Incredulous dustmite bite-biting a closed wound re-open, rewinding skinfully placid acts of preservation, the body reforming over itself. Like a glass cocoon prepping for sheet-like shatter. Unlucky thing, there's a world of tape that sticks together this body with all the centuries of others under there.

I slip and slide like 2009 down the unemotive but cake-sweet poof of Marie Antoinette's English-rhythm dress, a silent opera in the background which arms and legs the stage's operatic among Madame Pompadour's greens, pinks and golds, begging for bread and sleep and generational wealth. Suddenly, in her ruffles, finding in her cinched waist a deep set spine, it is as if we have never lived anywhere but in the oily gum-thick coils of cerebrospinal fluid in the bodies of women who were too white to exist behind the sheer cloth of heaven. The sheer cloth of heaven that I see above me now that harrows with its hautely spirits garbed in cloudcloth, which looks a lot like the designer platelets scraped under my toenails at the fifth avenue stores, straightly cigarette thin and as bioluminescent as the angels that swim in the bioluminescent cave bays in Puerto Rico where I went once where I was half free swinging on a vine and where I wasn't hatching inside of a half-made queen's spine sucking at her reverie like a baby to a breast.

The Queen's waist is wet and I am in her blood, coiling out of her like the serpent that I am, festering high wrung platitudes with the perfume smell of roses and the blood is now water. The sky of this body is black and red and blonded headed women swim across the scene I am just a speck of yellow in. Oh Klimt, Oh Klimt, you beastly glow on my conscious, I am housed and gleefully spore-covered in your water serpentresses.

In another life where I was born in Italy, the South so I wouldn't have to run the course of skin bleaching, though to be a stone Aphrodite perhaps would be worth all the mess, I'm sure I sewed corsets among my patches of flowers. There were gazebos to my left, my lovers to my right. And I was only covered in pearls, like the true Birth of Venus. I was a Leonarda, Botticella, Madame Fragonard. As if all the world was Greek beauty and frivolity, my body knew the prance of a colourful designer in an ether where the new was newer than the new is now. Maybe in that life where I span across all time, where my name and craft argue with themselves in the mouths of historian four hundred years after my body Is dust in the ground but still I am alive and hell-raising..

Maybe in that life I'd chop off my ear next to Van Gogh and strip my body more bare than naked, outstretched in the sun-porous sunflowers of Arles and I would be a soil-filled natural divinity. Perhaps he would write about me before he killed himself, or we would have gone to Tahiti together and saved Gauguin's baby "lover". Worn his Primitivist face like a mask and danced with his children and wife like the devils of French Polynesia do, writing in bright yellows in the sky tales of sex and freedom, spitting on Christian bifold texts that smear like a Rorschach what the woman can't be outdoors while revealing her pubis with mascu-lewd Pope-like eyes.

Oh what a time it was to be a man. How I feel I would have loved to be a woman. To stitch and find a stable muse. To flitter from cape to cape with the money off my silk bows which grace the decapitated shoulders of a Queen I would have loved to pat my head before I ran to hold hers at the guillotine, where I too may have died. Bulgum coughing in my throat, yes! Please! What I would do be eating a plate of English Tulle with a side of French Rococo thickly battered in the gloss and shine of creating! Of colour! Of lucidity and daylight and all in a world where there is little that hasn't yet been trended, in a world where there is only country, in a country where there is only city! In a city where my hands are sewing, shaping, and alive.