Djungel

This sound, that stinks of dirty sneakers 
     (never boots, they’re meant for da smeris 
speaks of djungel, uprooted flowerpots 
     (never flares, maybe strobelight analysis

strewn across the asfalt like the remains 
     (not the actual remains, mind, but echoes 
of tribal war, racial war – bloooood! Yeah,
     (not just like Junior Reid, more an actual 

song of the thrice-dispossessed, sampled 
     (never played, not spat by some kannibal 
to oblivion! AKA K-Town, Babylon. Chant
     (but do not actually sing, try screaming -- 
 
until I find myself somewhere in Somalia,
     buying Camels for the old man. Slutspurt.

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