I sit, lean to my left, away, because I don’t want to talk to you…and those aren’t questions marks. You assume so much.
Skip the description. Critiques, hollow and phantom, set within a club circuit that confers more blue than black, or black as blue, however you’ll have it. I don’t care. Get out of my face.
From across the room a man spots a hot dog in a bun painted in green camouflage, like what’s she trying to play on, some garden abstract or a phallic assault that happens to be strategically placed above the eye of that man lost in black, an eye that disappears when you zoom into the magnity of the thrash and…. Oh, splash me silly, Mama.
Then that needle disguised as a strike, a knife-edge drawn toward the name ‘Abbott’, while three micro streaks decay into abstraction, the obviousness of which even you missed.
In the dark forgotten, the water falls from a cold and dreary height, and partially disguises the goings on within the cavern behind. You think you’ve got me fooled, I sigh, but I’ve been there, seen that. I must look naïve.
The snake you hide is another matter altogether, and therein sits your intention. I give you credit for that shiah, Hebrew or Persian, it doesn’t matter. I see the beak stretched ready to strike what’s off linen and unsaid, like it’s something about Al Wilson, I guess.
I’m nothing but a little girl smack in the middle, frozen in fear below the death mask that fell off your left side, under a noncommittal cry that communicates: ‘Take me in, oh tender woman…take me. Ssssss.’