THE DOLL’S MALFORMATION

I just decided to mend the ways, which are wrong according to what? I should ask. The collective agreements are born from individuals with a voice. I have a harmonious voice, to impetuous by defect, a vice i have from the cradle I guess. The doll’s malformation, wired poseable mannequin trapped in a strange position, forever? The body changes, the soul remains, distinguishable form from far and from the back. Abandoned attic furniture, still preserving the taste for what is fine, divinity runs flowing in the core, through what matters. Under a table cloth, stained since the bloody evening of your leaving, marks penetrated on the fibers, staying as tattooed in the skin. I use a block plane, noble as the carpenter’s trade is the mission I got embarked on; the old caramel varnish, cracked visible parts, the splinters can hurt as I tend to play it hard. Mend it, mend it, mend it before the night is here, natural light, filtered water, bio-logical needs, body parts and a syndrome; theoretical dysfunction, academically approved to walk by the herd’s side. Make a beautiful par of crutches, so the growing life’s limp remains bearable, cranky beloved of mine. I have a tool box full to bursting, and I reach ecstasy in the analysis of detail, is going to so much fun to use them all and discover I have new ones... B_Nour