Thursday, September 11, 2014

Made to measure.

A new life beckons.

Hope encapsulated in a new suit, I look at myself in the mirror.

I don't recognise myself. The tailor reassures me. He does up the buttons on my jacket.

I look at myself in the mirror.

"Will you do the turn-ups?"

"Certainly Sir."

It is personalised.

My image is defined, I am suitable for function.

Made for Measure.

How is it I know that I am worn by the suit and not the other way round?

I am made anxious keeping up its appearance.

I walk down the street.
I am anonymous.
I belong.

I feel a longing, a dull longing.

Branded, a superior cut, I have a fine sheen.

I am made for measure.

Take a knife, slash, let me bleed.

Be careful not to stain, to bruise my flesh.

Skinned, tenderised, jointed.

Painlessly killed.

I cook, a Sunday roast.

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