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lirik lagu creation myth – moor mother

the idea is to travel throughout the race riots
from 1866 to the present time
a (speedy?) decapitation by time
(?) in thickness sacrificing love for hate
makin it to the frontline with ease
like how momma made biscuits outta nothing
all while having a dope needle in her arm
the blueprint provided by a black cemetery
no hope for the dead battered in their coffins (?)
a new type of happiness
a black happiness that’s filled with grief
somehow ending up at a portal in time
(?) nothing else no mind
just the innate wiring of your dna
the process of your chromosomes
systematically forming to prevent ones own annihilation
i mean extermination
the labour of existence
the first time you heard the whisper of death
that death that has always been lingering here
with you since the day you were born
heard it telling you that you must be both dead and alive
want us to be dead when a man wants to beat us
when they want to rape us
dead when the police k!ll me
alive when the police k!ll you
alive when it’s time to be in they kitchen
when it’s time to push out they babies
i’ve been bleeding since 1866
dragged my bl–dy self to 1919
and bled through the summer being slaughtered by whites
a flux of chaos came after
influx of terror from german and irish immigrants
american imperialists wasted no time joining mobs and riots
even the descendants of the (?)
still look at knives clean from the trail of tears
joined in the slaughter in (?)
all because of a feeling, an emotion: fear
and by the time i got to watts
i was missing most of my limbs
still had enough blood in my throat left to gargle up nine words
i resist to being both the survivor and victim
but i know the reality
and some of us did just die under a boot
under pounding fists in the back of a car
others died (?) mangled guts
some of us did just die while giving birth
while protesting for the freedom of our sons
and only god knows how i made it to ferguson
aisha didn’t make
rekia didn’t make it
ayanna yvette didn’t make it
pearly didn’t make it
chantelle, tarnika, taisha didn’t make it
katherine, gaberella, miriam, charise didn’t make it
charnel didn’t make it
sandra didn’t make it
and i was sure i was dead in oakland
after being chained by a pickup truck
and dragged miles in jasper, texas
where 81 pieces of me my body was scattered across a back road
the men drop me off at a black cemetery
see that’s how i got over
how i got over here
the same place i was in in 1866
a bleeding black body blowing in the wind
tripping an ironic thickness of things never changing
time is a balancing act that encomp-sses all things
suspended in illusion

- moor mother

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