a forest – somewhere unfamiliar, sectioned
a cabin – noiseless mannequins stand at attention

the air reeks of dampening feces, but only in certain spaces.
drains masked in chipping red paint dangle like
loose ligaments on skinned pigs above rusted strobe lights.
their faces flattened and torn, arms swaying – minds motionless.
the walls barbed from previous failed experiments create sanity.
one hacksaw. three nails. two strands of hair.
three hundred sixty-five horizons.

the stars outside are starting to shine
and the director is feeling lightheaded.

both boys have the hiccups and
a slight infection of the hickies.

the cameramen hide in the restroom
hitting **** rips and bean dip.

all avoid the white couch
where the restraints wait.