Sticks

 

The girl with the clothes hanger limbs

and hard, emaciated, haunting face

trips languidly down alabaster slopes

dressed in chiffon and gossamer threads.

A lightning pure flashflashflash bleaches features

already the shade of phantoms and

the dark socket depths of haunted eyes

are ablaze with a shimmer of flash bulbs.

 

Angular shoulder blades juxtaposed

against razor sharp cheekbones.

Ribs poking out of white flesh

the colour of dead fish

while the finery swishes

provocatively over

nubs of hard gristle

and dry sticks.

 

Pills and potions

sucking the life

from soft tissue

in order to

hang threads

and stitches

from dry twigs

and thorn bushes.

 

Food is

a thing

of the

past.