She lolls her head sideways
into the airless cavern: her own pleasure
giant kettle drum
Her sister's hands melt
two rooms over
land dripping
on the same
two notes

God: man is a pillow, lips like a woman

Thinks: Malcolm McDowell has a huge prick
maybe?

The friction, the iffy snap-button
lock, little feet run past
too close together
lock in on it

Dehydrated
by Texas beer and salt and air conditioning
lock in on it

All she does is watch movies
constant planning for the next meal
baby-flesh strewn haphazardly
never-ending supply
the house smells like plastic things
and cooked carrots

Might as well die right though the bed
completely desensitized
wadded up towel between her legs

hours grinding up to a small sense of love