moody faint thumping from upstairs

makes my teeth hot. 

intimidation at its finest. 

you’re on the warpath,

on your irksome, 

doing donuts in the Pantheon: piercing. knock yourself out, bud. 

just let me go back to my

serene hutment or my ticker will sink

all the way through my feet. 

the vexation of the responsibility of

communication over-plumbed my

endurance, my composure.

i don’t fancy folks, 

namely only characters.