Toy Disco
Swinging, bungee jumping on fondant ceilings,
ceiling fans swing,
buffet on its greasy blades,
lampshade trampolines buzzing, suckling on florescent nectar
of the toasted filament,
meandering mosquito waiters over the chocolate milk eight-ball nymph lake,
satiating the oracle of the stove’s clickity ballpoint pen produced steam,
a metal spoon canoe that tilts in a shipwrecked drown in a blue mug,
a marbly glint of lamp light on its handle
like a witch’s broom out of an insomniac’s tree jungle gym window
that climbs in its woody corky glint
to the elf fungus on the white bread of the moon.
Mr. Teddy Bear: The words suckle on our clickety-clackety pupils
and the toasted filaments of the ruled page,
to ooze pus-like fluorescence,
so that chocolate milk swirled by the spoon of the steam,
is like panting in a sprint across fondant ceilings.
Ms. Silky Doll: The peppermints like oranges,
bulky and modestly dressed like lampshades,
fibrous chewiness on a parched grassy pinky tongue,
and the salivating walls of
the ceiling fan-like protruding,
gums pregnant with baby teeth.
Mr. Teddy Bear: The knots in your chocolate hair
as crinkly as fairy wings,
I’d like to braid
as we sit on an orange slice seesaw
and make it prance
across the skating rink of the plate like a horse
that we made glint with the wires, moon, pink, and fluorescence
of our plasticky fickle mattress existence.
Noodles in a boiling water oasis,
the striations on the fork shading it like Malibu Palm trees,
I want us to splash and soak in the resin of our fur and silicone cortexes,
a plastic pink doctor’s set, a poorly stitched dress,
and a pencil pouch grimy with pencils and sharpeners,
our baggage to a new bedspread, Malibu or disco,
when the nightlight is a canopy bed over our mothball,
bedspread lint lily pad chatter and the pink light drools
like a wax candle
over the plastic perspective of our eyes,
like sunglasses and their cotton candy pink mocktail films
over the creaky ceiling fan booming music of nightlife pub.
Ms. Silky Doll: And what if we ever pop out shoulders,
or plastic glue sockets,
rub our eyes and give ourselves eye paint cataracts,
knead our dresses and our knees and pull out the lining,
crumple the petticoat,
peel the embroidery that laces itself around my skirt like icing,
or I plop onto your squishy legs like a rosy baby doll
with battery-operated chemical digestive systems from light-up disco operations,
and now I let out pink glittery poop
when I make a plastic popsicle riddled with wires swirling like tapeworms
light up in my mouth
and I squeeze out your stuffing organs like a whoopie cushion?
Mr. Teddy Bear: Aren’t the cellophane on these windows
when wrung out with the sunshine’s sweat
and plunged into the rum of the oozing pink bulb,
quite like a multiplex viewing?
You with your twirling grassy hair
and I with my potbelly stomach
pedaling my lower back,
we’re like a nine-to-five economy cereal family
creaking yet chuckling for three minutes sporadically,
the pink light bulb flickering,
feel as continuous, as metabolic?
And now that it’s descending like a constipated season,
of all mothball existences?
Ms. Silky Doll: Fur, frizz, lace, your snout, my lips,
your round ears, my cheeks that are stuffed with clay pebbles
to make them rosy cheekbones of a baby woman,
a catalog appetizer from a hair-curling yellow film magazine,
the soap suds of a monthly wash on your fur,
you’ll limp and sag and sink into a cottony outliving,
and I,
a resin zit of medium rare,
woman child, catalog rosy,
with a child’s adult eyes at the shelved ceilings of a toy store,
another “Ms.” another, “Poppy,”
another “lace,”
another “silk,”
another biodegradable “ballerina dressed furry hope,”
she’d look better in an apron for your potbelly perusal.
Ms. Silky Doll then tucked in her loose black school shoes and waddled,
as the nightlight’s last pink light beamed across the walls
and flickered out
like the last bit of cream and undissolved powder
around the ceramic walls of the mug,
like gasping, knotted,
leeching cobwebs
and Mr. Teddy Bear sagged and fluffed himself up.
