RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Thursday, March 20

PP: Part Sixteen

Flea market in Richmond on Midlothian, where you can actually buy beats to rhyme over from a guy, you can buy three thousand image bootlegs with cocaine sales slang, black panther black light velvet posters, plus I even saw one time a framed picture of Biggie and Tupac together with a toy chrome 9 mm inside the frame as well. Of course in such a parking lot, full of happy-go-lucky Saturday afternoon fresh negroes, piece of shit whiteys, and assorted brown-skin illegal ethnicities, you would find a stretched out Caddy with shiny chrome rims, parked off by itself because a car like that can't associate with some busted ass shit.

Old people live in a brick rancher and have an aging car, but grumpy old dude still has style enough to park it catty-corner in the yard for flair. I bet he wears a hat like a British ruffian as well when he goes up to the Hardee's for breakfast biscuits. How the fuck do old people eat breakfast every day at fast food restaurants and continue to be old? Shouldn't they all be dead from that shit?

This guy is all blocked up by 7000 other brokedown cars now. You may not be able to see but there's bulletholes in the window, plus the spraypainted number, it makes me pretty certain that this is the bootlegger's car that invented Nascar in a horse circle decades ago. I bet Junior Johnson got a blowjob in the passenger seat at some point, hopefully from a woman though and not a young Jeff Gordon.

Caught this wasting a day in West Virginia. I am a fool for rural wastelands, because when I can pass some shit like this that looks like a National Geographic picture from a 1977 feature on Mississippi or some shit, and I can take an obsolete ass Polaroid picture of it, it makes me feel like I'm doing all I can to stay chained to the past. Fuck new things. Fuck your technology. People have always fantasized of earth escape on spaceships, but the real escape is to just smash all this shit we've built up. And even if that doesn't help you escape, it feels good to be smashing shit. I hold tight my notion that when I'm a multi-millionaire motherfucker, the only way any of my kids will inherent any money once I die is to carry on the family business, which will be a giant factory I bought (hopefully the old Model Tobacco Company place in Richmond on Jeff-Davis Highway) and smash it with my solid gold hammer. Because that's gonna be my job once I retire.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

yeah the "model" building is where we will all be staging our ventures from when we are rich.

go vikings.