Driving out of control
through the seance. Question mark.
It’s a storehouse of shit. (I’m Mrs.
Oh My God That Britney’s Shameless.)
We knock down walls
to splinter ourselves. Then we undo
couplets with tiny glasses
like distant lumberyards.
The apartment. 1985. Man grunting.
Same naked lady on balcony.
Plot, plotter,
plottest.
