Like, war is justified homicide. Philosophy is the process by which one comes to accept one’s death. Socrates.

Like, which is the best city to die in. Like Paris New York Dubai Nairobi or the block I grew up in. What will happen in 2050. Will aliens be presidents. David Icke. Alex Jones. Will my son be gay. Will I die young. I don’t know. Don’t wish to know. If I had all the answers, I would stop thinking. Brain fried. Dead. No planning. No fortune hunting in city buildings. Imagine me not imagining. I would become a mindless clone waiting for death. Like most of you.

It is like these ‘deep’ poems we love, once they are decoded by the writer, they lose the glitch, the core of their mystery. I can again relate to the folders of hardcore rap I come across. The type of music my woman hates. These MCs and poets are nowhere on Wikipedia but their oratory and philosophy is ethereal.

It is like that good girl whose past or background you are not interested in because that will distort the utopic pedestal you place her on. Like those beautiful girls from poor families. And them rich folks battling cancer and gout and paranoia. That reminds you that modesty is no respecter of mankind. Like fuck, what makes fear and death and secret societies and gods and love so fucking powerful. The unknown.

Like I know a dozen of good Facebook friends I will never ever want to meet in person because that will spoil the mystery of having a good soul on the other end of the keypad. The internet is like a giant friendzone. Like dating, holding hands, being too nice and shit, spending money on a woman you will never fuck. Now you see how heaven and Hollywood success was invented. The dangling carrot theory.

Like the funniest people on social media are the most boring fucks in real life. Like most creative people have a problem explaining themselves.

Like coffee and Wi-Fi. Blue lights and soft music and trenchcoats. Like the April drizzle and niggas in love talking in soft tones on phones. Like church women in their 40s cheating on their hardworking husbands. Like phone snatching so the street families can eat.

Like fame chasers. Hearts pounding on audition benches. Blogs. Gossip. Xenophobes with passports. Homophobes watching gay porn in the dark. 69. Balance. Who shot who. Who caught who pants down. The hand-me-downs. I won’t vote for these bitches, hands down.

Too many How-To-Dos and not enough This-Is-Its. Too many Likes. Not enough mikes. Too many memes. Not enough mes. An I for an I. I Yin Yan the self.

Like we ball to settle a score, not to win. Today’s pain won’t matter a year from now. Today’s pain, therefore, shouldn’t ruin a year’s pleasure, like the carcass of the crow.

The crow Apollo shapeshifted into. The fortune teller. The carcass of a three legged crow. The evening morning and the afternoon of your life. Doctor Wayne Dyre in the Tao of the Now. The crow. The wise owl. Dismantle the past skycrape the future in a mix of love and humour.

Your soul is your imagination. We are here to dream, like.


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