When she dreamt about nookie she cast a kitten
and stumbled through alleyways zozzled
and whistling the tune of a torpedo.
A team of mimes aligned the alleyway
reconstructing her ruined orgasms,
each one like a miniature heart attack
in a fast food drive-thru.
As a child her father always told her,
“Don’t take wooden nickels.” It was the only advice
he ever gave her. But right now she needed
to find some serious giggle water.
She ducked through a swinging door
following a replica of her dead father,
handsome in the presence of the overhead thunder.
He kept mumbling, “I have to go see a man about a dog.”
She followed the nervous footsteps into a room
where the lighting shuffled past a series of round tables.
She noticed a Joe Brooks sipping liquid from a fizzling cloud.
“What’s eating you?” she asked in a passionate voice,
squatting into the chair next to him. The table had a hair
of the dog, empty and stinking. Joe had to iron one’s shoelace,
so she ordered a fizzling cloud and watched the shooting stars
prepare for takeoff. When he returned he was sporting
a metal jacket and his hair was perfect.
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