the assertive high-pitched howl of the emaciated asian front man,
the accident of an open fly beneath a sweaty manifesto.
could you be more pro,
you clanking heap of uh oh?
of fleshy mandibles, refreshed with meaty dew
you scream,
your own lips less eulogized, because less beautiful.
that's what you think, porcupine.
the thrill of your mouth I'll helpfully mime-
the tiny heap of your soul, I'll climb.
