When You Want to Rebel But The Communists Say No

Civil War in Cambodia

The underculture is a retired toupee
Complete with withering adhesive.

When a thousand breaths
Submit like beaten dogs

A brutal yelp
Exposes the bald scalps
Of failed insurgents.

Destitute air
Is akin to heaving sobs
Abashed by slaving lungs.

But what phrases
Cuddle the fat
The rib cages tote?

Rather
Do they feel at all?

Stimulants
Are a growl.
and
Opiates croak
Like a caste
Of suffocating frogs.

Somewhere in that infinite echo
Humanity discovered a melody.

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