Introduction
My penguins are hotter than yours.
Part One
My penguins are dicier, more clavicle, robotic-winged than yours. I don’t care if you’ve never seen the colony. I watch my penguins with interest. It is all about penguins, snow-white-fresh cocaine, and me. Believe me as sucker emcee. Goodnight, y’all, believe me and the ball that got rolling when I necked down on the floor, soaked in patio grime tracked in from outside under the slivered moon and purposed children were dancing for once in their God-forsaken lives.
Part Two
When my penguins get together they listen to up and coming orchestra. The flapping of wings and sucking of frozen feet, limbs appendaged upward, create snow dust on the coasts of Antarctica. The great mother looked at her children and screamed about politic's policies. I'm getting used to freezer burn. I'm getting used to being a loaf left in the back for months. My penguins rule the country while sucking their faces off in lust. My penguins are sexual deviants.
Part Three
Deicer, the word that the penguin king lives by, is like a cloak of ice words getting ready to melt for a few moments. You will be consumed by its chokehold. You will drown and the king will smile. Fresh bait baited.
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