"Bum District" | New poem, 2026/06/21.

Warm morning sun
strokes my joint
I raise up
I stand tight
I count the Indu smokes

There's a sullen aftertaste in the
cloudburst eyes
of my girl

She stands upfront in the middle
of the sunlit razor edge
of sky
I am not prepared for this color
but she sparkles it
infinitely
above
my thunder

There's a road I can't take
trapped in the wheels
of my car
traveling south from the southern point
to reach the furthest
north

What kind of an expedtion
needed to part
the clouds from the sun and the morning
and light up another joint
in the face of all deities
and losers

I am bum district
there are no colors
above me

"Ghosts of Brooklyn" (BRAND NEW SONG, Lyrics, 2026).

Echoes of future knock on your door

Echoes of past you don't dare explore

Pictures of Annie and memories of weed

Sick weirdos running on fumes of dead speed

When you're tired of London and sick of Berlin

Man, you must have seen

The ghosts of Brooklyn

Coincidence crawls so you better beware

The last silver coin is no reason to care

The wasteland is barren and so are your bones

The dealer is calling don't pick up the phone

When you're tired of London and sick of Berlin

Man, you must have seen

The ghosts of Brooklyn

The air is so heavy it's murder to soul

You care less for fortune and masks to explore

You care more for the living but you cherish the dead

If only their spirits could fly from your head

When you're tired of London and sick of Berlin

Man, you must have seen

The ghosts of Brooklyn