morning 103 (performance text)

after the parachute blows open, it descends upon the looking glass. we are built to not see behind for a reason. a letter from [nowhere] turns into a Studebaker Hawk drop top. the sorceress of tits scoots over from the wheel, electing you daddy. letters like that burn at the touch: the shadow behind the urge, to know you HAVE to cut a deal, to WANT to have to give your soul.
time yanks back when the chute pops open. now softly falling towards the shape of your name…to plant your boots within the scene and find the juice that bears that brand. to speak into that sea of Word that swirls around your cashmere trope, to reach and reach and reach again, to wake up and dream in Amsterdam. to fall in love and curse the world, and hear the drums beneath the moon and know beneath this savage corpse, a place of mist where dream begins.
a coarse and vulgar thing, i've heard, describes the ancient birth of Word. enchantments that remake themselves and haunt the trendy cafe scenes, were there to see that horrid breach, that thereby spawned this verbal flux: photons used to blow up things and Saturn rises with his crowns to speak about his massive touch from single cell to compact disc, a sound so great we'd never know, a wave could change our naked sky and set us up for judgment day, a letter from the purple ship turns into all the things we love.
[chorus] turns into all the things we love turns into all the things we love turns into all the things we love turns into all the things we love
a letter from the chartreuse ship creates the whiling of our time and sends us on these phantom treks to investigate our way with Word.
[chorus] investigate our way with Word investigate our way with Word investigate our way with Word investigate our way with Word
a message from the red ship reduced the written word to ash and shookeet 'pon de African, who makes the rarest kind of love
[chorus] makes the rarest kind of love makes the rarest kind of love makes the rarest kind of love makes the rarest kind of love
a signal from the black ship tells us all who we are, explains away the myth of race and shows us how to heal the world [chorus] shows us how to heal the world shows us how to heal the world shows us how to heal the world shows us how to heal the world

2) Word's a growing thing, of course: of hair and nail and picture tube, a plastic-wedge apostrophe, the rose describes its pleasure zones. i come in twos, i come in threes and lightning bolts relieve the joy, treasures in the biosphere… the subatomic novel, please. we press upon the knowledge blade and watch the blood fill up the sea. while Word has grown beyond the sky, It never says why we must die. It never says It's Word at all, It never says a godamned thing.
the kids of Word invented blues and broke the outer rim, you see, who found the souls of every man to be a diamond in the sun. what psychic-pastel rendezvous that's made of hips and made of thighs? a passage from the yellow ship turns into a pleasure cruise: a cake that's made from poppy seed, the parachute drifts into green. while whisper speaks the name of Word, the crown of thorns is up for grabs, jobs like that burn at the touch… the price of war is never paid.
the face of death falls from the sky and picks our skulls to linger on. we glide along the thoroughfare to find that thing that we can't have. deep in the crowd we see her face, that tells the world which way to spin, and shows us things that make us smile and tests our skill at dodging doom.
a message from the light-blue ship entails the end of having things, details the fear of having them, responds to all the things we love, responds to all the things we love.

sadiq bey