M A C K O Y 's     W O R L Dworlds of bullshit crips

 

 

I tilt my head back
look
at the ceiling
The reflected light
from the pool outside
form shadows
that flicker and turn


I smoke
cigarette after cigarette
and yearn and yearn
I pick a twisted fruit

The sun shines through
the bare
bare trees

                  

 

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