Yo-Yo Boing!

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She starts on all fours crawling like a child, but she is a wild animal with a great big trunk, an elephant. And little by little, her neck starts popping, and little by little, her neck starts growing, one inch, then two inches, then five inches, until her head inches its way so far up that she’d almost swear it hits the ceiling, she’d almost swear it has grown so big and so fast that it can’t fit inside the house anymore. And then it dawns on her that what has grown is not her head but her neck, which means that she must be a giraffe. Then she starts hunching over, the bones in her hands and feet start crackling, there is a rumbling throughout her body, bombs exploding, fireworks, thunder, lightning, throbbing, and she tries in vain to allay the uprising. She feels like spreading her cheeks like a ham and cheese sandwich, opening wide, releasing that other part of her body inside, those brown pebbles which are sometimes pleasant and sometimes prolonged, which are sometimes nearly melted inside and out, which are big and round and green, which are her pets, her poohs, her lil’ poopsie-woopsies, and the yellow waters melting and plunging with them into the bowl, smelling of that other smell, violently sour, enticingly foul like budding buds and violets. She wanted to feel the cascade of her black blood, her body’s dead blood, and she wanted to bathe in all of the blood of the death of her youth. She felt the urge to sit on the throne, to squat and pull down her pantyhose, which doubled as a girdle, and then her panties, which were so tight she could barely breathe.

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