Pena, her litle head clinking like a barrel of red velvet balls full past noise, treats filled her eyes, turning them yellow like enamel coated tacks, soft like butter hard not to pour out enjoying the sun while sitting on a turned on waffle iron, smoke billowing up from between her legs made me vomit beautifully and crush a chandelier, fall on my stomach ‘n view her from a thousand happened facets liquid red salt ran over crystals, I later band-aided the area sighed Oh well it was worth it, Pena pleased but sore from sitting, choose to stub her toe ‘n view the white pulps horribly large in their red pockets “I’m tired of playing baby,” she explained ‘n out of uh blue felt box let escape one yellow butterfly the same size, its dropping were tiny green phosphorous worms that moved in tuck ‘n rolls that clacked ‘n whispered in their confinement, three little burnt scotch taped windows several yards away, mouths open to tongues that vibrated ‘n lost saliva. Pena exclaimed, “That’s the raspberries.”