Candy
Get up and dance. False prophets of
Amway ring too early to be
taken seriously, songs of
dynamite, perfumes first tested
in Vietnam, marital aides
developed in Nazi death camps.
Shake your tight little ass to the
catchy new ceremonies of
hate, and love, sparkly testaments
inspired by Time Life Books and AIDS.
It ain’t Merry Christmas anymore—
it’s Happy Dahmer, it’s Yom Manson,
it’s mine, it’s only Tuesday and
I can’t go in to work, and neither
can you, not now, not with all your fake
empathy rocking the boat. Hello,
dear. I’m in the middle of a
torrid romance with a man only
I can hear, and I’m all tied up right
now. Literally. Speak in pain
speak in tongues, let your body do
the talkin’. I can hear your blind
fingers tap on the other side
of the locked trap door, and I have
too many good reasons to fake
my own death than get up and answer the door.
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