There we got me good,
blissed out and flinching,
and our avenging angel squeals
through a mouth full of poison.
Glimmering like a gilded fingernail.
My whole project entails malice
in some form or another.
I intend to smother my pinnacle
in crab mustard, if ya feel me.
Well then the real me, yeah, that one,
bursts in with a bluster, flustered and flaming
and naming all those interior states
I’ve tried so hard to keep nameless.
What a shameless spectacle
of superfluous need!
He drops his screed like an anvil
on my chest and rests easy
for six hours in a bed made of cobwebs,
while I lay struggling to breathe
beneath the weight of his words.

-r. miller

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