You are a super fine string woven into a woman. You are an elasticated epiphany of glitter. You are a smoking gun from which has been shot chewing gum and multi-coloured vomit. You are balancing on a rope made of your own disbelief. You are.
But you should be a massive multi-headed monstrosity in a tie with leather brogues on your feet and hairspray in your hair. You should be speaking into the microphone in a low broad voice, eating the microphone, channelling BBC presenters with nasal voices and too tight shoes. You should be stropping away those layers and layers of clean crisp shirts and hats and socks and gloves to reveal hard heated flesh. You should be inhaling the smoke that once wafted out, dulling its colours in your grey metallic belly, synthesising the chewing gum into protein and rubber. You should.
You would be an illumination of a fantasy. You would be a channel between two tracts of land where aquatic cannibals feast on glittering flesh. You would be many. You would be few. You would be showering in golden fluids dripping from the mouths of your own monstrous incantations. You would be chanting through gales of sea winds, birds flapping in your face, fish slapping you with their tails. You would be speaking of scientific graphs but you would be screaming about statistical epiphanies that have been revealed to you by your own selves.
You might combine eggs, milk and water with a soothing home time voice, bringing forth a light and feathering recording with all the qualities of a good sponge cake. You might spit in it and your spit might be made of glitter and you might vomit, but your vomit would be sugary molasses. You might ease off those tight brogues and tenderly tread along the lined patterns in the carpet in your socks. You might enter and exit with few or more people or stand silently in the corner grinding your teeth. You might.
I really like this – second person is going to be all the rage this season!!!