it. Rape it. It's yours. You
good at it. Stick it in your hateful archive
and remember if the x of you is lost, then the y
of us must cost in coastal collateral. Orgasmic
chasm in your implacable. Flogging blonde hair,
a flag ostensibly flatters. Ineluctable claque
spasms in fawning then commits felonies
against anyone who whispers. Split from effort
you are born into it. Charm of sluice, vetted
vats of guess which spatter “the lads” and
“didn’t matter.” Plastic action figure,
batteried. To suffocate with unwavering index,
muzzling the infinite. Your backbone supplied
by a machine gun and a mochachino. Attacks
with what lacks. Ardent cerebellum disfiguration.
A schism in your perfectly parted hair.