Critic owl’s intelligence:
not flapping in a
trap of rafters,
a clarity
          by ordinal perception,
theurgy wherein
morals linger,
El Broosha
          trans-hexed in boy shorts,
balsam fir essence,
fascistic beatings on oily chairs
          pronouncing that sacrum
be omphalos, even while
her moon wanes into rarity,
into bacon
          diesel smoke
          and tar.

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