I lay helpless as she leans over me, her face a paper mache moon slipping from its orbit, her cheekbone lines like fleshy rivers pooling into over-burdened jowls, her jaw-line a rumour whispered into the winds of ambiguity by her neck, itself a throbbing, hiccupping perversion of wilted, loose skin, her rattling collarbone a bifurcated refrigerator door-handle atop sloppy, harrowing cleavage, two glistening seal-heads bobbing in time to some dreadful fractured melody, the rhythms of animalistic undulation, growling, catcalling, wolf-whistling, each upward heave forcing my eyes back to her face, her eyebrows like swatches of fun-fur tacked to a warped piece of corkboard, sashes of barbed-wire eyelashes crusted with mascara and unreciprocated flirtations corkscrewed into heavily-veined eyelid drapes, straining, buckling, cowering to the insistence of loose-hanging soft-boiled egg eyes, dripping like swollen moisture clinging stubbornly to a hairless scrotum, coupled bulbous screams of milk loudly sagging, clouds of ocular dissonance obscuring skinny flecks of dull, muted colour, tepid browns and grayscale blacks, iris buttons fit to crumble if pushed, remnants of poker chips gambled away on a pair of queens, hard-luck ladies united in gameplay like the corners of her mouth yanked together, the puckering of her lips a hideous pastiche of dirty, rumpled bed-linens and partially-inflated potato sacks, a dilating mousetrap of mush enveloping the tip of her howitzer nose, a war crime of protruding aesthetics, a totemic signifier of weapons banged over and again against the granite-hard horns of evil, rampaging demons, bent, mangled, collapsing into a duckbill brow of such irredeemable prominence that it casts a shadow in the dark, a devastating jackhammer of angularity underlying a clutch of squiggly worry-lines, twisted hyphens embedded in her forehead like nail-bomb shrapnel, her complexion a tarp of melted soda-pop bottles strewn lazily across jagged cinderblocks, a pockmarked landscape stretching from ear to misshapen ear, grimy twin frisbees rescued from the neighbour’s roof after a particularly hellacious winter, one water-damaged and leaky, the other a ragged icon of manhandled enthusiasm supped on by squirrels, bizarre bookends tasked with keeping upright an atrocious collection of ill-conceived novels, and it is into these ears that I meekly suggest, 'perhaps we’re going a bit fast for a first date?'
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment
xoxo