So much the turning burns.
Quiet and frailty.
Mastering the all-at-once.
She head over bottles.
Then he in his throttle of throat.
Swimming in hands.
Twenty-eight likes per second.
The he in her musk. They, the willful,
wilted singing dull praises.
The proofreaders, bleeding.
She felt up his mouth with fingers
given wholly to blisters.
She twisted his tongue up in her own
and he choked on mutual vomit.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 