The quiet hum of words fade into each other, stuttered-stumbling, confused, voice tight, amped by vapored lungs-- a yearning satisfied an itch scratched, a fist held in defiance. It could be nothing, sure, but that don't mean poetry's dead. (you motherfucker.) Melded minds entwine in collaboration, at ease, taking in the twisted lines-- (blurred by bad articulation.) everything taken half-heartedly, a grain of salt; simple, salty bitterness making it all the more sweet. Theres no need to change a damned thing; we can't, it's hopeless, it's futile. It's the thing fools do again and again and again in retardation-- (but it works.) without sense in isolated drug space expressing dead stirrings-- (pounding.) on a wall of words turned to thoughts thoughts to feelings. (assumptions into sweet nothings.) Poetry's not dead, not old, it's young, ruthless-- a gang of hoodlums amounting to nothing, screaming "go fuck yourself motherfucker, goddamn cunt-bitch-WHORE." beating this hopeless rebellion (but we ain't dead.) into your fucking skull: We amount to something; something savage, violent, frenzied-- a tempest deepening.