Hiding in a Crowded Wardrobe

Somewhere drips the sweat of yesterday, where skin came together and ripped us from ourselves.  Somewhere I am kissing the proverbial, and you’re absorbed in your own sense of tomorrow. Split screens, screens split, screens split us as blossom glues itself to green embers on garden posts and red pillar boxes.  Foam, formly moistness, rich spittle slices through and lands on the plastic lid, the collection of empties, the emptiness of collectivity.  Where did culture go, sucked out of the ether like a curtain caught in a vacuum, stuck and too big. Too big to be removed, yet it hides in a crowded wardrobe, dusty electric blue heels and monochrome brogues. We are left with the petrified unrest of you.  We are left with the dreaded calm, the luxuriant death swerve. I hear you, not much you can do from an overcrowded furniture space where never worn night gowns hang and fake fur stoles fall on dress fabric and broken plastic hangers.

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