Somewhere in the sweet supple breasts of Lisa I can see ghettos of microbes huddling together, smoking crack pipes, calling out for some god to take those pale mountains in palm and squeeze them together. In her ghetto are my eyes, watching her dinge and grime barely covered by some grey blouse from K-Mart. Her arm crosses her torso and her neck stretches out while her head cranes into her shoulder. In that moment I believe she has come from that ghetto on her chest—she has somehow ascended it, but barely, growing out of insignificance and into its representative. Giant microbial being—I deem her, and she smiles one of those smiles that lets you know shes uncomfortable and waiting for something to happen. Meanwhile, in the ghettos, a young microbe lies in Main Street and dies as she scratches her cleavage.
No comments:
Post a Comment