Kindly imagine, kind sir:
A half-naked girl on the floor.
Dress up her hips. A blank stare.
A radio playing behind her the most beautiful song.
White noise, violins and hot air.
The ceiling fan spinning in an obnoxious calm. Blank.
The fan playing god in the Hungarian Dance.
Flies on a bread loaf. Flies on a chocolate bar wrapping.
A fly on a glass of red wine.
Spinning then closer to drink from her eye.
The ceiling fan stutters. Like a single skipped beat.
Long before dead inside. What more to offer?
You’re cold-hearted hot meat.