She's got her fingers in her hair raking down down, her ears are wired 20-watts to a lime-green incinerator and nipped lips, she's grating and churning to the noise like an eggbeater on strike in ripped garters. She's got holes the size of Texas – they're always telling her stitch your damn garters but they don't know how the two-by-four safety pins pierce her skin (in the shape of stars). She's seven minutes late and four minutes down, she's a cigarette wedged and burning between starch-stained sheets, she's onomatopoeia. Sex Pistols beating, heating she's got too much mascara peeling like a (cracked condom) store-bought. Listen. Think she's caught in the incinerator by now and all you see are sliced legs waving but for all we know she's only 20 decibels of Amazing Grace.