She'll piss herself sometimes. Blame it on the drug. Sad dolls with molded plastic smiles. Condemned to swallow whatever's put in there. Dull knives under her nails. Searching deep for where her fingers begin.
The world comes to a boil. While she watches. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
The wolf takes off its nightgown. Begins to eat red riding hood. Leaving the picnic basket still full.
The spaceship stops just above her head. Looking up she sees nothing. Empty beds. Smoked cigarettes. Places in the mind the flesh cannot go.
She takes the kittens. Holds them each by the neck. Quickly twisting until each one is dead. Dead things she insists are the most alive among us. Dead things. She tells him. Are the best lovers I've ever had.
Wednesday
10/15/2008 12:23:00 AM
Fascinating stuff...the way the "molded plastic smile" conflicts with deeper sadness...that's true, certainly, for a lot more than just dolls...and the dead things that are the best lovers...reminds me of what Poe wrote a beautiful dead woman being the best subject for poetry (a sentiment shared by all the painters in England around his time with their lovely oils of drowned Ophelia....)
dead is what we all are. isn't it? that's why it's so hard to let go of anything... rigormortis.
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