We paint wild roses red. Solid bloc of imagination, keener puppies extolled a ruder dildo proposition, kinetic resonance in drops of dew pointing north north north north north north east. I googled Jennifer Connelly, came away with a spring of handprints in my RED DNA bullet couch this was the story—this was the story—of the girl who took a trip upside down through speckled toadstools sprinkled barbed-wire bullets I have a record-skipping timeout that kills you on the platform and underwater owls give me the knowledge needed to operate on myself under anesthesia rude awakenings upon severing the quasar zip too low Hollywood Squares couldn't even handle my infants—just in volume alone. But in that period known as silence, before the gems came together to produce a Final Fantasy SparkNote! worth examining, I had been around the genome in my red Corvette—girl!—loving the wind in my hair and I came to a sudden stop! Let the top down. Rollin' with my homies. Did you think I would abuse my kids? Is it better for them to be Schwarzeneggered at eight weeks for that they might continue along this rail until the tracks hit the toad. Is your rubber in my road? Sailing, tonight, with drip drips my Bloody Valentine to the inner bathroom door they look like wax at first, but then you realize they're my monthly nut, looking like a candle dripped when carrying but the power didn't go off that was when we talked most, when it rained, winded or stormed more than usual and the lights cut out—we sat in the kitchen reading the backs of cereal boxes like reading a caterpillar's user guide. Safety tips for dealing with a chainsaw I mean aren't we beyond splashing it all into a bag?—You're gonna cum in that little flap of boy/girl Sandusky In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida doesn't care if you're a mouse or a mole have trouble relating to serial rapists but I'll draw them in with bear spit, honey boxes and California dreams but in the end I'm always the girl doing coke and splitting up my own stomach while sitting at the top of the bell tower. Holla! Church. Lickety-split. Fantabulousness. Jiggitymonster! Brisbane! Lola. Tremblyfuck. You start in the outfield, wade through the mist, and someday you're in a storm that can never be gotten out of. I accidentally kissed the girl with the pink glasses but forgot her name was Tori and inside Tori's room was a bathroom in the shape of a telephone booth—one word different would change the planet's axis—prone to stellar accidents raining piecemeal in the junkyard, dogs running with their tails on fire! terrible, terrible gnashing and wailing I would say someday I want that celebrity hideout but the truth is the whole damn thing is Gone in 60 Seconds for to try the wind is to ply your aim against the stars and sons of matter eliminate their fortunes thus, here, whether or not your name was molly. I am in the well of cow bell hell to anyone with an ethereal heart blaming the server of the dish the undertones of the boys downstairs they have a camera plied upon me—see? A Scanner Darkly outside of my door the hands on my wood wolves beaconing to a story of my parents—friends who finally fucked. Didn't have any interest in each other but drunk in a friend's apartment she asked if he had a condom and he said what does it matter? They only did it once and I begat me, I and I, a terrible noise at the eaves. My true dad—the one she should have fucked—became 20 times the man of my dad. My mom became an abuser with a smile on her face. Called her "professional"—the name for subtlety, brine, hairy faces, and the witch is in the wood. Once they closed me in for cleaning and I couldn't stand the taste of the bombs—put 'em in every room except mine and mine was going to be next but I never opened the door. I welcome the fleas. Can paint them in a corner, use them as texture, spin fast, fast spin spin spin spark, dulcimer tones in a washboard abs. Never send in your information—it's all a scam. Every number who calls, every little girl in pinafore greeting you in the aisles, whether organ or urn, is working for THEM. They. They talk in a hush, so quiet evading the radius of an ant, coffin measures the end of so-called stability. Be careful little girl, there is a pinprick in the bottom of the pool. It will wish you away toe first spinning you into a rag nothing left but a blot of blood smoke lying on the bottom of the pool. Start to rescue minute patterns?—That's how it talks to you. It is only for the eyes to read—nothing gumsmoke to an inchworm. Placid, knowles, binge reading the dead. A piece of bark slides through the air, hits roots, rots, goes back to the sky. The great lizard pockmarked below your skin—tattoo for a mole. Brimstone Cadillac is the mark of bestiality practiced in a Catholic school. Wish we were from the other camp a lyre of satanic camp children showing their panties to Tesla's eighth dimension how could it be, Mom—how could it be that you versed me in the arts not knowing that you yourself were a practitioner—rotted to a golden stump that wakes me each morning terrorized by you but for reason that now I am the master—you forgot everything you ever knew! You made me in your image then left me fending for myself in a novelty store. You had me at hello. Dropped me in a foldable baggie no seams honored the knock at my door spread your legs in Shark Week ocean—I was the first one of my kind. Born to this space. Making a boom boom boom.