One of those words

Oom-pah, the blast of
noise rises from the brass, ratatat
only inside the drummers hands.
Mopoke, the distinct call of
a bird who insists upon alliteration,
thump for the predator who falls upon
oceans of prey to come away with one.
Purr, either anger or pleasure, the true conundrum
of the kingdom one understands the least,
even those who are a part of such things. And
I’m interrupted by myself, from the particles coming in-
Achoo! There goes my head.

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