Crenshaw Letters

by jerrontables

Ya, its alright. Cuz you cant grow what you dont know and thats all at the supermarket. Bagged, cut, cooked, booked, stamped, eaten and spit. You can buy the poop if you want to. Mind you pick up your dogs for the nice ladies in new york heels. Mind you avoid ladies with new york bills. Never paid enough til you want more, you see. Never want more until you watched tv. Take em. Google it. Then you can tell your friends. And all the while the buys and sells made up names for things. Like adam. Animals in the factory. Hard hats in a shark cage. Microwave oven. Tables for four. You thought you liked the sushi but it was your friends. He thought he was good golden til it was the end.

Bobs of all. Crush em. You act like men of war are broken. Seeds of me. Built. Connected. Concocted. But. You cant shoot the minds of men. You cant tangle the strings or pull the house down for the tunnels in the trees. Department store technographies. Nope. You try again. Fighting with an ipak in a massive projected dust of earth and a mass directed sons of mens.

Mob mentalities. Interest group interests too little. Make hay when the sunshines. Make clay of your own kinds. In your own way. Dream factories. Smile childs. Big screens. Hollywood mediums. Eyes shut, et al.

Got that, crenshaw?

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