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A Few Short Words

Dense Not Thick

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Botticelli

Punish

A mash up of mannequin legs and interlocking clams like body horror by Botticelli standing on a plinth totalling maybe two and a half metres high, fitted with a reticulating feature intermittently spurting gouty clots of lumpy red liquid. I ask Mikey what it’s supposed to be and he smiles at me for the first time in months. ‘It’s my period piece,’ he says, folding his arms. I can’t help but laugh and ask if the joke was worth it. ‘An artists place isn’t to value art,’ he tells me, ‘but yeah, it was and is totally worth it.’

Fortitude

I had my suspicions there were a couple valium tucked under the couch. They were either party relics or comedown figments but I had to know. So, I was on hands and knees when she found me, wrist deep in mystery. I turned up my charming face and met a Botticelli gaze far from grace. For a moment I saw her on that pedestal, it was right for her to be above me. ‘I can’t keep watching you destroy yourself,’ she said. So, don’t look, I told her, and kept fishing under the couch, hoping to find some relief.

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