I mean it to be a thing that is lank but fond like a dead feather boa no-one can remember who it belonged to originally god
but you still grab it
when you’re loose, and flamboyantly tear it round your shoulders with nary a thinking.
Look, it’s like a plastic bucket lying around that you tip some rainwater and dead leaves from
before turning it to another purpose.
I dunno. A zucchini harvest or the like.
Look. It’s just the same as
when you go to Zara or H and M and you KNOW that the innocent polyesters died in their thousands for the pelt you now drape with hope over en-sleekened peach, the in-sucked stomach of your comely bargains.
The polyesters died, and you will probably buy this little rag. But no matter. You could also just wear a bucket.
No-one really knows this but
if you shush down the voices of your own makeover hamlet,
the Muse pops up and tells you what to wear anyway.
THIS IS HER MAIN FUNCTION.
Image: Buckets / flickr
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