Queen
Victoria’s mourning dress is fretted and frayed. Black lace is torn, layers
fall apart. Make way for flowerbombs of motorbike helmets and industrial
curlicues, dresses of picture frames, white outfits imitating corners of
permanent cubism. Tulle is shorn by chainsaws and hundreds of tiny bells
cascade down nightgowns, frozen freefall. Haute couture survives on
entrancement fees. It’s hot January and where to sit? Only next to an old lady
in cotton like a sheet. We rest, our gaze on the floor where endless runway
movies cannot impose. Some people don’t even own a coat, only the rags they’re
in.
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