Maybe the thick of the fog will suffuse with our transparent solid knob of narcissism. Maybe our reflection will vomit flies and scraps of meat into our face. Maybe our flatulence will become a turtle, and outlive our outlandish cooking. The girl stares at me and a peacock spray of lipstick chap-stick gloss makes ripples of my eyes. The door on her forehead opens, and a red hose snakes out to spray the floor with black fluid, coffee grounds float like ants struggling as one. As one she opens her mouth which becomes two, they kiss each other tenderly, demon horns grow from her buttocks as she arches in sexual delight. Her vagina opens and a shiny silver faucet  emerges and pink sweet smelling, Pepto Bismal-like fluid floats out, weightless with its unreality, sniffing at the tar on the floor, making fun of it, teasing it with its fluorescent smoothness. They make a cocktail of the air. We all breathe deeply, satiated and inebriated by its luxurious pink gluttony. Her breasts spring out, her nipples open and sing in their operatic voices of the coming pleasures, 3d video surround sound sexual ecstasy in smoky rooms full of beautiful people who blow their beauty into our noses. The logo of divinity vibrates and rotates in the front of our head like a de-flowered virgin’s headache.  I lower my eyes, and roll another cigarette. She’s not my type.

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