Supermodel # 217

Me? I brush along all day. Like. Saltines sucked off runways. Glamazonian crotch. Fumes from a belt notch, colossal fuels, hotels, or Formula Ones (or their sons). Milla, in UV haze, a bathing suit, suit of armor, suitcase, lawsuit lays. Milla, in ponytails, licking off her face, the Eiffel Tower. Paulina bubblegum. Pop! Carmen in the stall, going Nicky-sick drop, all Rachel lip, razor blade, the shaving of a philosophy, some flesh-tyrant or siphoning of cracked eggs/words/diamonds/doors/flashbulbs/cocaines—additional white panes (those that shine). Blowing a landscape! (One day I wake and my breath smells like February.) Blowing a dumbbell! (Then another day, iron.) Fumes from carpets greened with futbol boys. Oh, I brush along. Hunger is actually like. Swallowing night air, pending electronic thunder, wet on the ribs or forehead or whoop-De-whoop. I mean to say Hanna or Brooke in her old perfect scarf, looks like the walking in the walk, so there, swaying hips, ferrying whitecap to cap, tilted chin, perky nose bleeding out a symphony. Hard like a cough or a credit card. Turn. Whispering like fluorescent light or swarming flies. Turn. Moist fruit or apocalyptic woe-struck balls. Me? My breasts were made in Normandy from butter. My ass goes chandelier, retina shards. My vagina is an elevator. I work out. And tumble so, fingers lending figure 8s on a mirror, 16, 24, 32 seconds later, some glossy dust, some Mandy croak, some rusting Adriana, some Kate or Betty, limbs lashed to a bed pole of bills, a pucker-rush, hypodermic water, clean with limpness, whatnot, the thrust, the raft, the gaze, the sputter, the cheekbones, the fits, the shits, the touch, the quick of flaming fingernails, the eating of.  

Sean Lovelace likes to run beer and drink miles. He blogs at


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