Sinister: these stilletto-ed toes are made for crushing

[lisa morrison]

rather peeved am i and having to declare it to the world b/c i'm some
sort of exhibitionist in this way...lifting my mental skirt and shaking the 
hips of all things that are brain-wise...someone called it "selfpromotion" 
which shocked me with its accuracey and flattered me in the sick way i get 
flattered...but no that's not what i'm peeved about...that's me falling off 
my track once more...i derail an average of four times a day...someone 
should have a word with my conductor, but no. hes guzzling whiskey in the 
caboose and hand sliding up the thigh
of karen the servant girl while she coo-coos and and train choo-choos.

my footsteps have been heavy, too heavy for heels...toes pinched in patent 
leather while a four-year boot crushes them...the piggies scream
and squeal something awful...
*
i look into a face that is on the verge of tears at every moments...with
a new second, the clock ticks out a complete and new verge...the tears could 
well. and the could well. and they could well. and they could well...for 
hours. and i look at the sad face of the clock, like the sad face across 
from me...
*
tension ties itself like a knot. we tighten it. there's no way
to undo it, though the desire to untie it is mutual...so we sit...and look 
at the knot, like it were a francis bacon painting hanging and hung
in some world-renown gallery which essentially just a space like any 
other...we sit. we look. we let the knot irritate us. it comes alive and 
nibbles at our lips, necks and forearms...but we antraced, move not a 
muscle...
*

this is vague. a trace. but its said. and now i need you all to
chorus an sypathetic "awwwwww.." just to confirm you heard me, whether or 
not you were listening...my drama in lights...neon pink...and this is like 
opening night...
being ideal and pretty pink neon with no content.
-lisa
   wilting like a flower in yr favorite bedside vase.


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