Burn the Whole Thing Down
Los Angeles tastes like iron in my mouth and I blame my daughters, for I’m feverish and they stand on the stairs and stare. They have soiled mouths and blue eyes. They are beautiful but disgusting because they break the shells and carry sunflowers, thousands of sunflowers. A daughter brings the inside outside and the outside inside. A wife sits on the sofa in the dark with mercury in her. I love my wife because of the side effects. I love my wife because the film has been poisoned and she sealed it with a kiss and she brings me tiny flowers with erect flower stalks and large seeds. She might die in the movie. She might make it until the enamel cracks. Might drive a car straight through the feminine body. Have you ever fallen in love while a city burned? Then don’t tell me that I’m sexist. I’m writing a book and I love the plastic chairs in which I sit. I’m buying them with spit.