Talib Kweli "Outstanding" Featuring Ryan Leslie

A 1000 horses galloping a 1000 cowboys riding

In the earthy existence galaxies intergalactic despair being mere persistent, swallow starships no aliens abroad this abandoned ship.
So the struggling horses get up and gallop for ten moons, gallop and gallop the motoways near highway codes.
Speeding with the radical Ferrari, we ride on horse power to the end.
We ride on the mother solar system power to the end.
It circulates our mysterious of time.
Questions riddled on human nature grounds...I am one of them now no better, no worse who is searching...for answers bottled.
Rattlesnakes don't cry no more mountain tears to its victim worth cherished.
A fargon leg horn colouring morning spirituality awakens hens, unsupervised sheeps losing their way in the emerald herds.
Where goddess sunrise sprinkles onto closed eyelids.
It sprinkles lost magic that hold onto white dust by eye lashes.
Where Internet rules inner cities have no care for the natural world.
It's natural resources, it's what's separates us from the animals.

There have been a billion of stars, billions telling memories of country western songs to flourish, cowboy adventures to their young.
There have  been a thousand cars speeding the fast and the furious, there have been a thousand cowboys riding the Nevada grounds, how horse riding that sounds, dirt tucked in their boots, 24-7 helicopters hovering, swinging like T-shirts, Jeeps stomping the muds, trucks running the yard, claiming life is hard it sucks to be behind schedule.
Note to VCR clocks, DVDs, BlueRay...this isn't  your twilight fairytales, no fast and furious rally, with crashing in an electric circuit.
It seems the go go go cowboys having the chase of their lives are always chasing us, catching us, hop over one fence over another, one partner hiding behind cactus, with rope in place, watching the gallop riot its way through gravels dusting like rushing winds of gust, buckle their shoes locking us in bar fences, riding us like camels, where travel seems far ahead of their time.
Isn't this the time to be free, go on a horse run spree with nature.
See the world in we run and run and run into the desert of Nevada, I'm no American rider, I'm a phoenix glider.

I've travelled there overseas, in the middle of nowhere but I run with them, ride with them all the way.
We have horses, strange mammals in Britain, they run, and run just like you but they're trapped, they can't swim neither but they can give one long of a niierrrrr.
Galloping legs, galloping horse power like Ferrari wheels I run faster than a speeding to be free in my own world thoughts, feelings spray, my own platforms on fresh grass cut and trimmed, no rough grounds making a horse stumble onto his knees, no traps can catch me, I'm unstoppable like a roadrunner.
Their ropes wanna pull giving them a rodes scenario.
Horns tussle through thick ropes, like a loose canon we're riding the hills all the way partner, the riders to the end.

The cliffs are horizons where we gallop senseless on runaway trails, horse shoe prints marking roads like a railway, but there's no Eurostar on our tracks, speeding bullets try harder to hit us down.
Let's ride to the hilltops where sunny spells cry drizzles like raindrops, it's wet and soggy on green grasses of English country.
The English Channel is near, the sea near the shore is dear.
We' ll gallop on the galaxies to another planet Mars, or planet Texas that's out of this world.
Stars in no limits, floating around solar system dreams, no rainbow can reach.
It's a runaway world, and I'm chasing a billion stars in the vortex, it's a pony.
The pony of my dreams, I dreamed for, and we need a barn for the little fowls that come into this world of ours.
Cos I want those same horses running free without no ropes or stables holding them behind.
I want them born wild and free, scare away cowboys like fleas, buzz buzz buzz off annoying ropes of talking saddles.
Go ring yourself a herd of cattles, rope strange yourself till you hang as hangman, runaway runaway to the horizons no man can capture.
Runaway to the rainbows no pot of gold can fool you.
I am the war horse that calls off the strangler, we are cry our runnings for release.
Spell your way out of this spelling bee, no string in the ass will give you release of my kick off.
So run horses of despair run all you like to the mellows, where they don't have to milk you for what you are worth.
You are the symbol that thrives for Apollo's lyre.
You are a son of a bitch that kicks a fuss.
You are the unicorn that leaps.
You are the other half that creeps.

Afternoon page 2

Storyteller, narrator, it was another, but a sleepless, timeless morning, and my tummy didn't growl for some Weetos cereal and call to get that jam slammed on toast.
"Awwww poor belly lost its appetite."
Hungriness stirring belly lust, beating his empty stomach, twisting spoons, splurges forks, knives for mooore.
Lights blinking, still awake in the early 11am, finding my diary of planned agendas for today is...Monday.
Early Monday morning grey, the day seems a little dull without any colour mixing the Big Smoke time in my diary, the acrylics harden the realities of my cinematic world.
Old friend hyena laughter of mine calling, bitching about his Halford's Manager, and asking to join his lonesome company at Southside Wandsworth, where he is diving his hairy face, devouring buckets of KFC, later he's at HMV, shark attacking BluRays, Danebury Avenue, playing Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2.
Can't beat the game wizard, but tries, tries and he tries.
Still he fails in the end.
But the rest was in the cinema watching Rise of The Planet Of The Apes, loud and action packed like it was Leathal Weapon 4.
I only wish it was me and her my girlfriend, in the back row, where it's dark.
Some buttered popcorn perhaps, and a large coca-cola.
Take her to a couple of museums, to be intimate with artistry and history.
Inspire hands in eye to eye conversations, the world is a gallery, the afternoon is a work out session, a gym class session.
The day doesn't sleep without the evening taking the sun down to South America, and up to North America for some common light.
Light only gardens can endure its rich photosynthesis.
Every hour in Wandsworth, take out spots, rush hour commences at platform 11, platform 2 and platform 15.

Calling at Wandsworth Common, Balham, Stretham Common, Putney, Richmond, Twickenham, Kingston, Norbury, Selhurst, West Croydon, Waddan Mash and East Croydon.
Eight carriages taking briefcase administrators, business people, secretaries, conference meetings, foreigners, sales people on their way wealthy and tired as bloodshot bats.
Traffic build up like a spine in Clapham Junction, youths window shopping JD Sports, Foot Locker is the best, Greggs will only put you on weight 250 grams at a time.
156 is taking us Wimbledon Tennis, 37 will take us to Putney Heath, 39 to Putney Bridge.
I can see Underground Tube from up here, my general route on 337 to Richmond, but in this case it's Upper Richmond Road I travel to, I carry on to.
The Underground doesn't get any nearer than East Putney Station I sometimes use for other alternatives, through East London ways it's Walthamstow Central, Hackney, Stradford, Docklands and Bethnal Green.
It's a different world out there, community wise and Tower Hamlets look higher on Shoreditch High St Station.
I'll be in Bromely-n-Bow neighbourhoods, guitar strings my jams in estates where raw meets acoustics in the bedroom.
Trying to hold it, hold it longer before it's a rat race to the bathroom.
And I had to just let it out, let it go like my fists tighten with sticks and stones.
Drop till my bones riddle with laughter, I made it back on the 14, Piccadilly Circus gave me highlights of British souvenirs, performers give break dance on concrete consumptions, pedestrians pass through with Tesco shopping bags, Waterstone's books in arms, looking forward to midnight closed eyes while I recite the evening page at 12.