We, so soft and vulnerable here in the midst of our private jungle, we are so scared of our innate fragility that we cover our weakness with vague simulacra of idealised demigods. We pump and preen, pimp our innocence: no more shall we fade away with grace; nay - we shall fight till our dying breath, gasping brittle obscenities through infused lips, confused and bitter, clawing at time with a strength reserved for jilted lovers.
She walks past the boys - men now but still boys where it counts. Minds in the gutter - is she now how we used to crave? The movement is technically stunning but as empty as popcorn for dinner. Hair bursting heavenwards from a taught and unfeeling brow, a shockwave shooting atop eyebrows eternally shocked. She is militarised - ready for attack, for the hoards of horny square-eyed addicts that wilt under the pressure of perfection televised.
The carapace of bad taste is impenetrable - even now, in the act - mid-flagranti all fragrance and expletives. We are building layer upon layer to hide our souls like roots beneath a poisoned soil. As deep as we bury still it seeps inevitably into our innermost secrets and whispers the gruesome and beautiful terror softly into our dreams.
