My head refuses to bang the table fast enough.
My nose spews noodles.
My feet spawn stars and
My hands spit leeches.
My insides are outsides, while
My outsides shimmy in—to
My music I adore.
My feelings fettered as feathers tarred to floor.
My trampling of distain for
My meaningless refrain.
My hope is all subjunctive; and
My animal born of sound and light withheld.