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This is Madness
All my dreams have been turned into psychedelic nightmares with
Rosemary's baby pissing in my face and Tiny Tim
sticking his moldy penis into my bleeding mind as it cries for the
strength to repel the sanctimonious sounds of the white rock group
the Grateful…DEAD!
DEAD!…
are my aspirations
as they struggle for a sweet smelling breath of life while being
choked by the Christianic gas passed by the Most Reverend Bishop J.
Fulton Sheen as he socks it to us
in the name of the Lord now…
And my realities have turned into a stone figuration of Miss Liberty
as she stands on the corners of the World selling herself to anyone
with the head of George Washington on them.
And all the while
he sits on a throne of Eagle shit with DDT in one hand and a White
tornado in the other wearing a crown of castrated Black Dicks and
reading the non-violent thoughts of Gandhi. And I watch him relax
by playing golf with Roy Wilkins' balls with Bayard Rustin glued to
his thing while xerox copies of Martin Luther King are popping from
his skull.
To dream the impossible dream.
Knock Knock! Who's there?
It's Rap Brown and if you don't open up I'll strike a light and burn
your house down. And I see Malcolm's spirit his eyes burning Red
Black and Green flames and crying tears of thunderbird wine that
seem to touch my lips and make me thirsty for a taste of FREEDOM!
Freedom by any means necessary.
It's necessary to have freedom by any means necessary.
And I begin to hate with love and love with hate.
This Is Madness!
This Is Madness!
This Is Madness!
And I look up to see the moon bleeding lifeless white maggots and
screaming for my help as the Eagle's raping claws rip and tear at its
virginal form.
Oh Isis.
Oh Tuthmosis.
Oh Sun Ra.
Oh Allah.
Bismillahi Rahman Nir Raheem
give me your undying strength to rise up and reorder the Cosmos so
that man can truly understand and appreciate the Cosmic beauties
and realities of Science and Love. And he has turned the feminine
part of me into a sexual freak.
Look at her standing there wearing her micro-miniskirt made from
the strands of Freud's mother's pubic hairs and her uncovered breasts
dripping blood and pus and her lips colored with that anesthetic
white woman called Avon. And yet she smiles at me through the
indignity of Bull Conner ejaculating sperm into her mind at night in
his wet dreams. And her soft wet clinging tears of love seem to flood
my heart with strength to gather all my manhood from my heart with
strength to gather all my manhood from my lower head and to put it
back into my upper head and then to put her back on her pedestal
as my love queen and not my sex queen.
And I hear my mother's voice rustling in the wind reminding me of
the many times he tried to rape her of her Blackness. But she with
the strength of a panther, the swiftness of a cheetah, and the cunning
of a lioness would not be caged up with the other lies that kept me
from being totally free. And when she came home at night I could
smell the musty closeness of his body and see his translucent
fingerprints on her tired weary physical structure depressed from
warding off his beastly attacks.
But she would smile that smile of a thousand Black Orchids at me
not realizing all the while that
the anger of a hundred simbas was residing in my soul.
And during all this time my father was somewhere drowning his
mutant plastic-minded self in a bottle of cheap wine letting that
spiritual catalyst John Coltrane pay celestial homage to that White God
who was riding his main vein.
This Is Madness!
This Is Madness!
This Is Madness!
And Diana Ross
how can you be Supreme and sing songs of Black Love when your
mouth is overrunning with the sperm of Trigger.
And William Styron is going to commit suicide when he finds out
that Nat Turner made love to his great great grandmother. And he
has taken our most violent and militant leaders and stuck lollipops
up their ass to pacify their Black power farts. And he is beginning to
assume that all of us were born under the sign Taurus the Bull
because all we do is BULLSHIT!
This Is Madness…
This Is Madness…
All this madness is madness…
This madness must stop…
Madness this is…Please stop all this Madness!
Please stop all this Madness!
Please stop all this Madness…STOP!

The Last Poets are a spoken word/poetry group which formed in 1968 in Harlem, New York City, New York, United States. The Last Poets is a group of poets and musicians who arose from the late 1960s African American civil rights movement's black nationalist thread. Their name is taken from a poem by the South African revolutionary poet Keorapetse Kgositsile, who believed he was in the last era of poetry before guns would take over. The original Last Poets formed on May 19, 1968 (Malcolm X's birthday), at Marcus Garvey Park (formerly Mount Morris Park, at 124th Street and Fif… read more

The Last Poets are a spoken word/poetry group which formed in 1968 in Harlem, New York City, New York, United States. The Last Poets is a group of poets and musicians who arose from the lat… read more

The Last Poets are a spoken word/poetry group which formed in 1968 in Harlem, New York City, New York, United States. The Last Poets is a group of poets and musicians who arose from the late 1960s African American civil rights movement… read more