This is dedicated to the eighteenth bitch i met
by Katya W Mills
Her props preceded her. She was basically dictated over by her fucking props. No joke. I will bite your beats! she announced to the world. She came into the world as truth, got spat out as fiction. HTML underlay all her diction.
Wait, let’s react more slowly, like formation of rust after a rainfall. Slow down our pace. Curb all our progress. That bitch was on fire, like ice. Well, not that fucking hot even. Breakneck Banana slug pace. Break out your fuckin’ mace. Spray her like you mean it! Her accessories are a tugboat and some backup singers rockin’ granite over her lip-synch. Her shows are perfomed on skates, in a skating rink. She’s on thin ice and she knows it. Her toe socks are counterfeit.
There’s such thing as a deadline, bitch. Uncross your buns and feel your tits. You need a media moment or your history. A none hit wonder if you’re lucky. Zero airplay. Audience captive. Held up like hairspray. You’re as close to urban as Truckee. Census 2010 was sixteen thousand, like the crowd you hold hostage. When you open up shows like sardines, canned and caustic.
Every night they get xuded just to feel numb, you’re semi-entourage. Wasted on air guitar broomsticks copped from somebody’s garage. Just to feel numb. You’re shows are best absorbed best by the deaf, blind and dumb.