orange futon fever dream

In a skyward send off, we’re a flesh-bound kite,
and our impulse to jump extends beyond flight.

Common convergence, a simple, systematic crash,
our flawed jaws naturally gnash teeth and talk trash.

They shot metal to our temples, we grew an armored epidermis.
We chew fingernails like trail mix, drink blood straight out a thermos.

Though our insides have turned out, we all die on a byway.
But I will pass on like Sinatra if you pretend I did it my way.

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