Either way I’m left with the impression that Dior Homme would smell like garlic, the t-shirt you wore the rave, and a slight musk of “sexy man”. Slightly reminiscent of the snog you had with your last one night stand after finishing the kebab he’d added liberal amounts of garlic mayo to.
The text begins with complete and utter destruction. Like the beginning sequences of Terminator 2: Judgement Day where Sarah Connor is tortured by images of burning playgrounds and cities raised to rubble.
Paris is most beautiful when she is alive and awake and full of people. When the boulangerie lady says “Avec Ceci?”, and When the bus driver is grumpy. When there are children laughing. When there are verres on terrasse. When she is alive and breathing and full like a hive buzzing, making honey and she rumbles like an old machine. Paris breathes, Paris murmurs, Paris shrieks and cries and howls and roars.
I think the inertia of rejection is as seductive as anything else. I quite like being alone, some great lone seabird cutting wide circles in some arctic sky. We’re oceans away. Me the bird, you the sun; sliding away from each other between the folds of water and air.
Snowman – Clay Literary, Raven, issue 12
In the summer I’m a dry pile of sticks. They make bird’s nests in my breast pocket and I become mother for a scant few months, until they fledge and leave me listless. In the autumn the leaves robe me in splendour, I become a king. A crown of orange adorns my head and fleshes out my wooden arms and makes me beautiful. I flicker through the garden like a flame, like bonfire smoke.
Just imagine it. Hold this mental image in your mind: me, dead, inside my coffin, being carried up the aisle by 6 of the strongest people I know, and as they’re walking up there with the utmost sincerity, a tinny little CD player is chorusing: one step closer to heaven baby, is one step closer to you.