I'm female Morrissey. I like it. Straight 80's and pure, snow white. A wandering bard, an oven-baked poet. I must be lonely, yeah? Lonely like the virgin before the bleeding messiah. Lonely like an empty gallery, paintings all staring out into nothing. They all seem to frown with their eyes. No sex, no real friction or tension. How could she? I see them all around me. I violently cough up their bad manners, and vomit in the river, and another fox punches through the brush. The fox is The World is Neptune is Pisces, and Venus is exalted in Pisces, or so I hear. And, just as suddenly, he's gone. Unlikely downtown fox. Black dogs, train tracks, city streets and litter. I had no idea, so. What'll they do to me? Where are they taking me? Why aren't they feeding me? You've got us girls all wrong, I said to them. Venus hasn't failed me. How could she? How could she? I'd rather believe that it's shyness. Believe I'm too good to be true. So good that I'm Venus incarnate. Sleeping beauty. Fairy tale phantom. Immortal youth. Witch in the water. Salt Lake City. The portrait of the artist as a young brick. Anticlimactic freeze frame. The podium awaiting the winner. Stuck ticking at 2. As a scarecrow. As the tin man. Red-headed Dorothy. Blood-red rubies. The dog in the basket. All staying on track, singing, marching arm-in-arm. Poppies. I'm poppies. I'm sleep setting in. I'm in dreams. The Motherland, the silver mine, the subconscious. I'm home alone. So, come scare me. This will be easy. Boogeyman boyfriend. Trick or treat me. Halloween me. Haunt me. Boo me. I'll be your black cat skeleton. Voodoo initiation. Potent magic. Beginner's luck. Female Morrissey, soft-hearted celibacy, political candidacy, bittersweet intensity fees, get down on your idiot knees, and ... well, never mind.

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