Impossibly superstitious, she stoops to be conquered. And if you saw her you couldn't blame her: fast walk, loud talk and smilin' just a little too wide. She orders up her next plate and the deity groans behind the counter. But she's the customer, dammit! Nary a word will the greasemonkey God say as he puts oil in her car, coffee in her cup.
Velvety air blankets the door and the street and the train station. Someone's smiling down. I SAID "someone's smiling down"! That's your cue, muther! Why do you keep forgetting it? Get it right this time. God can't be trusted. I've got sugar plum fairies and a stack of books that tell me so. Amen to that.
Bull market queers gather around the gas pump. Get used to it. If you're buying your presents in this place it's not going to be a very happy birthday. Wish I had boots like that. And hair like that. Pixie. Dust her.
Shit. Nothing ever works out, does it. I'm starting a betting pool- loser takes all. It's best really. What about the boy? What about the boy? Farm country is the best place to hide a baby superman. Bury that suit. I've got kryptonite eyes.
Inscription à :
Publier les commentaires (Atom)
Dayum, girl. Yer dangerous.
RépondreSupprimerYeah, right. I can't write poetry, so this stream of consciousness stuff is as close as I get. It reminds me of the plays and poems I studied in the school of the absurd.
RépondreSupprimerAnd I wasn't even on drugs.
I won't accept "can't" for you.
RépondreSupprimerYou won't? *sniff* That gives me hope. Now if I could only find a remedial poetry writing class somewhere...
RépondreSupprimerMaybe someday I'll write something fridgeworthy. Anyway, thanks.