Monday, 23 August 2010

My clothes.

They're black and shiny. You could reach inside that darkness, place your keys there, lose them, and while pulling arm out get stars stuck on your hand. A slight heel (to improve posture), and my laces don't look all- mickey mousey-big eared. In fact there are no laces (unless you're looking)
simple, yet effective. Plus, practical.

My suit- designed by Max Fiumara. Think nineteen fourties- constantly 2D (the only way you could see me) Dark blue shades to whatever shoulder is raised ridiculously higher. Every detail is out of place and changes with every blink. It lets me stride through floor boards and people with ease.
Going up with a jet pack (because there's a jet pack on my back. Big and bulky- shiny with mork and mindy late-nineteen seventies possibilities)

My hands are tightly wrapped in kevlar bandages marinated in regret, shame and rage. Hermes wings on my ankles, just to brush the dust off my shoes. My watch, like the laces, is hidden-until you notice it. When you notice it you wonder how you didn't before.