"Blood on the Dance Floor: TM's Switchblade Edit," Michael Jackson
Ira has a toy with a rainbow-colored tail he's obsessed with. It's in a cabinet, duct-taped shut because he kept opening it, rifling through like a burglar. When he gets it, it's like he still wants it. That's how I am about dancing to this song.
How it starts! There's no way to stop
your rotting shadow come out to play,
sweat blossoming into the inky stains of your shame.
You choke on air as
curtains rise,
listing in releve
on a stiletto heel.
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