He must have been thinking about that anklet, got distracted and shot himself in the maestro. The building got stormy with my laughter. Decrescendo, hot thing. He wanted to protect his you’re a bitter little lady face. The trap would be to answer it’s a bitter little world. How would I look stuffed back into a noir? Would I be saying, If I’d been a ranch...? I could feel the pull of the big geometrical viewing depot. It’s nice to see poison organized as cylinders of light, focus spiraling into exquisitely shaded grades of aggression. I’d already stepped out of those. Clothes—all the sugar that makes the flies come round. Reverb. And I wasn’t going to hand anybody a cup of spike.
Is one head worth the agro? Because the neck's addressed to torso. Testing. We're in the mic tonight. The Rhythm Suffragettes. Keep it as an oval. This part is my please please idea. I'm tomboy smooth. Bring it down. I like to long-time willow, especially a-girls on the splintery edges of the beat. Meaning more inside than out. Monitor. Or you have to be inside the mean. More like me in the eaves. You have to like the overhang more than the house. Then I have orange shoe black shoe problems. Legs inside somebody’s head. No, they were caught with each other instead. There was divorce talk but it was, drop that suit, more fun to walk.
He'd segmented like a guy with a knitting needle. And I’d let everything fall from a wooden uh huh cylinder. Call me home single in the heat. He was going to pattern everyone first and default later. Then back himself up through central casting. As in there’s only one muted blue. You’ll take it and like it. Loop the sample. Yes, I heard my hands. A case of unison moves and a two-note confidence-building sidekick. Always blah blahing. He taught machines to make themselves and then define the century. So the band forwarded itself to the Southwest. We used look-out leaps smooth as lotion. Tongue flutter fronting the mix. Our equipment reached across impolitely. Triple-braid ensemble work. Never again will I yawn and strip down to the honey-folds of commerce.
Suddenly, a flashback. Light shadow trading chase lines over venetian-blind faces. I want her house, her name, her man. And I want them now. Or maybe just her hollowed-out broom pipe bass. He could turn his I’ll-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-dead look on and off like a faucet. Tremolo. Get it transferred. Now we’re all quick as darts. When you’re slapped you’ll shift modulate.
My belly’s oxygenating. He’d say, a chorus cute as lace pants can work if it dances. I say, let’s splice women-of-the-world in with a hydroplaning beat. The hall sounded wet. You could sense the audience ventilating. I looked over. He was still eying that anklet, brain choo-chooing. I bet he knew it would be sweet as cracked hell. Bring it in tight against the echo. But this playhouse thing varies. Last week, not exactly my favorite people right at the toe of the applause. They want to play inside my rope.
At this point am I supposed to be fluttering? All I can never get a zipper to close... maybe that stands for something. And then he gets to say, A dame with a rod is like...insert unlikely reference containing Kansas. But you’ve got to have them, he drones, they’re standard—Our groove surrounded him like fur-lined handcuffs. I made my eyebrows into scares. Kneeling bags my nylons, I quoted, adding “But you look good that way.” Deep focus rolled straight off the high contrast. It’s easy to luxuriate in the harsh caress of silver, mesmerized by the spread of lipstick’s moist, oil-perfect reflections. Take eight.
Every night becomes right now. We get lost in songs that stretch like unreported canvas, our legs half off the screen. We skitter from one semi-scripted state to another, vibrato-heavy and our diet on the skids. Under eight-year contract but the mix tight as boilerplate. Move to minor. We’re invisible in daylight, and writers erase us. Do you have a moment? I gotta get right between now and next.
Tongue goes out to play. We bring it home and start totaling, flicking, curling together as if we were trombone parts. Inside a mouthpiece. I’m fronting a “hep-girl” band. This is the time signature. We’re all instrumentalists.