Exactly, for my brother understands that one those bright things call loudest, that is when we are most in mother fuckin need.

[Like usual, her lack of understanding goes unnoticed. He inhales deeply, a wide grin forming.]

In the sirenic theater's chest cage, poetry lives.
It pulses, breathes, and teaches. At times even forgives.
Reaching deep within us all, it spills to the happy gathering.
Kindly scavengers, they applaud the sacrifice's unveiling.
Recognizing they readily eat what lays within as it lays the fuck within them too.
And how miraculous, to find mother fuckin company there in the devouring of truths.

[He finishes reciting and beams.]

I would deem Hamlet a sort of poetry. Hamlet is the mother fuckin shit.