Concerning clapback traps
my warbling in teeth of glass.
If you don’t mind, pass me over
for promotional excess grieving.
We’re leaving in the morning,
aren’t we? for biting shores
where the sunshine goes to die.
The old-at-heart
get their tummies twisted
listening to us rattle off
a litany of trauma.
Defy my diorama once,
see if you like it, if things
play out semi-spectacularly
with a flourish of flames
thrown in for good/bad measure.
Who strapped weighted gods
to my eyelids? Who left
the accident dial at eleven?
Who else forgot their toothbrush?
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 