OK … shit suddenly has gotten
pretty eerie. In case anything happens
to me, Marvin, and you discover
the tambourine and you need to
make a run for it, please, for God’s sake,
do not wear your fat suit: you will
not fit through the tambourine!
Oh my darling Marvin. You’re
hideously thin and sparse of hair and
beard, and gaunt, and hollow-eyed;
and I think you to be the most repugnant
creature in the universe.
But you’re the only person and thing
I’m not responsible for bringing into
this world – God knows how you’ve
ended up here – so I know, being
the only person/thing who’s on my side,
you’ll follow my advice and ding this thing
then run for the cough syrup in which
our cauterized selves heal; feel what it’s like
to be a particle spitting from the gash
in the temporal lung like a cork
traveling so fast it stretches longer before
wringing from the ukulele a sound to be
embarrassed by through at least six tenement
walls.
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