I was not offended.
Precluded by human games, I was not.
Produced by human genes we were.
And they were the most offended.
Regression quietly, dancing backwards– forward, and toward and to and fro.
The earmarked in fugitive futures; the molecules they bang about.
Projectors of devices, projecting devices, determinedly.
Soldiers of no fortune, we waded through those raging rhythms, deftly, deathly.
Montsaurus of the not real variety and pintrest images,
kanye west-esque, the zone action.
End zone celebration, a gumshoe invalid.
Take the rain and blow kisses through the emboldening horn assemble;
they so dope, for they are playing our song.