She dances like an LSD angel on somebody else's rooftop,
spinning in slow motion to silent music
drowning in flashes
of her stop-motion-photography life.
I watch her between the glossy covers,
memorizing her sunken eye sockets,
greasy hair,
flat chest,
apathy.
I watch her on my TV,
my fuzzy blue box.
She is in some one else's music video.
She beckons me with her heroin hallow eyes,
and I dance like a hippo from Fantasia
around my step-mom's living room.

I have her picture over my toilet.
I hung it up for inspiration.
She gives me strength when I'm down on my knees,
trying to puke up the girl next door.

She is everything right.
She is strung-out, drugged up, vinyl and money.
I want to eat her,
which is okay,
because by the time she is half digested she'll be out of style.
So before I eat her,
I'll boil her,
save what little body fat she has
and inject it into my lips.