Phones

For all that you do I cannot speak
I can cough tendency

Mortal pillars unthrown

By the side of the oatstash
Ashes of graffiti cut trees

Our personal outcomes
Are so destined by purple ligature

Now lift me Up!
With those massive shaping movements
Listen to the orange and white striped time signature

Elbow weave seven-fourteen
At the epicenter of almost, player

Will the berry halve?
Taste wine? (take time)

There never was much else but the work
Busying myself since birth

Get rid of myself this Spring
Descendants of loop-diggers in a
Tune-gambling rig

With a Suped up amateur wit
Too hot to handle the bandages thick
Like butter pads
Spit a stuttered adage to another rap's fans

Amid amens arid careful dancing on the terrace
Terrible to approach with sense or errands

Tan and shirtless on the fronts of my arms
Shirtless on the fronts of my hands