wood. I’ve got pain, in m y throat, some boy tore it up, I rasp, I
barely talk, it’s an ugly sound, some boy killed it, as if it were
some small animal he had to maim to death, an enemy he had
to kill by a special method, you rip it up and it bleeds and the
small thing dies slow. It’s a small, tight passage, good for fun,
they like it because it’s tight, it hugs the penis, there’s no give,
the muscles don’t stretch, at some point the muscles tear, and
it must be spectacular, when they rip; then he’d come; then
he’d run. Y ou couldn’t push a baby through, like with the
vagina; though they’d probably think it’d be good for a laugh;
have some slasher do a cesarean; like with this Lovelace girl,
where they made a jo k e with her, as if the clit is in her throat
and they keep pushing penises in to find it so she can have an
orgasm; it’s for her, o f course; always for her; a joke; but a
friendly one; for her; so she can have a good time; I went in,
and I saw them ram it down; big men; banging; you know,
mean shoving; I don’t know w hy she ain’t dead. They kept her
smiling; i f it’s a film you have to smile; I wanted to see if it
hurt, like with me; she smiled; but with film they edit, you
know, like in H ollyw ood. She had black and blue marks all
over her legs and her thighs, big ones, and she smiled; I don’t
know w hy we always smile; I m yself smile; I can remember
smiling, like the smile on a skeleton; you don’t ever want them
to think they did nothing wrong so you smile or you don’t
want them to think there’s something w rong with you so you
smile, because there’s likely to be some kind o f pain coming
after you if there’s something w rong with you, they hit you to
make it right, or you want them to be pleased so you smile or
you want them to leave so you smile or you just are crapping
in your pants afraid so you smile and even after you shit from
fear you keep smiling; they film it, you smile. Sometimes a
man still offers me money, I laugh, a hoarse, ugly laugh, quite
mad, m y throat’s in ribbons, just hanging streaks o f meat, you
can feel it all loose, all cut loose or ripped loose in pieces as if
it’s kind o f like pieces o f steak cut to be sauteed but someone
forgot and left it out so there’s maggots on it and it’s green,
rotted out, all crawling. Some one o f them offers me money
and I make him sorry, I prefer the garbage in the trash cans,
frankly, it’s cleaner, this walking human stuff I don’t have no
room in m y heart for, they’re not hygenic. I’m old, pretty old,
I can’t take the chance o f getting cancer or something from
them; I think they give it to you with how they look at you; so
I hide the best I can, under newspapers or under coats or under
trash I pick up; m y hair’s silver, dirty; I remember when I was
different and these legs were silk; and m y breasts were silk; but
