledge,
"Release the pressure as well as the smells, yes Bezeal?"
Bezeal shook. The sweat flicked into the moonlit sky and became stars. It hit rock and crystallized becoming one with the rock. Where the beads dropped in the water a new creature swam.
Shaman-ca came to Bezeal when he was still, she spoke softly to him.
"With my bird-bone rattle and my goat skin drum. With my cold river eye, and my hot fire tongue. Did you see me when you were running wild? Will you bring me to your madness child?'
Bezeal related his story to the unnamed star, the ragged queen.
"I followed a brother who was taken by machine to the city."
Bezeal had no reason, many brothers had gone before, owned grounded brothers always left in machines and Bezeal had never followed before. This brothers' love, desire to be free was known to Bezeal and he felt he would be freed and had gone to rejoice with him...
"When I found him I spoke to his spirit. The fire and the fury and the fear were wed and he crooned and swayed at the misty edge."
Shaman-ca felt Bezel’s 'brothers' fear and fury blow through her untamed womb leaving a jagged seam.
"There's much to be learnt through a crazy eye."
Said Shaman-Ca and she began to massage Bezeal. Her…
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Please check back later