Talking to the Thin Girls

I’m typing to the thin girls through alien dimensions
Their fairy world is all apples and coffee machines.
I picture their bodies winding through cyberspace.
Their sockets, their signals, their wires, their codes.

Their empty, skinny word cafe. Only typing, only byting
And hanging headless photographs in pink and white
You can see them in the shadows of the solar plexus
And hear the churning vinegar complaints of shrinking stomachs.

Smoke curls in and out of those billowing clothes:
Steam and sails never really fuelling these delicate vessels
Only hiding the secret black engines of evaporating flesh.
They admit this once behind their square, shining figureheads.

The operators work calmly, splintering fingernails on keys,
Screeching out dialtones for friends in untouched cities.
You could have seen the pills descending, stretching her.
The hospital door closed. I couldn’t slip between the hinges.