mary ann cotton's arsenic hands

dear diary, let me tell you about the time when i wrote him a bedtime story about the boy who thought he was a reincarnation of marie antoinette and his unloving wife, the girl who dreamt of becoming a serial killer during dusty evenings long as winter breaking faithfully facing the milky way. the pair could be heard chanting like eternal flames "these fantasies chant be carrying us much longer our crispy cupcakes molded into silky pastel sheets softly boiled tenderloins in the furious blood of a unborn baby unicorn."

about the boy who thought he was a reincarnation of marie antoinette: his face dripping with thick black oil, coming of like whiskers in heat a five year old ninja protected by armed forces and crinolines. adjoined by their destiny, a fluorescent explosion in the black-eyed sky, a venetian mask floating in the greatest of empty places its enormous beak making life in the bell jar intolerable, distanced from its very own vacuum from outside chemistry, from nothingness itself. he saw versailles as his perfectly pearly bridge of teeth, forever sparkling, forever yours.

and the girl who dreamt of becoming a serial killer said: i don’t know who you are but i want to walk beside you and when my sightings are blocked by the foggy ocean breeze we will set the harlots free and the cardinals will want to know what gives them that special satisfaction and we will whisper mouth to mouth: funerals and death, the dead bodies of fellow wildflowers wildflowers wildflowers, watching stemmy legs getting mangled by honeydew forests, the road as endless helix, a new world in every corner, and the boys the boys the boys the boys the boys are all dressed for mourning are walking down the street and the boys the boys the boys the boys the boys are willows here to kill you.

she listened to the spoken word of future gods through the maddening morning mist a daybreak like every other, jesus relishing his afternoon tea in her living room, where the boy who thought he was a reincarnation of marie antoinette had chosen to spend the night perched on the couch like a misinformed mantle piece and as he switched off his senses the girl who dreamt of becoming a serial killer simply turned into yet another louis in the wall and jesus melted like butter over the marble proclaiming these stains will never go away and through the shallow darkness of night her thin soprano could be caught seen running up and down the scales to any broken symphony, quietly roaring "is this song ever to be recorded lucid lucide lucinda my love" her feverish body leaking with lifeless despair, shielded by shadows, an index of sun.