lousy attempt at prose

Choo Bee Bee, thirty-three, lingered over several tables pronouncing rows of pigs, chickens and some other fowl, the steam rising like smoke fragranced with drooling chicken-scented incense, oily and opulent, meant to tempt hungry souls. Herself like a ghost, at some crossroads without ancestors or descendents, slumped here and there with a tray, bowl of rice, some organs and chopsticks, looking, watching, alone. Finally somebody departed. Move, move, excuse me, move, move, sit, sighed, then looked around, gazing at a blurred wall of faces, moving, stirring, background colors, uttering, gossiping, background noise. Someone moves; she has seen him before. A group of teens, looking cool despite the heat, nursing cola as if they were twenty-three and cola was beer. On the table there was a long gold-streaked haired female sucking up what looked like gold-streaked hair from an obvious bowl, hair tinged lightly with specks of chopped-up cow, or maybe a hog or two, self-consuming. A fly settled, then a man shouted at someone behind ten miles of wireless speech, saliva falling daintily like rain into her bowl of hair while she sucked and wiped her mouth, red with the effects of animals spiced daintily with specks of chopped-up chili chips, blew her nostrils and let fly specks, landing softly into soft tissue.

Choo Bee Bee, thirty-three and hungry, observes, then conducts her own swallowing. Picking out a choice cut, chopsticks between her fingers painted red, she slips a grey sliver of liver into her red mouth, masticated, swirled the grey metal taste of blood in her cavity then gulps the gizzards down, grey lump rolling down gullet, missing the lungs (there were lungs on the table though, marinated and braised), missing the liver, missing the heart, then landing with a dainty plop into her belly. Her belly, she observed, had been satisfyingly covered in flaps of a flattering, faded red, lovely cut, choice fabric, that folded like wings and held back a cellulite laden lump, at intervals with a hair here and there. Speaking of hair, she enjoys the clip that held back her black ruffles sufficiently enough such that they folded back neatly. Bought this so long ago, she mused, then mused on her last shopping trip so long ago, adjusted her grey-rimmed glasses, sliding the sliver of metal up her nose, red with heat, the sweat trickling down daintily, landing with a plop like cave-water onto her chest, flowed slowly into her cavities. Picked out another, this time the stomach of some once-alive pig, innocently rotating in mud and shit, and swallowed, tummy meeting another tummy that was not unlike its own.

Choo Bee Bee, thirty-three and too old. Wonders, let her mind wander amongst the chewing and flowing juices, while we enter her brain, all the nooks and crannies congested with blood. She thinks about that long-discarded diet, looks for a new one. Thinks about the long-abandoned gymnasium, feeling tired at the thought of a treadmill. Thinks about that long-forgotten man, not yet forgotten. New ones were hard to come by, and who would come by someone like her? Chomp, chomp, and swallow. Noise buzzed all around her; she swatted a fly-away, pushed aside dreams of rolling blue clouds and green grass lying at the botanic gardens, a man beside her with a picnic basket full of food, filled herself with more organs. Alone, she dripped, and she breathed, and she ate, thinking, alone, while everyone else perambulated and consumed within a steel and brick city and the lunch hour, and everyone else slept on the dark side of the world, and the world rotated in a universe of stars and sequins, which quivered and rotated gently for the time to come.

Choo Bee Bee, thirty-three (although she certainly didn’t look it), affectionately called in the heart as Bee Bee Dear. Daintily picking up bite-sized slivers of seduction like the fairy crane, she slips them past her lips and savors slowly, mouth closed, it is noticed. Gently she tips her green-rimmed glasses up her sharp nose, where it rests at peace for awhile, while he sneaks a peak at her eyes, double-lidded and brown, framed with dainty curled lashes, behind two layers of glass. He sees her through a fog as the ornate ceramic cup curled sashes of steam round his glasses, green-rimmed not unlike hers. She looks good in red, he muses, then muses even more, about the gentle soft haven that might one day house his child, its thumping heart and small growing tummy snuggled gently against hers, rotating gently in a world of its own. He never liked skinny girls, and neither would his mother (who preferred a round bottom fit for a mother), and the only worry left was for him to ask her. The Social Development Unit could help, he suggests, while absorbing sweet images of her delicate pecking, images nutritious to his imagination.

Choo Bee Bee felt eyes on her round shoulders, glanced back out of the corner of her eye. Oh no, she thinks, then rolled her eyes, black becoming white while the world disappeared. Not him, not him. Creep, she thought, and went back to chewing, and thinking of the other guy which ceased to exist.