dem streets ain’t know yo name just be out there like hunger on parade all Mardi coup de grace, with spiked tea- and neon giblets… all draped over hot coals and incandescent funk. with meter maids and pidgeons- sweeping thunder under rugs everybody know ain’t your real Hair.
dem streets be like consequences marching with a band of thieves. tuba prodigies adagio with oily smoke and cauliflowers marinading in umami and soiled alters. switchblades are like optional candy. sharkfins in buttermilk more like an actual Wednesday.
dem streets be soaking bullets in Kopi Luwak chuffing pearl dust off a subway chit while staggering home from a dust-up at Berkley. we keep telling ourselves to tell ourselves something but forget to remember how to forget about it