I don’t think it gets
more interesting after this.
The latest bliss they’re advertising
is just too tacky. Criminally so.
What an insane juncture
to find oneself in sink.
Excuse the viscous ink
you see dangling from these poet’s lips.
I can’t control my salivary glands
any more than I can
spit shine Saturn’s rings.
Excuse me, I’m only singing,
only wavering, only dying
(with a little patience?).
Fed only on metaphors,
my senses now eye each other hungrily.
I don’t think it gets
more interesting after this.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 