Lettuce hair and pop star eyes

your sister was born with stripes
lettuce hair and pop star eyes

she grows up along with you and life is
a blue-smelling version of a sitcom teleplay

she is petite and gives fat hugs
and there are sandstorms in your lungs

at home there are broken mirrors
small bowls of cyanide and ideas that hang out in the den

the place stinks of candles in rigor mortis and i can hear your sister.
in the back room she plays a violin with her tongue

i untie someone’s pair of shoes nervously as
everything i hear becomes more raucous and Unpredictable

the hallway sighs and my body bends to one side
i am a poor man’s venus de milo, watching

she slips out and the door floats away behind her
four gold scarves dripping from the rose petals on her shoulders

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