cologne and ammonia

her delicate blue-veined wrongdoings
her slender handfuls of bone shards
her clubhouse lay crushed and pathetic
her lathe upon her white cheetah
her fragile fraction of cologne and ammonia
her frangible fiction coiffed in toxins
her old frayed cataract
her daughter’s prickled shank armhole
her boilers
her cowards
her tomes undusted
her snow-white petulance
her pickled discontinuities

she freed of meaning

“I woke at seven a.m. and said to myself: This is the second day of the rest of my life. It’s not one thing in particular, it’s just the sensation of being adrift. As if the boat became unmoored two days ago and I am now on a voyage.”

— Miranda July / “Mon Plasir”