Suranim Poem by Dedrick Estiltaph

I rock out to chairs;
my morning breathe of Nietzsche
streams bode-'Fore-Bode'
name is he the goes by
now.

the people nice are
here, in foam
plactized
by lactose or murder,
intolerant
they
latch to 'Milly' whom's christ
General the whirl's wind round
to round straight
to ground go
the Victors.

nibbling hobblefoot
she goes by 'Shoes' though
pulled out rug
knows bare-feet
better to have no stains
than the trademarks on your wrist
produce the spoils
to no one they call but
Bones.

sure,
I've thought about, IT
which goes un-named let's
call him 'Chrysis, '
seems to be the answer
and you know
how mad I get about science.

the myths continue,
rejection breaks,
denial births and
too much cake.
a maddened burp,
and out it comes,
the fleeting urge
to run.

Let's call it 'Achoice.'