Clever girl, but it’s a cleverer world. The television will make you tremble with how little it makes you feel. Throw a throat punch. Come back to reality, or its approximation.
What’s the appeal of this appeal? How long for the cold, cold, colder, freezing, warmer, hot, hot, hot war? And will the ads for it be cheesy? Will I look sexy in the pictures? What’s the reveal of this appeal? Man behind the curtain, appear to me in velvet, in furs. Come up to me and then close the door behind us.
Blustery Tokyo at my back as Margot complains that she’s not good enough, her voice wavery when it emerges from inside her oversized synthetic fur coat, and my first instinct is to fling myself bloody against a wall rather than commiserate with her. When she compares herself with younger women, my mind flees from the bog of this cliché into incoming traffic. I bounce comically off a parade of glittering chrome hoods. In the Impressionist rendering of this event, passerby in red and blue oils pause to watch from the sidewalk at the dark edge of the canvas, umbrellas up in the streaks of rain. “Margot, baby,” my wet, broken body cries out via improbable speech bubble, “Wake up and smell the coffee!”
In a crowded room, I look for you. In a crowded room, I look for you. In a crowded room, I look for you. Lie to me. Lie to me. Lie to me, when I ask if you look for me too.
Look, big ocean roller, I may be a lifetime user but I never subscribed to your newsletter. I don’t care to be reminded of the shadow of you. Good country with a bad king. Or bad country with a diamond ring? What promises and what deals. What flagging fidelity. The count tapping bare feet on the rich carpet. Bad seed from the towering oak. Cut it down and never repent. Cut it down and fantasize about the life you took in exchange for the life you don’t lead.
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