Antlers growing out of my skull make it very hard to go down on her. She complains like a hacksaw banjo. Think sharp edges and open fret boards. Now a silk tie is just a tip jar hanging from my neck. Give me your broken molars, your ink spots, your Technicolor umbrellas and your fingertips. Now my bones have shifted three feet to the left. Give me your virgin fat, your internet message boards, your swagger. Now the policemen are ducks and their plumage is starched and crisp. She hurls words at me give me your penguin dust and your Christmas trees, nodded out in their pebble glory.