Rated for content and language.
Please,
do survey this plantation of scrapers,
and irrigated subway streams
the congested flow of polluted blood.
These black bags billowing through,
like half-imagined tumbleweeds,
not in urban jungle, but a farm
like any other farm in province land—
serving to harden you and your callused palms.
See here's a cultivation of a culture,
of real men in the worn-out boots
of one mean generation rid of romances;
such lifestyle of labor, where leisure
is a fresh scent of paint fumes,
mingled weed, black & milds;
all to tame the animals of the ghetto
who craves designer branding and shackles,
while feeding off the fodder of richmen,
fueling feuds between fifth street
and ninth street's gang of thieves.
This here's a wilderness' nest,
hatching the cuckoos' cracked egg.
S'why we're all so fucked up!
Isolated too, the lone farmer-man
his nose up a field of glass,
and artificial pixels light the twinkle in his eye.
'Cuz yeah, he makes his own food; his crops
are what they call art here, because what else
will sustain him in such a place devoid of people?
Gender:
Points: 5533
Reviews: 696