Stalwart, we push
the beauty parlor out of commission.
We move on to a submission
hold on our wayward instincts,
making a scene in process
out of pine fragrance and rigor mortis.
“Death is not glamorous,”
and neither is the way
of life we’ve pilfered/fallen into.
Our fashion sense outsteps us
at every available opportunity.
Flabbergast me, then,
and I’ll shimmy the way you like,
but with my head on backwards
and my libido throes
cooking up my insides.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 