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The name of the game was catwalk. I worked my nylon like a busted shin. Two moons took turns shooting brilliant sparks at my wrists. I opened my neck to the elements. Even the comets took notice. I was astral, no other word for the shining plunge of me. I wore a little dress and little else. April ceased to exist. The flat planet glowed only cold. I did not grin but furrowed like a fern of snow. When I felt the pitch of neon in my veins I gave up reading forever. I became one with the color burgundy. Stars deviled. Crows shone. I was not an airplane exactly but I swept the clouds with my beauty. I was the name of nothing and I moved like a god with my tongue. I was everything to everyone and I sat on my stoop with my fingers in my crown. I fell asleep in the middle of the middle of an explosion. A machinegun appeared in my hands. I moved my feet. I knew what to do. Discretion was paramount. We were sort of like stars. We rode on the backs of strangers' Harleys, got to the party, mixed drinks for school boys. We told them our names were Betty and Veronica, and laughed when in the dark of their rooms or our eyes they confused us, blondie for jet black. Their dicks were exclamation points inside us. Later, we left them to roam supermarkets, steal kisses in the cereal aisle, shout our mothers' names into the spinach, just hoping for that blue light special to shine down. |