We in the Know

Go on and lick the message
in the meaty sickness, lovely chatterbox.
Lonely withstands each and every
nose boop with affliction.
My circumstances dictate
what radiance fucks me.
Only that and a platter of centuries.

See these edgelord centurions
mustering their weepy hands
in the winterlong musk
and you have what we in the know
call pavement fatigue. Go figure.

Maybe let’s not excite
our streamer-brained pheromones
more than we should, but we kinda should.
I’ve already cashed
that salacious check, lovely chatterbox.

I serpentine my way through media weeds
in quest of chainsmoking pixel acrobats.
But now, feel the ground getting warmer.
The walls getting weirder.
The friction beginning to chew.

-r. miller

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