Actors in floppy hats Broadway side to side, rolling canes side to side, side to side. Clicking heels of ruby slippers close to home wrap you in the same plastic cheese comes in, we have a three-piece show to rival the donuts of the ancients.
This is act one. In act one we receive explanatory remarks from those who stick their head in the door for one second and try to impress the world with their anger and lack of precision. If there's one thing I have learned in my years as a fetus wrangler it's that I can't finish this sentence.
I broke with tradition, unzipped my skin from scalp to toe and inside was a poison lizard I bite you and you die 10 years later. My room is ahead of its time but 10 years for now everyone will have a fetus room, one per house, with a surgeon inside. Plans, techniques, tools—all available online. Starter kits worth five dollars. Orchestra plays in the stadium of a boxing match. Can you assume that George Clooney is a surgeon because he plays one on TV? My mind is mush, much enchained by character snippets didn't mind when my mind was stretched the first time it got fucked—that's mind fucked to you—cards on the table, an open-faced hand of seven-card stupidity going to Harvard didn't make you any smarter just more confident in your flatness dull the knife reach into my puss pull out a cat a lawnmower a vice wrench two flying ladies from the circus of the sun we already sell our feti on message boards fresh young codewords for—I don't know—people who like to fuck babies or something. There is a marketplace, an auction house, right alongside pork futures and cloud nines, men in suits set feti in the incubator, upright in urinals—aiming practice—get it in the eye that's an extra hand job from the boss before conference proceedings but ladies we play a part too how many of those suits skinheads and billionaires went home to some nookie after they took off their hoods.
Femur battleship.
I put my name on my product.
Sign every girl and boy part that comes from the factory.
It's like when you learned I was operating in your country it wasn't just Dubai—it's the kid sitting next to you in the third grade. He/she loves to deep dick partially formed fetus genitals is it my fault they are the demand I'm just the supply if people weren't sick I'd produce something else—right? I deep dick a bottle of creamy JIF with my pinkie take off my rings when extracting product from my Slinky muscle plop them out on a bed of rice and eat them shits like sushi chopsticks grabbing eyes out that screaming face gripping them little fingers with choppy chop in one hand a pair of Gerber pliers in the other dissect 'em better than barbecue chicken I add a pinch of red pepper too.
Wacky WallWalker brains sliding down the red—you can tell the fetus ready when it sticks to the wall.
You can eat the prefrontal cortex—that's the part that allows us to evaluate complex situations so most people won't miss that. Standing on the corner with elephant tentacles drooling out their pussies—these bitches need a production assembly line, startup capital, and the will to live. Just because you have a heartbeat doesn't mean you're alive. Lift your lid and see if it's just a bowl of Top Ramen you might want to shoot some feces into your eye see if you can jump start your Elvis groove before you die.
I laid my big fat clitoris over the railroad, got drunk, and waited for a train.
That is my level of commitment.
I don't have sex for my amusement.
I am here for the engineering heat death of the universe.
You can birth fetuses for years, in a coordinated effort that measures the number of vowels in a man's first name and uses it to decide between his fingers or his toes. I cut a dick off rough—chainsaw!—jiggle it on the way down suck cum up my pussy before that jim hits the ground. Use everything even the fingernails blend it solid at the foot of my bed droplets on the comforter each bubble contains the face of a seven dwarf.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do.
When in bed, then—what?
When I lie here bleeding after the birth of a pet, I think of all the muffins who've come through me—anonymous—who may have had feelings and may have had the thoughts that would save the world—but who I never named, who will never get credit or give voice and I know that they are not alone. Some film tech in California sitting in a California Pizza Kitchen in California it's like when you see a Frederick's of Hollywood in Hollywood if you've only ever eaten cheesesteaks outside of Philadelphia why do they even have cheesesteaks outside of Philadelphia I bat a thousand when I reach down spread my lips and draw you into a carnivorous plant let's call him Seymour Audrey Audrey Jr—nobody knows.
I have disdain for everyone who isn't birthing fetuses. Who doesn't have a fetus room. That is why I never leave—I can't stand the ones who bark at the outline of a fetus on the sidewalk without tasting the blood. Drag your fingers on the asphalt. Cross the police line. Scrape up all those tiny little pieces of bone. Brush your lips in the concrete and dirt and find us all buried in the backyard of one whose only way to enjoy is to possess—and that's you.