She’s a Femme Fatale

July 1, 2013

There is a boy on this train listening to the Velvet Underground.
He’s trying to explain to himself why we are all equal.
He can’t grasp the concept because it’s all so large and vague.
We are both listening to Femme Fatale.

I close my eyes and jump into his brain.
It’s lovely in here.
There are spiders eating flies with human faces
and mother birds feeding baby birds
and a caterpillar smoking a hookah.

Run run run run run
take a drag or two.

This boy sings Lou Reed.
I am Nico.
I love him because he doesn’t have arms.

I am stuck in a spider’s web
in the body of a fly.
My face remains the same.
This is just a dream.

I tell him we’re all equally shitty.
I tell him the spider is hungry
and I am food.
Where is my deep voice?

He tells me he is invisible.
I tell him I know he is.
I cannot see him.
We are all invisible.

The Femme Fatale wasn’t invisible
he says.
Oh yes she was, I say.
More invisible than all of us, I say.
And she shot up heroin, too.

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