Overload or mood as metaphor:
It’s not overly difficult to be striken by pink, when the pictures I’m thinking in clash—
The recovery starts when colours feel like bullets…
A nice smote pink can do the trick, sometimes it’s something altogether more violent: violent colours for violent moods. Sometimes it’s something unpleasant for a foul one, sometimes delicate or spiritually arresting even— but nothing to get arrested with. Sometimes it’s something from the satin-range with its carefully selected blend of subtle whites with ‘a hint of brain’ or something similar. Anything really, to aid the relief of migraines— or something else… Just nothing that looks too sticky.
It can be a ghastly thought— a lack of style, a collection of both. Anything.
It’s enough to make you scream at times— in lines mostly: straight ones, bendy ones, it doesn’t really matter; lumpy lines too— it certainly makes turning a corner particularly interesting— not the easiest thing in the world to do at the best of times, but if you’re in the habit of frequenting just the one room and treating all other rooms, as little more than extensions to that room and to the utilities you find… well, they’re rooms too. Stuff can be a pest.
But they’re not, because they’re little more than cupboards in the house that is no longer a house— just a giant pantry with fewer doors— bigger mind; and floors little more than a convenient place to put things.
A pirouette on the other hand is still a pirouette, just no longer a turn. It is a dance, or— since we’re on the lines, it’s the turn of economy: an extension of something that’s part of a dance— when accompanied of course; because a twirl without music is little more than a spasm, and I for one, prefer to do my spasming in the company of friends, which cancels out any semblance of being a part altogether.
And then there are the lists: comma, comma, comma…
It’s easier to lampoon what grates you, in the same way it helps to imagine idiots are made from cheese— it’s fun. It’s one of those versatile food stuffs that not only tastes great but is a self-contained irony-box— and in itself, a rose-tinted; white-washed review of bad taste only far, far sweeter— you can obliterate it in so many ways.