Beware the love child of Bruno Mars and Nicole Scherzinger
who’s superpowers could bore you into a Play Doh figurine
sentencing you to a life of regimental choreogra-yawns
should the only cure escape your malleable mind;
a 21st century rarity that many doubt the very existence of,
a Rhianna costume that covers more than a toe’s worth of flesh.
Night in and night in and night in stabbing Twiglets at your face
whilst your arse sits amalgamated to a spongey sofa of crumbs
the one hundred and twenty million percent predictable
fudge of pram babies whaling through contrivance
upon lording scarecrows of bleached teeth and horse tail hair
would thumbprint dependency into your one tone being.
You’d not find that antidote easily beneath Chris Brown’s bed
as deep thirsts for syrupy intakes of meaningless sludge shake
through your dense, airless, squeezed to inconsequence body
that only moves to a corner shop and back as if a puppet
being unstuck and plodded elsewhere to line up silently
fingering through a glossy about the next impeding brain rape.
Beneath the faint, tinny whispers of a freer co-passenger,
across stores to further, non air conditioned, less lit places,
within pages that don’t hatch down the spine
for a hand to burst out of and pull your eyes from their sockets
to point you in the straightest, most generic and plain of paths,
is where the medicine of a dress beyond buttock length lives.
Wash and iron after every outing you dress within it,
sew any rogue threads back into its delicate seams,
store on a hanger so it may rest after a constructive day,
feeling bit by bit, your being not a state of static decay
but an evolving, reforming, mobile, inquisitive organism,
stronger and of more flesh each bold costume outing.