Jobbed up, teef loaded. A certain tinge of porraceousness; eyes filtered for a girl with Doc Martens and Jean Seberg hair. Dye marshalled against fabric, against all good sense; isms bypassed for aesthetic grandeur. Liminal space invaded; exploration of aberration: another grim fandango. Swollen dreams spat, of debasement, deprivation and hardship. Drop the drop-ship, Sulaco-bound. Strapped in tight, leeches lashed to my broken head. Palimpsest potential, scrape away the asemic: all that big talk, all them dwarves roped & rationalised. It’s the wrong tube now, primed and directed, caught red-headed. Stepchild disguise for the last time now.
I am in telophase.
I am transforming.
I am changing, rearranging.
Written on Tuesday, 7 October 2014