concrete syrup

If you follow the long line of concrete syrup down to burnside from wherever you might be, you're bound to find two things lurking there in a great pool of the stuff, edging up and down on itself; a sprawling deathline of insanity where breeds the frothing fumes of summer heat exhaust cigarette crack smoke rising from the festering bodies of dis ease that lay around in the cracks and grind with that deep black death embedded in the fingernails...and a blooming that naturally occurs as a result, where the studios that rise above equally drill and grind and bang the black into it but with beats dropping down from the second story and into the great pools of concrete syrup in the form of metaphorical lily pads and lillies themselves. The strippers on the corner watch them fall and have to walk slowly and smoke slowly; the concrete syrup is a messy business and we've all come to find ourselves covered in the stuff.

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