Tristan Robert Lange

disco fries

the dotted eyes—

red luminescence

in horrid technicolor—

were there...hanging.

there.

stapled. stretched lids

crossing the stipes—

a patibulum of flesh.

why?

he jokes—

next to his wife...

his little daughters—

that though he ordered

he could,

undressing me,

still LOOK

at the menu.

naturally,

i nodded

as if i agreed.

then watched him

bleed.

fulfilled the need

to staple his eyes

above the listing of

disco fries,

now offered at a

discounted rate

if you order

off the bloody menu

late.

Part of the Darklings collection.

First published on tristanrobertlange.com, October 30, 2026.

Tittu