What’s left of the bright-eyed clutter from yesteryear’s grateful careful hands?
Did their souls escape while forgotten, undisturbed in plain sight on this relentless turntable land?
Rebirth forever ash-encased in the carnage petty with privilege
What survives but the discarded shells of what may have been
A lost consumed air-con autumnal warm embrace of manicured childish desperation
Out of step or season in a gossiped armoury of dancing dominance
Sharp only as flowery faux pas or oh oh eau de parfum or shhh schadenfreude or slaying slazenger toying titleist in a prancing conformist coughing cornflake gleeful spittle spite
Embossed by fashionable universal anti-depressants against that forbidden pariah margin
In a teetering relevance at a private ghosting party buffoons blanked in a harem
Sliding off like nothing to
Flight of Fancy by Anna Sui