The wolf has me by the throat. My blood is sizzling, bacon-like. The troll is taking the toll out of my ass. At the end of pain this severe there should be an ounce of wisdom
or death followed by a carnival funeral with my name in red and sky blue balloons. The witch is force feeding me licorice cookies. I puke and puke and the magical mice swim until they turn into disc jockeys and assault me all night long with the greatest hits of Michael Bolton, Richard Marx, Eric Carmen and Whitney Houston. I’ve got that sweaty rainbow sock stuffed down Leif Garrett’s throat feeling. Rapunzel gets all the text messages, most of them erect penises. I don’t think it’s her shampoo and conditioner. I think it’s genetic. The king that married me when I was puerile and pretty is fucking Snow White on our purple sheets. The bitch is melting all over my dreams. When even your dreams aren’t safe you know you are screwed. I told Jack that over coffee and crullers. He blew menthol cigarette smoke in my face and told me that safe dreams belong to the fairies and he had a beanstalk to climb.