The popcorn is greasy, and I forgot to bring a Kleenex.
A pill that’s a bomb inside the stomach of a man
The Embassy blows up.
Eructations of flame, luxuriouscauliflowers giganticize into motion.
The entire 29-ft.screen is orange, is crackling flesh and brick bursting,blackening, smithereened.
I unwrap a Dentyne and, whilejouncing my teeth in rubber tongue-smarting clove, trywith the 2-inch-wide paper to blot butter off my fingers.
A bubble-bath, room-sized, in which 14 girls, delectableand sexless, twist-topped Creamy Freezes (their blond,red, brown, pinkish, lavendar or silver wiglets allscrewed that high, and varnished), scrub-tickle a lonemale, whose chest has just the right amount and distribu-tion of curly hair.
He’s nervously pretending to defendhis modesty.
His crotch, below the waterline, is alsobelow the frame—but unsubmerged all 28 slick foamy boobs.
Their makeup fails to let the girls look naked.
Caterpil-lar lashes, black and thick, lush lips glossed pink likethe gum I pop and chew, contact lenses on the eyes that aremostly blue, they’re nose-perfect replicas of each other.
I’ve got most of the grease off and onto this little squareof paper.
I’m folding it now, making creases with my nails.
