At the Möbius Strip Club of Grief, come on in, the ladies are XXX! If you want the skinny ones we got skeletons cracking round those poles. And over at the bar—there’s Grandma, with her breasts hanging at her stomach—gorgeous with a shook manhattan, and murderous with a maxi pad. At the Möbius Strip Club of Grief all the drinks are free. Grocery store rosé in gallon bottles on every table. And the dead don’t want your tips. They just want you to listen to their poems. Don’t do anything dangerous. And call every once in a while. In fact, they tip you at the MSCOG. With checks. With a sigh they’ll throw one down at your feet—We make it rain with checks.
Then the dead are sitting at the back of the club, dying further. Sniffing. Shuffling into the bathrooms, holding their skin in their hands, farting methane and sobbing across the stage with their last meal—it’s the raciest show in town. And ladies, there’s men too, hanging themselves on the bathroom doors and from the rafters, totally naked, with their cocks in their hands, tears coming down their faces. Ladies, you’ll love how their feet smell. How their bones protrude. How they leave no note.