I watch rappers uniformed,
songs airborne, to reinvent
spelling it in a peculiar way,
and I am not relevant anymore.

Was red bubbles in pen cap with water
we are in the gutters
nothing for me here, nothing for creases
nothing for compost pile of us

angles of eyelashes while they laugh
sharp glasses says, ‘does not’

And I still would want to sit,
in jazz dresses with eyes unlit,
in polite, menial upper-risers!
and I would be served something posh
and they sit around, say, flattering
“It is not meant to be decrypted.
We don’t know what you are on about.”

Photos of lush evening dried and girls as they swirl through the skyline posing in a million skylines around as in houses or rooms in front of similar cameras soaked with blood of: workers, writers, creators and isolated penseurs / a beat, berserk / and the pinkish twisty ends of fancy lettering will get the better of me / of my tropical little plant waiting to die, sunset to be posted, to be shown / but I am alone sans white pants good bodice and the three of us with glowing skin

hence My same poses switch faces switch names switch accounts switch screens switch and the crinkles at the end of each eyes twitches the same and the camera glows when we feel low / tides go go go like blotches of defiling purity at heart ascetic of little buttons and photos and / “you could be someone that blows” / “you could be seen as someone who’s done things” / ” pretty ” / “darker shade of lip that coincides, of course halfheartedly, with the evening medley of ” / “you could” /

and they sit around, say, flattering
“It is not meant to be decrypted.
We don’t know what you are on about.”

what more could be