drunchpunk and tiered

a low synthetic
warbling shook the
bedroom window
the pervasive sound
of the diesel womb
or the mothership
descendant hovering
or possibly robotic
wasps swarming
looking for something
to repeatedly sting
vibrating loud enough
to weave a willowy
uncertainty into
helf conscious dread
once the hope of
falling asleep once more
is shooken raspily
from sheep accountability
to a finger of ice
tracing along my
simmering rage
venting steam from my
now flaring nostrils
as i count to ten
so as to not stomp out
and choke the derelict
son of a bitch idling
his engine for an hour
at three in the morning
rather than having one
measly fucking ounce of
consideration for anyone
except his unholy need
to overcompensate with
a truck everyone knows
screams and warbles
micropenis delivery
throughout the night

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