A little ditty facilitated by my new writing group/favorite thing(?), Hoes Before Prose (working title).
Yoko is rooting around under the pink ruffle of her four poster bed with the canopy. She knows the other Yokos tried to call her cuz she didn't come to band practice, laid around, got high and ate peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches on enriched white bread. But she couldn't move, she was paralyzed by her own breath, her poofy black hair spread across the pillow when a fly alighted on her chest. It circled her nipple, perched on top of a silver button on her army drab oxford shirt, buzzed faintly, rubbed its legs together, probably threw up. She imagined that it threw up.
The other Yokos would be tuning their drums, cracking open beers, energy building into a wave they didn't want to break, not now, not like this, blue balls when they didn't get to play.