why then, do you mock us with your teeth big and your hips, these jangling medallions across your skin, this simperingness, this lip-smacking, rib-tickling obscenity of yourself? our interiors are fine in their suburban-shopping-centre-on-a-wednesday-morning desolation, inhabited by our inner freaks and lackeys nursing silent erections while waiting for the next big sale at the reject shop. this has been our lives all our lives long, please calm down.
like plastic flowers proffered for admiration, your shimmering legness foxtrots and splits across a gaudy floor, and i can hear my mother groan across a room, a groan of lazy good-taste and habits. it is not me, it is my mother, who is circling the bits of you with this red-pen, squeaking nib and a routine sigh of a nap withheld. it is she, not me.