Dangle your body,
rotten berries, deep red and starting to reek.
I am not mesmerized by your high-pitched whine
or bleach blonde brain cells, deadened
like the nerves in your jaw, but am repulsed
by the slack in your thigh, the line of
orange mask that falls to the floor
like moldy fruit when you finally peel it away.
I am unamused by this musing
so I give it up in exchange for
a family consisting of:
a smoky black-and-grey purr-box
and a manic man band.
I take rock-n-roll video,
close-up photographs of things
that fill our finished basement.