removed, suspended in the blue milk of your boredom. A swim-bladder is a weak pink, like a panty-liner, like cotton candy on the wand. Wink. You are tinseled. Inner tinsels too. Dripping celebrity. Stalactite. The lights are watery. Full of spit. You’re sick of kissing & thinking about kissing. Once, in your hair, there was a hand. It was the best barrette. Knuckled. A wealth of sandwich swords & no one in stabbing range. You spin on your stool like a Mesmer cake. A cake with major organs, with showgirls crouched in the dark batter. Your long hair is tragic. It hangs, a shiny game-show curtain. The thought of running through life with those swords —neon like a beam of sour truth. Of peep holes. The thoughts are cutting their pink teeth on you, which makes your swim-bladder fatten.