Quintessentialist

It smells of mothballs - the launderer soaked it with formaldehyde, those possum-grinning teeth clasping the fir collar, the stiff neck, like bleach and pressed in attic dust. Emerald cuffs with silken lining of russet, gold, and buttons to match the grit. It is the zealous after-massacre of trips to Africa, on airplanes with a surplus of of space for Chanel - heels and pearls and feather combs for salon-blown hair. The indomitable edifice of retrospective femininity, cushioning the fleshy pink grapefruit - oh, you gluttonous men. And then, with shackled fingers masochation breeds its piquant scent. Our secrets are in our trash. Those intoxicating women, those tantalizing men. In decadent depreciation she would wear this coat, battling butterscotch beasts with taut skin and this fall’s pastel, bunny-eared scarves. That golden ring a sacreligious protestation - a Puritan lie, precipitating chastity for young girls. A manifesting weed inside her bulbous body, a last attempt, je suis, je suis, catharsis achieved.