from the beginning

no day would be more fitting for the start of this than today.

shit.

this is shit past mourning the corpse pulled from his wrist

four hundred days malaise craving apathetic bliss

now the rumor mill's working like the facts aren't laughable

he's either agoraphobic or a fasting cannibal

and half-clad in hubris' half-truths but mostly over it

built this throne of bones and shit to burn until she notices

the hole of his logical solders broken ribs for lovers

to watch the smiles widen like a shark's trailing a cutter

and couplets are knuckle dusters when a vice is avoided

'cause a face full of blow makes the brain much too buoyant

disappointment had a name and a language 'til tax claimed them

today it walks the city spouting pull-string catch phrases

like "pour me another before the lapses replay"

and "my mother's praying hands are just another cliche"

so he's walking 'round bullets claiming near death keepsakes

'cause exit wounds bloom faster than cancer can keep pace

with shit last mourning for this corpse of a rib

so he python jaws liliths to see which one'll fit

again wrong myth wrong miss never liked her

he's either a bad muse or he should fuck better writers

or settle for bedding biters best excuse for why he slept late

no sweat check his demeanor's just as shallow as his chest plate

headaches like black funerals so flashy grand and glutton

and it's laugh track suitable how his form fancies function

for peers pulling punch-ins the kitschiest struggle

was how to jazz june cooler when blackface turned subtle

and chitterling circuit uncles claimed stars like southern crosses

to spawn agnostic genres like rakim and daniel johnston

caution this is music for men raised to be widowers

clocks tick inconsistent to count the minutes of missing her

in third person burning a church full of listeners

shit isn't hers it's work to stretch the purse of a minute's worth

-lamon manuel