Here, lads, this song, No Eyes, reminds me when – this the common end to a normal night, being after, well in the new day, stooped but standing over a laptop, headphones at the end of their tethers, harsh pebbles on eardrum – I was dancing, the spasm done when really beyond, towards something, want to be decomposed so hard you shake when, wrapped in said reverie, I threw my real head with No Eyes off the clear blunting screen. A numb ice-star of pain explored the land beyond the right socket. God, it felt like everything - one clip in my eyebrow, a cut to go brown, drowned itself babe-red. Staid for now. Within seconds blood mapped half my face; I stared at the mirror of the wall, a crystal sheet where I glared, often, at my wide-eyed soul sinning by the computer, cooing softly the ghost of my mother leaving the pink church of my mouth in the name of calm and shortened moments. And I could sit on this pyramid of clothes and whisper out this story to upset you into loving me. I could speak to myself, tut like fictional husbands, clean their hands far from my body, gorgeous and damaged and chaste.
I’m fierce, I’m fabulous, I lurk in the dark of underground clubs in baroque blouse and black choker and watch me swing, girl, watch me switch. Chakras spill over my loincloth. Boys can lick the air around me but the field of attraction slays for no one but me, me dancing in the midnight rainbow as I enter the cubicle. Beads of sweat pulse to the beat. Francis Bacon sings to me: Go, Queen! Go home. Squatting like The Thinker I stare back at the pimples on my thighs, the markings of disease, dark pustules like chocolate shells. Come on, girl, you got this - the perpetual stain of skin. The lust for bitter seed, an antihistamine.