Cliche Practice: spring '96

I hate sweaty winter,
the empty object
the earnest irony
the bashful stare
the gentle bomb
the sweet vomit
the rehearsed freedom
the sleepless dreams
the invigorated pain
the blithe shards
of every smirky bastard
who picked up a Muse to use
as a mirror-stand.
Loathing reflects beautifully.