He: effervesces over
lunch and latte. Orchestrating
his Punch and Judy show. Edges.
Angles. Planes of light scattering
from skin as concave as the teaspoon he waves
in her face. Condiments cannot capture
the 'vivacity' of the brittle
clothes racks marching
across his mind. Neon cherry
lips pouting out
from monochrome prints. Living.
Sculpture. Performance.
Art.
She: a winter afternoon audience
of one. Eyes vacant,
muzzled by dreams
of sheep: indigo-
dyed and woolen-
witted. A parade of lollipops,
blurring kaleidoscope sharp.
Trademark head twists, hip flicks, haughty
stares cloned onto toast rack ribs.
Stomach burning, she teeters under the weight of cocoons. Cracking. One
by one. She is retching
up butter-
flies. Flooding
her lungs. Writhing wings that squirm
towards her lips. Fingers
fluttering, she chokes
back gossamer words, flinching
from the mirror-
shattering emptiness sucking
at her out of his iris-
swallowing pupils. Eyes that are
already lacing her into silk
corsetry. Tight
wrenched.
She signs his contract
sightlessly. Designer denim
ink. Stands.
Angular. Canvas-
skinned. Stretched so
taut over easel
bones. Rubbing at indigo
stains blushing her skin.
Overexposed.