The Black, Black Man

I am a phone.
I was raised by phones.
We host collect calls on Wednesdays.
I am only a messenger. You are mine, my sultry voice...

The Puppet Mistress measures the strings and stands the puppet on the tip of his shoes.
When that love lace beckons, your body is at the end of fairy tale.

That it was her that created your potential to love her and will draw it out whenever she needs to be loved,
you are a puppet.
And that she loved and named you, she has a puppet heart for sculpting something that never was.

In a heart, a scribe, an emancipation act to a new slavery.
But I am a black, black man.
Even if the Mistress called Culture sold to me the same rythym​ and jive
as the stoners,
only black, never richer,
every now and then, the beauty doesn't fade. The person hangs like a moon in the sky.
And that is the face of the individual.

The message I have to send is a break in stats.
I'm not contracted to only be black.

When I look in the mirror, I don't see solidarity.
I told the NBC news I'm never looking for a charity.

Welcome back to the awake world. We've all been waiting for you.

What does a puppet eat?
The food of his soul.
Oh, the music of his soul.
Ooh, but that's why he's a puppet.

He asks Culture for his soul,
and she may be black. She may be white.
But the Man is helter-skelter.

When that love lace beckons, you are a consumer, and your soul is preprepped wood.

As for me,
I am blacker than electromagnetic collapse.
Darker than a burning page.

Disenfranchised and unrewarded,
alien and disconjointed.
The minority of the minority.
And I am not in love with Her.