I am a singing telegram. To hold my low-slung flats you must speak to my brother, & to touch
my kiss curl the wind must curl the dead pigeons.
You want to know about my childhood? I am a singing telegram. I am a former child star. I was
a spelling bee champion, oblivious to the pain involved in incorrect morality.
Will you remain apocopic? Will you fix me blueberry pancakes? Come sing with me & the
detritivores & the Hellevores. Your swollen lips are so wet from licking with your licorice-black
tongue.
