Televised in Black, White and Chartreuse

Three inches. Goddamn assassination attempts. Fingernail bent, snapped, torn down to the skin on one fingertip. Ignorance pouring from the seams of someone who’s only God looks to be deep fried turkeys on the banks of the Mississippi. Front teeth spreading out and away from one another, enough to slip fat tongue right through. Sick.
Skin slicks off and if you’re rubbed the wrong way, or the right way, you’ll end up bloody, bottle ticking against the wall with each tip, tap, type of the moving fingers. And cancer causes stencilings and we all know stencils are the root of evil, the root of all conformity and no good nonsense.
Take a thousand pictures of me and pretend my nose isn’t too big or that I don’t look maniac and mishandled. Wool socks of servitude and solemn transactions of captain crunch and clown cars stuffed full of dead clowns, ringmasters and hobos that are too sad for even paintings in France. Je suis desolate. Je suis desolate!
Spices try on their flea costumes and I’ve got a high guard for the fact that your smell has faded out of everything and I have been holding onto images and two week old kisses, pressed into my lips. And I haven’t touched myself in, days and days, and I tried to last night, I did, I did, I slipped my hands down beneath the covers and bent my left leg, (cause that’s always how I do it,) and I tried, but I started to fall asleep. It didn’t feel good. I couldn’t feel anything. I just fell asleep. So I rolled onto my side, fetal like a fetus in the womb, except without the amniotic fluid to keep me weightless. So weighted, weighted, a hooded baby, hair long and all about its face. I fell asleep. A goo-less fetus, with rapunzel hair. And I thought, what would the prince think if he saw my face looking down from the tower, if my long red locks fell out of that window and beckoned him to me with a song of hey diddle diddle.
I rolled out of bed, extending my hand and saying, “Don’t you have a bowl to put that in?” I woke up unsure of what it was, but knowing they had made a terrible mess. I’ve got stiff legs and stiffer intentions and twenty pounds to put on for the winter when I’ll creep into my cave and give birth in my slumber, and sleep through cubs suckling from my teats. My fur covered teats. Teats.
Rotten. Reluctant. I beg you to get pregnant, so I can hold one year olds in my arms, while standing is cider smelling apple orchards, and we point at the highest, reddest apple, laughing, while you reach with your big long stick contraption and save the day, and the apple pie, from being less than perfect and we are more than perfect and he’s got tiny little feet that keep growing out of his shoes, and we’re getting ready for his first snowfall, and putting our lives away for his poopoo filled diapers.
Tear. As in rip. As in fall. As in gravity. And I am pressed against the surface of the earth again, fetal and too tired to masturbate.