Away
Orange bodycon is cheap in untitled store. She says; slinkiness
is overrated when you can dress like a superhero. Is it that since the
multistorena opened its little sister got busier too? Maybe the away of
towering glass walls, creates a glorified home in these arches. Out of the old
centre into 'the City' and its starting to become clear, that just one inch
above usual height suddenly brings the crowds to a much more manoeuvrable eye
level. Survival; in platforms. Tile to tile, sheen to gleam, performing a
straighter, astuter walk. But better off in ice-skates.
I'm sorry! Excuuuuse me. Its just, I function better in a
fringe! Growing away with that block square, of hair, is my ability to
contain. The aesthetic of my face now replaced by something more mindless. So
overwhelming everything has become, so incompressible; neon letters swim
unfriendly through theatre glass walls. Pencil skirts prance around a makeup
counter, with every beige I have ever seen. Prance around paletted, each liquid
to powder pot-head, like a mini desert, laid down and just able to peer out
through roundpot eyes. Scoop it up and plaster it on then! Theres only one true match,
and I'm worth it.
Edible. The paper cup looks as tasty as the coffee. The
tangerine ribbon looks as tasty as the wrap. Coupled with the guy is the doll.
I sip. The texture of milk is soothing. Arabica. And flat feet shuffle. And mops
of hair waddle through un-accepting bodices.
Home alone and the strings fall. Humidity is cosy but
unsettling. Home, where hunger is boring, and naps make for fuzzy cozy heads.
Windows show the outside, rather than the in.
Mine mind is not clear when I travel away, back into the city of
your stone cold room. Away. I choke like a suckling survival babe, in a
concrete ship, with a water body that makes me sick.
But suck hard enough to melt the walls.
Then lay embered, at-least warm, in his dosey tan limbs.
Made up, in my powder pot tomb, And curled up like a kitty,
away, I make for the deepest sleep I ever knew.
