Thursday, December 23, 2010

LEAKED

The NSA is dropping sensors into her
blood sugar and into the slimy puddle in
the pit of Max’s throat, while backstage he’s fretting
and she’s announcing plans for her retirement.
‘Hey listen, Max. I don’t think I want to be
the stinker anymore – no longer do I wish
to be soluble with the organs of your talents
and labors. The ways and means by which you’ve
been able to bear me through show business. You’re
a genius, cuz. Don’t for a minute think me ungrateful.’

‘Well consider yourself lucky, Sheryl! Fucking fuck:
the people still love you! It could’ve gone either way:
I could’ve told you that maybe you should just granulate
your waxy lips with coffee’s coziness and retire to
a granny’s chair.’ [Savage, dripping leer.] ‘I, you see – I
used to belong to the Skype choir of roaches.’
[Spoken pompously.] ‘There are choirs, professional,
religious, and even of small-community varieties,
but also of the animal kingdom like roaches – well, they
only perform on Skype. I was part of the latter.
Proud? No. But cockroaches are the only animals
that relish near death experiences. Basically the state
you’re in now. Love ’em. [Scratches throat with
nicotine-stained fingers, wobbly chin thrust toward
the ceiling.]

‘Yeah, and who clean up before them. But not – ’
the two cousins, manager and stage performer, and
NSA snoops chant in chorus – ‘after them. That’s right.
And that make love TO THEIR COUSINS TO DELIBERATELY
GIVE THE DIALS ON THE GENE SPECTROMETER
THE HEEBIE-JEEBIES!!!’

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