i have never responded to sci-fi
or to breadsticks when i'm done
doing things i won't surely regret
while i fill weekend breaches alone.
these metaphors don't even matter
if i speak with sheer intent,
that i'd rather hear your spit
than suffer lifelong yelps.
stir up some gas, wipe off them sweats.
shit's about to echo against no threat
because i swear to god, i pray to you,
no amount shall pretend as big
as these motherfuckers drive through
masses with unpronounced guilt;
like are these mind webs even cared for
while i wait for my batch of breadsticks?
i don't really fucking know about you
but i'm about to holo some caught glimpse.