Limbo runs hot and cold The meteorological forecast of future metaphors and man’s
measure of God. Emily Dickinso hefty in a gravy-stained
wedding-dress like a meaty Miss Havisham. All the
windows are shaded so thickly you can’t tell if there’s
really any glass behind the paper or if it’s just
more plasterboard wall. Billy Collins, hell is full of the
lukewarm. Tile in a hundred shades of grey. Prayer-beads
clacking on rheumatic hands, bumping fingernails ridged
yellow, thickly. When I grow up I shall buy
myself a gun. Red clay banks and I try to remember
how the mud in Virginia smells. Broke down
today and bought a pack of Kools. Milds in a
white pasteboard box. I miss my boyfriend.
Pervert that I am I get turned on reading about
the forced underage scabrous blow-job in that
book he loaned me, Filth, and try unsuccessfully to
remember when last I went down on him.  ¶ 2:08 PM