Friday, 4 April 2014

she whose temples were rubbed part - i )

Anecdote from the cutting room floor, circa 2009 … 
cuts
    fresh falling off her aura,
 this girl.
Locks of her soft layers
                              dyed hair flashing in fluorescent light for the last time
 in silence
 her silence
 the silence of her stylist
                     her boots up on the old steel footrest.

She was sickly aware of being one of millions in her country.
One of billions in the world.
Most of whom had been counted by McDonalds
one billion served

Any megalomania of her youth had been drowned
                                                                       or subsided into a pale ascertain of some kinda amegalomania
minority status
in the pantheon of petty class
                              passive-aggressive
                                              weaker-than-war
fare.

She was sick from feeling cold
sick of being stepped on
like every footrest in
every goddamn hair salon
and rickety down home kitchen in the not so deep south where she hailed from.
Snailed from.
Slow to wake up was she
out her hot and humid daydream...  - to be continued