The Opiate, Spring Vol. 13
Slipshod Megan Mealor I can only think back to the crash pad off Justina, breakneck roaches shimmying from sideboards, spasmodic blinds sallying with intoxicated illumination. I recall the smutty runners in odious hues of shamrock and umber, carpet withering like wormwood beneath our rakish ashes. Voluptuary sketches lined the livid walls. The Odd Bods died in pugnacious pairs, overfed and overnight, tankmates unfit to fraction recessed ruins of resin temples. It was a hard-fisted hovel with not enough windows and far too many doors, facing the backwater bikini bar flashing a mutinous marquee of lost sheep while wolves in threadbare coats prowled the turnpikes. And there was a feverish sign, just beyond the parking lot jagged with patchwork cars, that leered and loitered, an idle voyeur publicizing skipjack churches which were never seen again.
74.
