rocket-propelled confections
of conflagration and detonation
write wisps of white clouds
above borders
davoom
the red glare
the smell of burning flesh
like holiday barbecue
technology empowers
certain animals, specifically,
the ones who find no better use
for an olive branch in fruit
than to beat each other
over the head
1 comment:
My rocket-propelled confection is about to make a splash.
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