The Q&A Queerzine

Wet mouth,
	poor vision.
No detection of
	natural selection in perfection,
		only power of the beholder,
			dollar haver,
				dollar eager; 
					dollar eater,
						dollars meager.
Performer of violent politeness,
	patient hands primly folded in front,
		await the courtesy of destruction,
			say "Ah!" lest defiance from me birth disproportionate distraction.
Let fall my fault,
	my fee,
		my fee-lings forced back down my own too-tight throat.
I've seen them block our road with garbage trucks,
	which we crawl over,
		as insects touching filth to our bodies.
Let's rest on this hill,
	I won't die here,
		you will.
The queen,
	she lays clean eggs in the soft,
		pouty indents of my porous mind,
			its thoughts our clan to do the bidding.
The revolution is ants,
	tiny tigers unleashing,
		lick free from the corners of my lips,
			persistently pushing the perimeter,
				stretching these two tear ducts to CLIMB.
Form the great gyrating pillars which now roll upwards my face,
	to LIFT.
Let's rest on this hill,
	I won't die here,
		you will.