They work out their guilt on you
you're a tin puppet carrying diseased cum
in a vase with robot fingers around its glass neck
flailing with original dances on a microwaved lawn.

Warrior of poetry, pounding fist that smashes the faces
of the complacent with the sun's voice.
Warrior of flow-etry, speak to my speakers
with the air-space of a bossa nova cube.

Murder my false authorities with sadness, murder them
with a knife and with a gun, that I may feel greatness.
Fist me with your wedding ring
that is evidence of your link to a glacier.