A lot was possible between me and the barricades, in that diffused concrete daylight. I hadn’t been wearing black long enough for it to fade. In a precinct after everywhere had shut I let a chancer in a second hand suit touch me up; no more than anatomy lessons on a bench one side of a hexagon.
6.30, on their territory; I’d passed some sort of initiation, was allowed in. Some were wearing T-shirts with the names of people I hadn’t heard of yet. The resistance who couldn’t keep a secret.
There was a sculpture made of plastic that would never quite set. You could smell it slowly re-shaping itself feeding off our dead skin and hair. The sound of beckoning anger in that empty curve; crouching electricity waiting for one of us to turn something on.
She was a face to hate and as easy to recognise; as barcodes gained value one side of the line was distorting. There was a feeling it was the last of anything new and reaction was shot with purity.
Our fuel didn’t come with instructions, it was alright to be thin but alright wasn’t enough; we wanted to make the biggest noise, be the baddest fright. Synthetically made-up and dyed, scaring people was my best defence.
I didn’t know I was doing deconstruction. There were no accidents.