Shoe holds me up

The shoe holds me up, up, up while I am sipping (or gulping) Schweppes in lemony Russian tonic water and in thought, thinking past was thought but present is thinking, correct, paxil with vodka conversation caressing lips and forcing them to say words, a thousand million billion nouns and pronouns and adjectives minus comas and periods and pages just existing in space cause, just being alone is so creative. Did you know I hear Paris Hilton is NOW CELIBATE as an ugly Catholic nun in Siberia! I want to feed these barfly’s to my cat when she is really angry. She would tear out their eyes and rip their intestines out the empty, bleeding sockets! My white precious angel floating in a cloud of psychopathic neurons inside her manic feline skull…Lipstick dripping blood red, sure I am watching it drip in the bar mirror and is that my purple mascara flooding my salmon hued cheeks like a storm covering a bright blue sky…I am among the living no the dead. This is the era of drinking midsummer night’s dream which is-
5 fresh strawberries1 tsp strawberry liqueur1 oz Kirschwasser® cherry brandy2 oz vodkaSchweppes® Russian tonic water-
and I consume them in pairs like naked bodies in magazine demand a pair of eyeballs to exist and like turning page after page the red liquid evaporates from the long stem wine glass magically through the gates of my dripping crimson lips. And I love it, yes I do, love it more than all the gastronome’s wet dreams in New York city, more than an oasis of water in the desert, more than Dorothy Parker did her razor sharp wit (where is wit here among the language thief’s)…
“Miniscule but I agree.” Spoke the devil from dragger lips. “But you are divine.”
“Divine as emanating from God?” I ask sipping, prependicularly sipping and batting my eyes like a spastic wairtress.
He smiled and danced on his hoofs like a light weight pig.
“May I show you an image of yourself?”
“Sure, anything for a laugh.” I whispered and cooed like a dispetic pigeon.
“Look into my cloak.” He smiled and I smiled with him as I stared into the black theatre of hades. I shrugged and said, “Nothing.” But then I saw it materialize from the darkness a pale vision of a young girls face.
I was speechless when he hissed into my ear,” It is you, is it not?”
I looked away and stumbled back dropping my dream drink on the floor which crashed on the wood like a glass bomb. In the shards of glass I saw my face, a cosmetic supernova consumed by an alcoholic black hole and I laughed, yes reader I laughed.
The world was just too damn funny not too!
Poor little fashion witch I told myself and turned I did to the devil and shot him the bird. Then I turned and ordered another dream and used the time to draw upon a napkin a vision of what one day I might be. Laughed at that too! HA!

the odor of flowers

I dreamt of my sister, in the odor of flowers and polaroid snapshots creeping up the bedroom walls for my eyes were open a slash of light between my dark eyebrows and high cheekbones allowing anyone to view me. One polaroid one-fading image of tired, unpainted dark hair falling around my mother as she leaned over an incubator where tiny baby sister lay, hands extended and just a blur where one would expect the baby eyes to be looking. Two polaroid two-a vase of yellow lilies ejecting a rod holding up a tiny Teddy bear with a small picture between his paws and a black bandanna wraps around his head. Three polaroid three-blurry dark figures walking in a possession into a tan colored building with a white spire pricking the dark, gray sky.
The cicada struggles against the string I have tied him to my finger with.
I am tied to these images and I too struggle with them. They infect my dreams, splashed against the vaults of my mind like bad graffiti on a subway wall.
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