#8 –summer goth
Okay Bombshell, there was a time you came to the house just to see my much older sister/steal the cat’s medication. An enormous white man sat in his car blasting “Mashed Potato Time,” while you did your nails. Caterpillars were trying to tell us something. “Maybe that ‘this is serious, but not like the Battle of Dogger Bank where 246 souls turned the North Sea red, returning later as mayflies darting through the tunnels of your ears, thinking they can peer out of your eyes.’” Screws-in-Head spoke to you long through the night, that the walls contracting and expanding are his heart, his desire for you. But today we’ll return to the shop windows where (occasionally) your name was spelled out in shining apples, cut our arms from the space between the warehouses of the dead zone up to the hillocks and the tents where we begin to dry out. “But only half of what you are will end up painted on my van.” Beneath this house, the crawlspace of difficult bones, beneath the crawlspace, the time warp where I find you.