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Drunk

Now I have to yearn for it, needing it, longing for it.

Asking myself if the world will ever let me again have, in my hand,

things that spread mad mass appeal. Holiness, crusade nights and when it

riddles in, what’s the friction cost? Are you hurt, stop and let it give just a

little tug, then a push, forward. Go on, don’t look! Yea, this ain’t a rhyme,

and, I’m really not wasting my time on brilliance. So what, so what tho?

Or Hip-Hip, yea I’d rock up on it got themm if it’s comin’, fucking shock

Hit the burner then it’s on to other things or glory spells but, what the hell.

Pattern shifts into a new age, where cages make the most of all of us into the new age.

Not drawing from the crucifixion fiction non-fiction or naw,

Life is moving like a pendulum so convalesce your health, re draw if you must.

I don’t give a fuck, shoot it off at mad will. Who am I? A Poet.

From Long Ago,

Introducing a literary composer to knowing nothing and knowing, and yet to steal, would be too mean, so I dream, but I beamed and now I’m getting too steamed, I am mean, I don’t feign, and personal. Yes I do dream, I’d be meaner, coming at you with mad splitters, cold guns, hot bars, mad ammo and cat scars, nothing stopping it. Or this arsenal of May bars.

But a paragraph to last to laugh last, or to laugh at. Hot. Who wins. Yes, an update.

I’d the weather is blue, life will be pleasant.

The red tide is moving with a felon.

A real elephant, but keeping it real,

I don’t like the way he makes me feel.

Better control, better vibes my friend,

Every Republican needs a Democratic friend.

You all chill and you flaunt ya mad skills, or wealth, or anything beyond the moment of doubt, a nice a life, with everything working hard. Yea, hard and everything.

But come again, the ages and ain’t near no, over, so I took a chug of love before,

Or what sense does it make? Space Force or naw?

Trillions. I’m talkin’ USD.

Just to grow a bit colder so just listen yo, sickness in the beat I mock fleets.

Coming in like the millennium. It ain’t over, no Jehovah, a little sober from the ganja when it blows it, it’ll be fine, yea yea

By Brandon Mecella

I am a Philadelphian, a poet (the greatest alive, of course), and I'm loving what is on T.V.