There’s an orange-haired girl I know
Who’s so plugged up with secrets That she can no longer speak. She dreams of a lake where Seaweed grows in the deep - every night A new creature beckons her down With them to sleep. The water is black And still once she’s below the weeds; The floor is packed with pink styrofoam Puffs; “fragile, do not shake” is printed on The cardboard underneath. When She reaches down to shake the ground, Her hair is sucked into the drain of a sink. And she begins to spin, marbling there - Paint from a can - her body whirling Around at its ends. At the grocery store one day, She chooses a cart whose wheel is Rickety, angled sideways, So that it steers her slightly To the left. An hour later she finds She’s circled the same aisle eight times, And filled her cart with frozen items - Mainly pre-cut peaches in plastic bags That grow wet, the fruit softening Inside, leaving a trail of water Behind, on which she slips and falls, Tits up, her arms spread wide. She takes a breath, stands, And walks away. To the laundromat she goes, where She pays a machine to tumble water - No clothes - Except the pair of socks she wore today: She’ll remove and wash them alone. She Presses the play button and walks to a chair Where a pink pen with a fuzzy top awaits - She leaves it there - And sits in the seat beside it, watching Her argyle socks spin in the TV. At minute 33 A car outside backfires, the noise pulls Her gaze away and - quick - She lunges for the pen and picks a piece of paper up Off the floor below her seat. On the back of it - A receipt - She begins to tell one of her stories, Then drops it where it was found - It lands upside-down, so that all she sees Is a charge of $0.88, Exactly. From that day forward she writes her secrets On the backs of found receipts. Some days it helps her sleep But most days it keeps her awake Thinking about her stories, and Which she’ll share the next day. She can’t remember how the creatures From the black lake pulled her down and She’s content - better off - she thinks, Because at least she doesn’t dream And she can sit and write in the laundromat Without running a nearly empty Washing machine.
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Enjoy! More art (...less text / more images) here: "The object isn't to make art, it's to be in that wonderful state which makes art inevitable."
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