Beats by Dre
hurl gritty street
anthems.
Nipsey Hussle.
Jim Jones.
Jeezy. K-Dot.
Motivation
is a strange
addiction.
Speed and
altitude are
objectives,
pushing farther
into concrete
oblivion, keeping
the circuit
board CLEAN,
like the only
way to live
is by BOLD
declarations
and aggression
and pain and
suffering and
more PAIN.
Climb them hills
till lungs beg
for mercy.
Muted aggression
feels natural.
“We love sacrifice,
right? Some highs
require blood,”
he says. Some
highs require men
to smile,
while balancing
shifting weight
on American
tightropes.
Death is real.
A breath.
Crash Out
tips his hat.
He knows
the vibes.
Wounds open.
Just to annoy.
Just remixes
from yesterday.
“They are not
like us,” says
the Monk to his
earbuds.
Sky wakes,
emerging from
some distant
design. Revolt
is a soulful
motto. No
other way to
play it. This
thing doesn’t
evolve. This
thing growls.
Mr. Monk walks
the surreal earth,
with a big boot,
with a large
stick, with a poor
disposition. This is
how his cageless
day begins.
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