A Murder of Silhouettes

I

She pulled herself around on her broken spine. Pulled it like she had a point to make. What her mouth spelled was no word for the bevy of codeine vampires that affixed themselves to her strata. They shivered and gibbered, affianced to her sweet aroma.
"I do not ghost ride the fucking whip," Keats said with authority, her dignity flaming fuck you's. She held the door open as a moth flew in, hoping to meet a butterfly. Keats smiled, she'd seen the moths flutter straight onto the flypaper we'd glued to the coffee table. I sat back on the bar, a coka-cola in one hand and a cigarette and a shot in the other. The medikamenten in my stomach had started fucking with my head. PM and AM were all mixed up, daylight shone breezily in a waft that stunk of daisies. The moth quivered, asked for dandy-lion wine and stuck its nose out for a sip. I flicked a black fingernail out and severed its ties to the earth. Keats got on the couch next to the girl and all her admirers, their suckers praying for a grasp.
It was 1934 and the bubbles in the champagne burst pretty sepia. The ne'er-do-well threw her hat on a rack and gave me a look like we didn't have enough bullets for the proboscis-wearers around the lady. Her dress was almost off her and vodka saturated the air around her.

II

I was a darling number named Delilah at this point, but colours were already more vivid than the Yellow Submarine. "I don't need another," I slurred to Keats. She wasn't actually a woman, but for the sake of moths and the suction cup black hole in the blue dress, we had agreed upon this beforehand. I didn't think I could pull out my revolver in time, and when I looked at it in my bad, it fairly grinned back at me. "Motherfucker," I breathed out.
"Don't you have any less dreary records?" the lampreys on the couch yawned, their fangs bared at my intentions. Keats grinned as she spit out some paper. "Everything here is broken into fractals, ladies," she laughed. "Our Delilah didn't want to pull the be-bop on a couple of swaggerers."
Stumbled over to the antichrist and sat cross legged on the floor in front of the couch. The pistol tucked in my pocket giggled. "Have you heard of a game called Russian roulette, miss?" I asked the fully aware girl. The suckerfish descended on the moth before I closed my mouth, leaving rorschach patterns on the linoleum.
The Goddess shook as her spine ate up her organs. Keats closed the door and turned off the lamp.