to sweep together the ingredients; the strands of platinum blonde, doggy hair everywhere, scraps of satin, flannel, ripped denim feathers, leathers, gold and glitter, laying out in patterns and mannerisms, glued together with grunts, giggles, and guffaws, tied up in a sachet of expressions, what the fuck head tilts, a carnival of lips, an orbit of eyeballs, laying down the upload of audio soundtracks, push the little talkie button back, like pins, needles and nails on a chalkboard and finally hear her squeal “For real, for real.” and “Fuck me, we’ll do coffee.” “We’re friends.” “Some time soon.” “I’ll let you know.” “We’ll see.”
Button stuck. Button stuck. Fucking button stuck. Addicted to a fiction; a spell, a curse, an incantation beaten to a sad pulp of drama daily, saturated with goopy glue, a varmint voodoo wunderkind incarnate incantation, a velveteen frankensteen, papier-maché mask over sparking damp ignition, cognition, pre-frontal cortex, executive function reduction. The energetic attention, a battery that brings to life, serotonin, cortisol, adrenal juicing your very own, fully articulated, voodoo chicken wire frame dressing dummy with a living death mask of your own devise. A home made hand puppet with imaginary friends and benefits.
Almost like the velveteen rabbit, a voodoo hand puppet dummy doll with buttons loved off, now left askew in the dust bin toy box, loved real and real no more.
Sometimes, the nature that abhors a vacuum,
hands us a broom and dust pan …
and we make playthings from whatever is at hand.