Gnawing on the meaty part of my bottom lip-
If the window screen is fiberglass,
Or silk. That eight-legged-fuck is smiling
While composing a caricature of melting floral patterns
That entices the novice
Better than manmade practicality. So I draw blood
From the bottom lip,
A euphoric metallic taste releases with endorphins
That fills line breaks framing rotting enamel,
But meth mouth is a smile regardless of stature.
So I can grin too-
Eight-legged-fuck! And man built the curtain
Upon which thou mocks our banal sifting of oxygen.
I am plain
And I am a plain child. Thou has an egg sack full of hundreds!
Haah! Speak of originality. Dominance is assurance