Lorraine look like, “Hi. Swift answers and time shares for my spare time. Scraping the surface for what I could have, something occupational to keep me on par. I radiate myself by the digits on the glowing price tag from the ‘priceless’ art pieces my friends value more than less, whatever they strive to get. I thrive on a constant stream of incoming jealousy.”
Someday I will paint somebody’s cold hard portrait, acrylic on cork.
and soon I film myself slow mo drop kicking car window.
You know the face she was raised on, the fake-on, she take on, should take off.
Her face like: “Who the fuck chews Freedent, anyway?”
One can tell the plight she can’t fight off, contentment becomes a write off.
Her face like:
“Your hair looks windswept, you custy bastard!
Really, all I have to do is snap my fingers
my only daily duty is to tip Margaret, the maid
I don’t even have to think, I sink into numb lake quick
oh shit, these uppers have a kick.”
Lorraine fakes all smiles and she’s exclusive to unhappiness.
A pretty penny only gets her softly sewn into the present tense.
How many pink poodles with pedicures does it take to screw on her head?
“I know a good place where they let me take my pup for fancy brunch.”
How so disposable?
Why can’t we just have a glass box in forest with a tall swing and kindling supply? With no desire to loathe or impress or dress well. To never be exclusive to jealously. No trace of house of cards as opposed to cardboard box. Away from the haunted Lorraines wandering Jasper Avenue, Loraine, save your look for the pink poodle brunch.
Oh, good lord. Buy coffee. Expensive coffee. Go home. Make even more coffee. Try to die happy. Splenda.