Sharrif Simmons

You can feel it
when it happens:
a sort of depression
in the hidden places
when conjured thoughts
become louder than mountainside echoes

The wind is almost always blowing
leaving room
for other musical feats
a world feast of Masekela rumbles
leaves the door open for burning beat drummers
occupied with little else than
channeling the message to you

Music
in it´s evolving state
in midst of revolution(s)
spinning at 33

Split threes attached in different directions
makes the heavy 8 split like
four to the floor
four to the floor
at the core of the present illusion
musical revolutions spin
tipped over the wax
it spins in circles
large enough to catch
the next generation
who´ve been cast into fearing life without listening
to lovemaking music
than making lovemaking music
Adobo the pepperfunk
and join the band
that never ignores what people say

Speech was sent to them
by those same weeping angels that
brought you

Brick
                            Slave
Mandrill
                            Little Blind Wonder
Little Miss Ripperton
                            Chic
Sweet Taste of Honey

Breathing blood pressure into
brainy voodoo children with machine guns
voodoo children with machine guns
those same weeping angels
who let poems   
long forgotten be
re-issued
re-titled
re-understood
regurgitated like Bird food
for the youth

The musical revolution is attached to
anything uncertain
camouflaged from greed shooting bandits
left stranded over the jaded rocks
under Gory Island
to be dealt with
later

I suppose there won´t be anymore heroes
for our seedlings
no more music with ten thousand meanings
Behave!!
you tortured souls
music lives in revolution(s)

When it happens
many doors open
leading to marble chambers

Keep tossin´ your pebbles into the still waters
you´ll see the spiral ripples spread
like sound waves that
sex an open nation under a groove
getting down for the survival of it
revivals of it
in cycles of thirty
from be bop
to hip hop
to rootz bop
to musical revolution(s)
You can feel it
when it happens:
a sort of depression
in the hidden places
those same weeping angels
who brought you the beginning
now bring you
the change