Red heads, blondes, and blue-eyed babies the pale blue apple of my soul.
Jack Sprat and baby fat.
Sandal slip fell down the hill with weed in hand as the old lady lace watched kangaroo condoms get gobbled up with her glove
as she sobbed. I have a mole on my pussy. Not on it but next to it. to the right.
My right. Not his.
my toenails are black but not from polish. Not from dirt. not from shoes. From myself. bruises from my blah self. Mascara for Van Gogh.
with shovels and paper shreds thrust down my throat. her throat. mother’s throat. not daughter’s throat. not his throat. not the cat’s throat. the cat will eat anything except heartache and key lime pie. I’ll eat that. and whipped cream in my dreams at night next to him but not alone. Alone means nightmare of blue dresses and hair fallen out from acid rain tears.
Add a little. just a pinch–a cup of sugar will do. Can I borrow some from you?
I see her blueberry burst
Stick out your tits and smoke a long cig.
Catering parties with no meat, no dairy, no gluten. No Food.
Nothing but scraps of dog hair to dress my neighbors and friends.
Come over for brunch tomorrow. We’ll serve clock work orange sherbert with mice and lemon wedges as the terrace falls off and the patio cries and screams and begs for his handy hands of steel wool.
against tree bark skin like mine.