The thing is. Um. The thing is that, honey..
I have to rough through the garbage in my head since, you left no options. I want to turn mistakes, if you call them one, into bottles of light. I go back to the places in my head. In my head, that's all I got bitch. But, it doesn't bother me anymore. I got a super-dyke haircut and my jeans are tighter than your hole. You talk the same things. You stink of that recycling washing machine but I get new wheels to whir past the bin and still, I got it's smell in my jeans. SO, where?
Where you leading me to?
I will stand under a Marilyn painted in Delhi or Monalisa's moustache in Harlem (if I make it there) and I will still wonder what this 'affair' is, that is cracking up my bits into sodium. I have the taste of apology and something I detest. My fingers are foamy. You will know it when you see me. I have been away from you more than I thought of and this brings me to such happiness, it's a surprise. But, I am wearing it on my face. Maybe inside, where maybe I will carry your child (what bull?!), it's still your fucking name. I have rubbed it with nylon grease and fashion magazine sheets. Your name goes off for days and then it appears again so I must I shave it. Your name. All of it away.
You sound like my mother and she doesn't know. She doesn't know many more things but it's just one of those. I discovered twenty new songs to show you a finger with but then we hardly talk to share that. So, I am a headless Goddess and my bloody thoughts just swill in me. They must reach you through breezy trucks or some hustlers that park near that airport. You will get clanking loud music but along with it, light flute that plays as we both die away. What will you do if I come along? I am in a sari, you can imagine. You are in a sexy tux, I imagine. Oh. This leads up to corny railway station pulp. Come ride Rajdhani Express, belt your wrists with sleeper's chains. Sit back. You will get the the party only I know of.
Our ideas are original so, you don't fear piracy.