Counting Wolves

Tits. Coy cockroaches. Hiding in the corners of his eyes. Pussy. Junkie gods spreading their toes for the needle.

She talks about the moon. In slow stutters. Her words. Churning. Broken pulleys. Racked with gravity. She talks about her friends. Bits of ink trapped under her skin. Colorful drugs. That don't get her high anymore. She sobs about her grandmother. Evil, old woman with bloated fingers and sharp fingernails. Empty graves still waiting on a name. Bad dolls.

Their rubber thumbs on the ignition. As the engine chokes to life. Despite our determination to resist. Just time. Weak vaccinations. A little bit of the sickness. To make us immune.

This flesh. A virulent virus. Mutating with every treatment. Bad dolls. In their Velcro clothes. Their dresses coming apart again. Dicks like little soldiers. Firing on anything that moves.

Inside her time machine she waits for the world to end. She waits so long. Not realizing that it has.

She tries to count the wolves, but she always loses track about half way through.