Sit at the power table.
Solicit the ripe pineapple brains,
all of bourgeois pagans
drunk, all of them, for the sake of revolution.“Come here and suck on my feet,”
I snarl,
“the right one”.
Disposition does not shift
nary even, miniscule concept
and, and
I throw energy bolts,
forward arm motion,
and hit hyper coeds masticating on
boyfriends’ whine.
Sling
rusty quotes highlighting
Guevara
quivering, as is jello, as is squid.