StoRy TiMe

See Harley Quinne, hisher hair of marmalade, hisher eyes of honey, hisher skin of milk. Eyes slied down, a figure thin as a needle, a figure thin as a rain, stepping slow yet moving fast. At times, both hisher feet leave the ground at the same time, yet still Harley Quinne strides on... a shadow full of purpose.

All is stuntered silence quiet... All is glitchless still...

"Quickly now..." heshe whispers, in a voice like ice melting in hot whiskey, "Hop on up into my pocket... we've no time to lose..."

And so you do.

And all is the richness of tinned-goods and glittering lips, saliva rich, saucy, opaque, vague.

"You know," heshe says, norrow eyes smiling, silvered teeth gleam "if you end up in prison... they don't even let you out for Christmas... Can you imagine that?!"

And no you can't.

The night is all frozen-food goodness and flaming pie. Oh the flaming pie of the evening! And oh how the air is sharp as a knife, sharp as a gleaming spitmask! By fuck sir that is sharp, oh that is!

Musclemen stricken with muscle wasting diseases, shuffle on snow-tuned corners. Short, short peoples with dark eyes and secrets, smelling of the earth and sweat, moving out of sight. Female performers with one leg shaved, framed by elongated doormen that flow and flood the doorways of blackened doorways shining. Faces gone wrong.

And Santan, a misshapen wreckage beneath red and ragged clothing, breathing hard, making his way between the naked animal complexions of the spindled things that waddle in gutters that rain grey-brown water in turn. All milky eyes turn to admire Santan's steaming, threadbare sack, that sags exhausted,like a bruised gonad, over Santan's vast, misshapen shoulder.

Kneecapped urchins carved from spuds and spud sacks leap from the windows of gleaming, amber inns, encircling him. Their hungry, animal eyes pierce the air like pools of oil in their ashen, ruptured faces. Bruised harlots loiter in phosphorescent doorways, like bruised, over-ripe fruit.

Inside, Gents with indecypherable voices and cider ruined features, spill their flesh over chairs and children alike. Their cancerous complexions are fly-haired, their dribbling teeth carved from chunks of pure nicotine. Eyes astray as overcooked fingers fumble for the windfall flesh of over-ripe barmaids.

Santan moving through gutted tea-bag streets, his coughing a contaminated brook damned by a brace of rotting hare, as splintered, limbs snapped urchins flicker and retreat beneath the wide-screen gaze of Harley Quinne.

Season's greetings, Rollo