type slowly.

table wisdom.

Posted in words by Lara Crombie on January 12, 2010

He’s charming the audience. He smiles like Clark Kent. Please, dear, just solve the fucking puzzle. My mother, breasts heaving, fans herself with newsprint. John Whoever leans in, glasses dangerously close to freedom, says “break the bread, dear, we’re famished.” My purse, a small baguette in gold, quivers.

After school, the missing children call. They want to come home. An automated voice asks them to leave a message. Your call is very important to us. My mother pushes herself erect. Thighs dappled with floral moles. One is Chrysanthemum. One smells like rose. He reads from a manuscript: “Your licentious musk, your wooly bush…” These are the forgeries of jealousy.

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