a shifting biopsy that lactates and eventuates in private bathroom stalls,
and heads in hands.
One cubicle over:
and we see her leap through the cracks in the wall to hide away from this gut-burn
He follows her into a dark street and hears her disturbed inhalations,
and he taps on with a key in the door and a wife asleep.
Turn back one page,
Strings of ink lacing up her neck,
the artist hovering over her breast.
A crash outside polarises the crowd in fascination and horror,
the trend embellished with lazy eyed ink skulls dropping off the surface.
They restring their instruments and carry on the concerto: this dissention is less permanent than one into Breach Street.