Tuesday, January 10, 2012

page 49

applications and crying about the atrocities of the holidays Mr. Crowley is licking his sticky fingers he swears to god about Jane’s waist he measures her with a beer bottle he is making plans for her intestines it is all voodoo and backroom politics blood pudding with her arteries skin graft and crushed up bones he puts her in the soup that he sells he can see Gandhi in her nipples in the crossroads and in the streets she can stretch a smile of forgiveness her womb was safe like a fortress for kinbote he could hide inside her for days when he was not strong enough to raise the flag Mr. Crowley is building comfortable shadows when he runs out of beer he send jane to the store to buy more she drinks to forget about Mr. Perry a dick dodging a bullet there is a dog barking outside her bedroom door it makes her think of her past in the new revolution when she was a disciple for kinbote how she saw all the miracles now she stays up late drinking and looking out her window mouthwash and nighttime sex twisted like a toothless stadium she dances around the room holding her ruffles the boys stand in line to dance with her Mr. Crowley couldn’t blink rubbing her cunt against his chin smelling of roads to nowhere she is still swallowing Mr. Crowley’s demons jane is calling all the enamel doctors to come over and perform with the circus she wants to forget about the foolishness of her youth how politicians would part her legs and speak in tongues about the coming glories of the lord she gave her young doctors guns and butter knives so that they could practice making the room grow cold as jane practices raising the dead slumped over the couch waiting for the fickle his suit jacket is hung from a hook on the wall next to the photo of kinbote with the bleeding heart the offended slurps of butane tongues half drunk cavemen jane fumbles for her keys she went to the witchdoctor to have her fortune read he told her she was in for heavy weather so she bought a rain jacket and moved out of her bluff street apartment she missed her hardwood floors the concrete dogs that are smaller than people she was never cut out for sales she was a teacher and it took Mr. Crowley a long time to win her over she was still grieving the loss of Mr. Perry Mr. Crowley would send her flowers and pictures out of magazines of famous paintings he wanted to take her to Paris to show her a good time to help her forget about the holy spirit touching her with the hands of strangers pulling her closer asking her to repeat the question the dominate pattern of her vagina a tin foil pipe and rude manners keeping her eggs warm while she hunts for more sausage the buffet was all elbows looking for that Christmas bargain before they had to take inventory I am sitting on my hands and watching her knees pumping up and down in her plaid skirt I was not sure if she would accept my request my pen says amnesty international I draw large circles around the blood spots Jane is a white flower that Mr. Crowley bough on the street corner he moved in with her and they worked at rearranging their thought patterns jane kept trying to save him when she got as drunk as a sailor he got the crop out of the field and they worked at bottling it in mason jars they felt just like robber barons jane got a corporate tattoo on her left butt cheek just to show that she was serious it is rare when she thinks of her dead cowboy and his political ambitions she has such a nice smile I have taken pictures of it many times they are

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