Little bundled dancing doll; bottled rage chained down with gold. Fur cap firing on all cylinders. The glasses’ tint is a prescription benzodiazapine for her heart. She used to be a ballerina. Her dad used to say all women from Bulgaria lose plasticity after twenty four. She is a serial online dater. A real, what her American contemporaries would have called “man-eater”. Her crossed eyes on the prize. Mascara like war paint. She has seen cruelty and brutality and snow. We all have to die sometime and of something. Hands like pliers, she is not to be lied to. She is an inveterate gambler. She used to play online poker. Up to seven games at a time, betting fractions of cents instantaneously, under the screen name Karenina_Kalashnikov. There were times when this was enough of a supplement to her welfare checks. She sits, stewing over the new amphetamine compound she purchased from Moldova because it is not having the desired effects on her stomach and ass areas. She knows she won’t look this good forever. American girls are so cool. Her feet tucked into stirrups, bounding across the steppe. She sleeps in Queens.
No comments:
Post a Comment