Trigger Flesh
A close friend. She has no name. Clothing she has in wardrobes stocked, multitudes of configuration and pattern. Hair in all varieties of style. Color, cut, curl. Looks for every season, whims with every reason painted on an opaque visage in rouge and shimmer. Pieces carefully charted and measured in some always-shifting optimal pursuit like the meticulous work of engineers revising their mass marketed product for annual release. It never ends, the tinkering and deliberation. The meters that are ticked and the dials turned. The thought the engine that drives existence, a memetic virus burrowing comfortably in your conscious. Once the door is opened, there her home will always be. A live-in house guest custom made to serve. Her body. Contorting, distending. The face a mosaic of parts stolen from a catalog in constant update. A billboard, a commercial, a person picked out from a crowd. The puzzle pieces move as oil stirs in water, quick to morph and disseminate after holding form for an ...