Claustrophobic, locked in. Mirrored headstones line the grey road. Buried alive, suburban death-row. ‘Did you hear about so and so?’ Blurred race of parallel lines standing still. Masking — one fanes will. Mimic gimmicks with lacklustre flare. Another unforgiving snare. Teeth scraping bone. Smile while blood flows soaking frozen toes. A trend-setting bush, a coat of paint. ‘Oh, look together we’re dammed saints.’ The season of outdoing the clone next door. Marching down the line of uninspired duplication — snore. Bored. Trapped. Locked down on cookie-cutter lane. Painting beige with grey, painfully mundane. Disgusted with one’s own disdain. It really is insane.
© Natasha Sinclair