Iridescence dies and death is magnified
as I slink past. The goldfish floats in contorted plastic bag;
water laced with formaldehyde. Distorted eyes will molder
into tiny bones, dissolve.
Bright balloons burst as the fat lady sings
her flat aria. A chorus of raunchy grunts
from capybara. Cavy fur, latex waste, dead fish scales whirl
into funnel cakes, powder-sugared spiders, human fetus with elephant ears.
The new tattooed man has coiled snakes on his hands;
wings inked onto the blades of his shoulders.
He’s another unsuccessful angel. Only elevates me for fifteen minutes
before I’m back to slattern heels on grimy floor;
practicing my Salome gyrations. I’m known around town
as the grind show stripper who uses sullied honey
and locusts as props. But where is my John the Baptist?
How many more times will I be the one giving head
to a false prophet? I’ve learned how the story goes.
He claims he’ll convert me then reverts into horny toad.
I’d like to leave him with blood shooting out of
his sockets; tell him his dreams will finally be holy
now he’s blind. I’d like to leave him floating in formaldehyde.
In a skuzzy back room, I sashay beneath a disco ball. Ribald moon.
Rancid swoon into another performance of burlesque buffoonery.
I think about gills bursting like balloons.
I think about bloody sno cones served under black lights.
I think about the snaggletoothed barker biting in
to a foot-long corn dog. Grease drizzles down grizzled skin
as he sucks the dregs in. He tells them I’m a deep-fried, deep-throating hussy
who could sin her way out of a crystal ball.
I know he’s a charlatan. I know I’ll be sidling in this vulgar vagabondage,
in this grubby looking glass until the fingerprints smeared on the surface
efface my reflection. I know I’m nothing but residuum;