Nov 2022
it’s always two am in the morbid sequin. bubblegum moon; radios on every front porch.
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god and i lean against a sea green cutlass, sharing a cigarette. look, god says, and points across the parking lot. a horned figure wearing glow sticks pushes a carousel horse in a shopping cart. not mine, i say, but i say it too quick. god is suspicious. i pull my skirt down my thighs. remember what i said about touching, god says, and i nod. i turn my body into the hood ornament on gods car. and yeah, i should have known the stranger would like the car. it’s a nice car. it asks for hands. god can’t blame me for that.
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if there is a map to this place i never found it. there are so many houses, and they’re all connected by narrow hallways, all lit by yellowed plastic sconces. in the middle there is always a cornfield. there is always a snowman waiting for a promised lap dance, and there is always god telling me, button up your pants, we’re looking for your dog.
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the morbid sequin is not a place. its the smallest slice of fruit. the space between the front and back of a mirror. the mirror itself. a box before it’s opened. god says it’s always been here. in the static. god says you can get here through dreams. god can’t dream, though.
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god says, you can’t snort ******* off my dashboard. the morbid sequin has strict rules. i ask god if oral is on the table, and god says there is no table. i know this is god telling me i’m standing wrong on the diving board. i tell god the stranger put spiders in my belly, and god sighs. says, get the flashlight, then. this **** takes all night. it does take all night. when it’s done god feels bad and lets me snort ******* off the dashboard. lets me sleep with my feet in their lap while we drive in circles.
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god and i lean against a sea green cutlass, sharing a cigarette. look, god says, and points across the parking lot. a horned figure wearing glow sticks pushes a carousel horse in a shopping cart. not mine, i say, but i say it too quick. god is suspicious. i pull my skirt down my thighs. remember what i said about touching, god says, and i nod. i turn my body into the hood ornament on gods car. and yeah, i should have known the stranger would like the car. it’s a nice car. it asks for hands. god can’t blame me for that.
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if there is a map to this place i never found it. there are so many houses, and they’re all connected by narrow hallways, all lit by yellowed plastic sconces. in the middle there is always a cornfield. there is always a snowman waiting for a promised lap dance, and there is always god telling me, button up your pants, we’re looking for your dog.
-
the morbid sequin is not a place. its the smallest slice of fruit. the space between the front and back of a mirror. the mirror itself. a box before it’s opened. god says it’s always been here. in the static. god says you can get here through dreams. god can’t dream, though.
-
god says, you can’t snort ******* off my dashboard. the morbid sequin has strict rules. i ask god if oral is on the table, and god says there is no table. i know this is god telling me i’m standing wrong on the diving board. i tell god the stranger put spiders in my belly, and god sighs. says, get the flashlight, then. this **** takes all night. it does take all night. when it’s done god feels bad and lets me snort ******* off the dashboard. lets me sleep with my feet in their lap while we drive in circles.
