So I am in America as a youth
culture jammer, hands thick wads
of paper thrown in some backalley
getaway. Streams of slang gangsters
with their wingtipped array
of oceans gunning down all
semblance of clarity in a thunder
of rooms. Awaiting eminent dialogues
and bodily autonomy, slivers of murk
flung into tremors and the rift
between her thighs like a fierce red
metronome, slummed in the dead air.
My method is simple –
enthralled in the dissonance,
I burn Anarchy
through a sphere.