MIX TAPE

I made you a mix tape. I was the axe murderer at the

open house who was talking too much; we briefly exchanged

glances. I was still preparing to be blown away by a miracle,

like the last time at that yard sale. Now I've resorted to

making mix tapes. Baby, to enjoy my mix tape you have

to use a cushion. And it requires sitting on your cushion and

staring. While absorbing the mix tape, stare. Copy its contents onto

your contents, softly: a feather recessed into the rough outline

of a dinosaur, looking into the middle distance. Before all the

blood cells are allowed to become willowy, the panorama's

undercurrent must first be slathered on with a stick. Diarrhea

separates from the burgeoning self-portrait, before landing back

in it again. A dishwasher's suction conceals as much as possible

what lies before it, like a monger of nothing. The latter ability is

important for enjoying my mix tape, though it steals from

the ability to talk normally. You can only talk when thumped

on the back with a palm. Those very distorted images behind

a leotard. A water balloon effecting the joy of a tiny muscle.

It shows how close we are, baby. How tight. Your smoothie,

with its look of PVC. My pivotal silicon, with its look of a

wrapper in that shirt. A Mexican wrestler. Who will

let themselves be as easily popped out of their holding joint?

An existential coffee mug mined until saturated, a giant head

boiling. Lay's Potato Chips crunched down to melting between

the thumbs of a demon wanking its hand flush with bile,

very bouncily.