Here – a landfill for all of that sugary disorder
that’s been piling up in your guts.
The god of squatters struts down the incline,
measuring things with blistered antennae.
How about we transvaluate and chill?
Some marauding might be nice,
as would some ice cubes for this cocktail
I’ve been making every effort to not drink.
I should get a room for all this thinking.
One with a view. Of stewed pedestrians
pinching praxis near the groin.
Sub-rosa, we join our joints ex post facto,
redacting minor facts with abandon.
Some of the smells are weird,
carry no memories, effectively whatever.
Someone’s singing in the corridor…
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 