When she gets excited
she shakes like a packet
of unopened Skittles,
and the air is a procession of feet
marching on nothing nowhere.
"Oh god, you're such an idiot,"
she says as she chews her hair
thinking it's a twig
and she's a Jack Russel.
"Ruff-ruff-ruff," she says.
She takes a Polaroid of herself
and draws on glasses and a 'tache,
sticks it to her face
and walks around like a chicken
speaking in an Irish accent.
"Kettles boil too furiously," she purrs.
"Like a cat flying through a bin
when the frying pan has congealed
into a cancerous stomach."
"My sides are so down when I'm up
and remote controls only operate
when your feet are a lonely yellow," I say.
"Shut up!" she says,
and the ashtrays die peacefully again.