These are our bloodied blossoms.
Bruised temperaments
urge the tempest onward,
onward toward the clarity
hiding in the eye of solitude.
And us with our antennae twisted up…
Despite my clenched fists,
I come in peace, and I bring
mad tidings of oversexed impulsivity.
This pulsing, sweaty mess of flesh
before you was once a man, that is,
until I got through with him.
Your beacons don’t stand a chance
in this darkness. This soupy swamp
we nurture will be the mouth
that devours you.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 