dear
gods, the float of the gut, the frequency blasted, it hit the head, the world
hasn’t specified its agenda.
i
get lost in bleeding, i knew better, the friend was like, get it together.
i
grabbed a bag, smoked all night, hit the land, like baffled over the cults.
check
the networks, kind of low at it, the love i want, just got knocked up.
the
sink is filled, like mostly mud, pebbles, and sediments; getting lost, laughing
with friends, it was a long ride.
years
passed. many died. old associates, now oblivion.
the
emotion is sad, the truck is grieving, i paid a mint for love—the sex, the
fire, the person in her; to tear up, those years on Crenshaw, like a big ass
train now.
i
was bread with butter, i was a lick a day, many ate off me—they hate me, i can’t
giggle, like to respect—the lit light—to know his reality;
i
blinked, got (raffled), the sleeve was testimony, tatted with what i believe
in; many respect that, many live that, like running, hitting fences, cop at
ankles, got away—and feeling good.
they
hate the guts. it took drinking to say it. the emotion is gravel, dirt, it
stands for pain.
i
lost a close one, he took a bullet, was unruly, another told me, bold faced, “He
got his luxury!” amazed. all the years to Dior. the Gucci kits. the Diesel denims.
Damn! (Free the demons!)
let
it hit the races, the cages, the faces, tapping into every ethnicity.
so
low on caviar, so curved into spheres, any category—the Friends still live!
The Friends
are a group of Mystics. Look into the Quakers.
