Bryan Thao Worra
We turn our dishes to
What manner of dog will come running
To lick them,
Drawn to the censored moaning groins
And the pyrotechnics of false death
And chemical love?
Fetch me a big stick to shake
At these stellar voyeurs!
I want nothing to do with them
As I run down my strange streets,
An accidental alien without
A ray gun.
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Comments about this poem (Aliens by Bryan Thao Worra )
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