The swatter

Mite, not mighty enough
At night;
Bugs miss the compass’ class
Luring,
Blurring light is burning the invisible light wings


The smell of smoke
Reflects higher voltage of power
Illiterate identities are doing the “march”
And Bugs silently and barely emerge from scratch


With no pre-trip plans
The moth aimlessly flails in the snare
Nobody buries “nothing”
Spring water gets rid of the nausea
For many times bugs could’ve been stuck
Under the stinky arms of the nation
Allegations, allegations, allegations…

The scent of olive oil and mint tea
Or the anonymous funerals beyond your sea?
You know what?
Get back to the free wild little flee…

H-man (The roads)
K-man ( Charlotte)