Tap A.
Sparkling bitches of the sunrise, tear off your golden arms and come down for some tea. There has been no sun for days in the wal-mart isles – twist tie stubble and plastic stolen cameras, just me with a penchant for canned food and a smile that could kill a horse.
Just go ahead and do it.:
Grin outside of time.
Purchase useless shit.
Stroke a bald head.
Get married and cry.
Mean something to someone so they will give you money. Make friends like bowling pins, grouped together in alien permanence in a human darkness that cools burned heels with a sizzle and a snap. Take directions hard and forceful in the eyes like you took that sentence.
Sparkling bitches only touch me in dark places, half-right and in unison, their vision gone bad on one side. I’ve got their eyelashes twisted up in my knuckles, saran wrap still fingered around and flappy on the edges, stretched across the garage from the time we wanted to kill my mother. The department store basement has no windows and sparkling bitches don’t even care don’t even breathe air.
“Crack an old millwater”
“Speak like a house creaks”
“I’m feeling woozy”
Like an erection at the pee-booth of the men’s room, one Sparklebitch notices the fingers of a child at her mouth, coming out of her throat, tends to vomit golden structures at the sight of profitable coupling.
Go on:
Build grins outside of time, purchase useless shit: a bald head probably, get married and cry.
We Stay Up All Night Because We Are Dissatisfied (#2) Page 4
