Actually.
There was going to be
a whole poem here
about projectiles
but vomit (also a projectile!) came and I realized:
I don't need to shoot anything.
I don't need to blast a damn thing.
I just make you curl over laughing
and connect an oxygen tank into your mouth
when you can't breathe anymore.
This is the first of a series of poems beginning with 'Actually'. My expectation is that there will only be two more.
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