Space pours wisdom into my brassiere
into flesh, ears, onto my face, that pretty thing.
I’m full of space. I don’t live in time.
I forget commerce, like obligation.
But I know what’s true
Every monster is doing murder,
by mercenaries of commerce,
gatekeepers of obligation,
Magistrates of time.
We are a disaster, my friend.
Don’t let them shit on our tiny parades. Don’t you shit,
you’re men, not circus beasts. Come on. Do you need training?
I own stilettos, warlords. Come on. On the floor. NOW.
There is a Death Star in my bra.