robot talk. bleepity bloop.
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2004-12-03 01:49:54 (UTC)

a funny thing happened on the way to the formal

dear imelda.

i stole all of your shoes. i melted them down and made paper and wrote
books on the pages, the colors of shoes you had. i used to write in blood
with my index finger that i had slit open with a broken jar of turpentine.
turpentine to drink, so my children would all be born with three eyes, four
arms. super humans with great smiles and faces only a mother could love.

I saw you drown and i reached out my arm, which turned out to be a fake arm
that broke off as you held on tight. And i want you to know that i am
drowing now, so we are perfectly even for all time.

and then there was a the lover who twisted and turned in the hallways, who
writhed and spat and made everyone take their earphones off. And made
love in the car under spotlights in the parking lot, and hummed like a
cellphone on vibrate mode, and floated away with a plastic arm, but had the
last word, i must say.

have a cigarette, it will help you tell your story all the better. light it with a
hundred dollar bill. and then we'll talk about the old times again, when we
made that dress out of raspberry sherbet-colored silk and forty five layers of
tulle, and hair down to our ankles.

now float away and dont tell anyone ive sent for you. ive destroyed all of
your shoes, all of the evidense that you existed at all. And if they ask, ill tell
them about the good times. cause the bad things aways disappear with time,
and are replaced with sweet memories of lovers who made you feel like you
were simply on fire, then left you burning, in flames, until only ashes

til then.