Oh the tears, the bitter tears!

My armpits are crying. The space between my tits is crying. Funny little girl filled too full with liquid. Like a balloon stuck all over with pin pricks. Bouncy bouncy, colourful and fun, but secretly, or not so secretly, leaking.

It’s high noon in Union Square and there’s no shade where I sit. The heat is blazing. I can hear birds cawing –cawing cawing cawing. I can’t see a single bird except for the greasy little pigeon that’s being snuggled and overpowered by the homeless woman with the huge pendulous tits.

She holds the pigeon to her chest, her grey sweat stained tank sticking to her skin, and where the boobs should be, or where the boobs usually are, it’s flat and where her belly is, is where her tits lay.

She squeezes the pigeon to her, scoops up water from the fountain into her cupped hand and puts the pigeon's head in it. Then she goes back to the shady park bench and snuggles the bird tightly to her chest again.

Contact. The need for it.

It’s like Petra von Kant. Or Elmyra Duff, unwittingly killing her cat as she says, "I'm gonna hug ya and kiss ya and love ya and squeeze ya forever and ever."

I watched The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant recently. I liked the two headed monster imagery. And, of course, the histrionics. Oh, and the wigs.





-Camilla