Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The client’s feet, they’re submerged in a bucket of stale brown water.
In this room he is a hippo with a bad case of paint blisters. Graciously sans the senile tentacles of her previous client, ‘Perpetual Stalin’ – “in my crematorium it is stifling – in my crematorium my flesh seems to succeed at growing back”. His complaints were amusing, but then – almost artfully – they became oppressive. The pillows in the room and the mites in the carpet had given Perpetual Stalin hay fever and post nasal drip – veritable radioactive gummybears that crawled down the back of his throat. A cavernous submarine taco of allergies, phobias and Pharaonic plagues.
His 150-year-old skin, it was a frayed petri dish of gape-mouthed scabies.
Epic whiskers, though.
Wonderfully incongruous bold handsome tinges of tar blue Superman comic shadow in his hair. Tinges Stalin once said no good hair day could ever call itself that (i.e. a ‘good hair day’) without. In other words a cheap wig that belched out lo-fi profanities like a Casio keyboard in menses.
Wonder Woman’s eyebrows, they gradually lower, their shadows creeping into the broccoli cracks of the blisters on the hippo’s skin.
This john was quite unlike senile tentacular Perpetual Stalin.
The pimp had evidently hidden the cameras in several of the blisters themselves, hence the multi-angle views of herself squaring her shoulders.
In the video, she peculiarly looks down: something about the way the hippo wiggles its toes in the bucket pleasantly like an old person in the shallows of a tepid ocean. Something most depressing.
Her arms, she stretches them out.
Her cape, it expands behind her like a horizon met by a falling celestial body.
She exerts force outward with her arms. Cords and sinews bulge attractively in her neck. Movable walls are the only ways to reach others.