Wipe the distraction
from your face, dipshit.
The room is too composed,
too clean, too abstract
for tastes which run
counter to the main.
The whole structure is flimsy,
upheld by a contempt
growing beneath the skin.
Today is one of those days
where I barely have it in me
to keep breathing.
I’ve all but mastered
the seething exercise by now,
and it shows in the way
my veins tremble despairingly
with each new turning of the page.
Small miracles manifest daily, however –
new marketing strategies,
serendipitous decrees.
I’d bottle them all up in brine
if I could.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 