By India DB
Four people are the same person in this place.
One is a girl who writes cursive on a napkin,
There’s a space between above and below where the mind is wide and the eyes narrow—
One a butch lesbian in the tech industry,
One an American man with a saxophone head,
buhoomu-hoooooooom—
One a rosy-cheeked clown with clumpy mascara.
And Steve is off to Cuba
Rob is beating his meat inside his red Ferrari
Michael is wide-eyed and lock-jawed and gave Betty 300cc for Christmas—
Oh mister, you beautiful perverted bastard! how I missed you—
How I yearn to be adored by you!
Oh god—
Oh god—
How large is this room, how bright the world outside and how easily the windows shut,
How easily does the saxophone man bend at the waist, snap at the neck and giggle,Â
Bronze-faced beside his very very cold headless body—
How easily does Mrs. Apple Strudel take herself out of the oven…
Open her very small shriveled mouth…
Close her great big eyes and lie naked on the table…
While Mister Strudel tucks a napkin in his collar,
Smacks his great red lips,
Snaps at the neck and giggles—