Emoti-cope like a lump in throat,
with misanthropic feelers pulling wit from charm and icing the pawns,
for chess or hurling at charity events, the strands curling, hair like fringe and chaotic linger, on and on.
Get over yourself, or maybe she added an f word somewhere before, I can’t remember- it all gets hazy,
after red clears my head and the clouds blow straight up like mushrooms.
Safe all along, the dying crowds, now down, worshipping the wrong ones.