I slapped the side of my tank and sent it
sailing to the floor to its crystal shattering.
Now, my talons touch the tile.
My nose senses doughnut breath,
and a fat man reading My New Christmas Sweater
breathes gloppy gusts into the room.
My tongue tastes his toxins,
as it flicks the air with its fingering motion.
Now is a good time to remember the music
that I had heard under the buzzing of my lamp,
and just the thought of it
makes my spines tingle and shoot upwards
to the ceiling.
My eyes are red.
I tiptoe to the maniac that placed me in that cube,
his headphones keep him silent like jello.
Then I climb up behind him on a small shelf,
slowly advancing my armored nose into his temple.
His head is soft and warm like a spoiled egg
but it smells like baby shampoo,
and,
quickly,
I flick out my cold-blooded hello.
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