Monologue of the Moustached Girl
By Joel Ephraims
“These books appear to be constructed horizontally. They remind me of the cast aside welkins of those ones who transcended early. The windows on the toes do well when moonlit and will fit the new bodies splendid.
Inside one of your own deadlines a naked scaffold breathes. Position yourself neatly against it like a mulcher reflected in a bearded vase. Gravity is your bag of rain drops there which you forgot how much they cost or if you bought them or if they were a gift or only some of them were.
We will lay down. Slowly now, slowly, slow I will tell you when you go to run your thumb through the inch long hairs of my upper lip like a medley of skyscrapers with a low flying surveillance drone. The office corridors are wet and malleable these days. They give me sinus which lights bad with my javelin-thrower’s nose. I sold my beauty to the smokelifting children a long time ago and suffered this bout of sprouting femininity as a result.
In the patterns of my dandruff I see the world’s end clear as the weevil that swims in my coffee cup that is the secret ambassador to heavily whiskered bats. Tell the ribbons in the ionosphere that I loved them once. Its three parts Jet enamel and one part Mortein and not the four parts that they thought it was. The Muses come down to meet the porno directors every Saturday in the second row from the back to the left when you come in from the south entrance, if you can get past security, especially the nightingale dogs.
I took this foliage upon myself within a generation of shaved mimes. The tremulous mountain in my reading glasses spluttered it so. I am a god’s tennis elbow. While cats prowl receipt clouds lightening is my trans-gender bride, my green knight. Pucker yourselves vertically to the walls and fold your castle’s tails correctly. Fair well.”