on the artworks of JACK RUBY aka JACOB LEON RUBENSTEIN,
American artist and assassin 1911–1967
"Imagine a beer brand called Two Beer Queer sold only in two packs,"
He'd slurred.
Stoned and drunk on the patio.
Arm slung around some new strange friend.
And the conversation went on.
A while.
Take a stab at the abacus —
What are you supposed to do after you're tired of playing as yourself?
(drugs)
Let someone else take over?
(songs)
Big gimmick change?
(clothes)
Maybe have a kid?
Volunteer fire department?
Sell real estate?
Dissociate?
Masturbate?
(What are you supposed to do after you're tired of playing with yourself?)
Much to contemplate —
A future in which you're demanded.
Wrinkled and withered.
You can still kind of dance.
A bit.
Trot.
Tut around.
Fit into old pants.
Taut.
Tuck.
"Hey-hey,"
They say,
"You don't look a day over ninety-nine,
baby-bun."
They'll say:
"So-so so-so so-so young,
at the high old age of a hundred-one."
She hates the way her bit of bellyfat cottage-cheese hung low and uneven when she'd make videos of herself getting fucked doggystyle.
Does all her own editing because ever since the old accounts Got Deleted it's been difficult to get the subscriber count back up.
Old sales funnels don't function anymore.
"It's not that I'm fat,"
She isn't.
"It's just, like, the angle? Or something . . . I'll have to ask Jason, I think his little brother went to film school . . ."
He hadn't.
But it was a plan, albeit one doomed to failure.
𝙻𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙴𝚁𝙾𝚂, 𝙲𝙰
[false ending]
[false ending]
$ 𝔹𝕆ℕ𝕌𝕊 $ 𝔹𝕆ℕ𝕌𝕊 $ 𝔹𝕆ℕ𝕌𝕊 $ 𝔹𝕆ℕ𝕌𝕊 $
ᵂᴵᴺ ᵂᴵᴺ ᵂᴵᴺ