Salon

Everything’s collage, pastiche, pictures gummed atop each other; puppets strung on wire or made to bob on long sticks behind the shower curtain. Show a leg, honey; it doesn’t matter if you haven’t shaved. Whistle some kind of sarabande and curtsy. The image of the king is drawn with curlicues of paperclip wire for a beard; he’s consort to a queen dressed in petticoats of coffee filters, stiletto heels clad in leather and copper. How handsome they look, in that hipster kind of way. I strain to hear them speak, but the noise levels on the patio are much too high: clatter of dishes and coffee cups, banter across the counters; buzz of tiny machines that fit in the palm of the hand. The leaves of potted plants need moisturizing. The only one I want to talk to is the bird in a cage in the back of the room, its eye a tiny bead, surveying.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Fishy.

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