I'm not the only liar in townArlene Ang
1 The tongue curves several light years away. A dog standing on its bald spot, its ex-orange juice. The night forges a club foot— irreparable and dildodorous on the seesaw. 2 For three years, the mayor survived with syphilis. The house is empty now— under the porch, you can see the scrotum swell of sky. 3 A ride with a stranger, a dream in aluminum: the clouds playing musical trees and there I was, epileptic, in the A-4 freeway, with an electric guitar for hair. Something metallic in the wind buzzing, like déjà vu, tv snow. 4 On Madame Fatima's lap, nine of hearts: yellow hands grabbing yesterday's news. Runaway gingerbread men and sacrificial gods. The crack in the ceiling is a repopulation of the vagina. Next, the readership star sign. 5 My parents said I started out well— they had me all planned like a short-order menu. Now they don't know who I am. How I can live with linoleum. 6 Over the phone, communication fills up on dirty pictures, sounds of toothless shouting. Is it possible to survive without the ceremonial body? For emergencies: a shelf filled with antennae; also, a branch snap from the lintel. 7 Maternal love sips from a long history of guilt.
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