For Every Year: 1745 c/o Penny Goring

pompadour plastilina

mudder tells me men are for the melding, she is worth less than me, she showed me how to do the body-begging, i wear her knackered bod-suit with glued-on protrusions, i prep my louche in the umber awnings under the pipes, i work the deluxe bits of me, flogging it, laconic, to nippers and odds, this is all there is, and you live here too, i know you, you pay up reluctant, and you stink same as i do, bitter petromix to suffer and mould.

each birthday mudder gives me to the p-sci, they take a part of me away, replace it with a nuvo-porn p-part, last year i got the standard 12th p-part - my vinyl shrink-to-fit vag, year before i got my exceptional polyanus, next week i'll get the 13th p-part - my very own self-healing hymen - i'll be ready to go into full service, p-gits will always pay plastic for my perpetual deflowerings, i'll be an unpolished basic-immaculate, and mudder's eyes will be every day glazed sparklers, she'll never do thirsty again, never suck from the vomitous puddles outside the juice dens for her crucial dosage, never lie down under the tables, mouth wide, catching stray slops and spillage, else she sees clearly, she tells me, the indigo insects with fluorescent wings, erupting from her pores to twitch on her skin, flying out her nostrils and ears, flooding her vision with their dark poison hosts, long leggers, busy and vital.

i believe they actually really are alive in her head, weaving webs, laying eggs, they must be, because when mudder is shaking and clucking, i see them yucky buzzers, too - we must buy her cluck juice, it fizzes cobalt blue, same as the sky does in this Paris-2, i lug it in buckets from the p-freaks, mudder necks every plastic i make, and she doesn't feel hunger or cold, she feels only the null of the juice force, i do all the feeling round here, feely-touchy, that's me.

i never show i care - if you catch the starey-sadness you can float in the haze above these pipes in an upright position for days, just staring, sad-eyed, unable to speak, motionless, except for your hands, down by your sides, flapping like fins - after 4 or 5 days you descend into the sleepy-sadness, curled in on yourself in the greyest of pipes, where you get funnelled to melt for the p-plant.

ghosty dadder got the starey-sads when i was only a babber, but somehow, he got trapped in that phase, he's been floating and flapping for years - mudder put the sheet over his head, she couldn't cope with those eyes, seeing but not seeing, the stuff we have to do to get by - he's our mute brute, the hover-sack, a breathing shadow, follows us where we squat or squabble, never leaves us, my ghosty dadder, he is a comfort, and a warning, to me.

i work it beside him, he drifts lower each day, held by the hazardous crosswinds.

last night i was on my tum in the multi-pipes for one hour, had a reasonably long queue of scummers, was a success in my laminated froth-nots - afters, running to the p-freaks for the 2-gallon buckets of blue, i thought: ''cluck it!'' and kept on running 'til my toes fed red to the rats.

i ended up in the luminous souks, i'd never been there before.

lanterns swung all showy from the looming q-towers, flexi-pretty people on their balconies, slurping ices and smiling, sun-streamers and cloud-hoppers revving on the ledges of their swimming pools, polyethylene bubbles galore, plenty pink lover inflatables stacked for buying on the stalls - this year's must-have souvenir, balloons bobbing high taking q-kids for pleasures, p-butterflies smouldering incense of fresh-gladness, small explosions in my head got louder with the crowds - everywhere, sheeted men, walking not floating, with cut-outs for eyes, and on their arms, the beauty-polished super-immaculates, always willing, in every description of gorgeous, and in the centre of this hectic crew, a girl on a raft of peonies held aloft by ten fat naked men, all sweating, lashed by one fat naked man to move faster through the hundreds of gawpers - jostled and trod on and tugged in her ebb, i stood in awe, she was perfect - pearlised, and plastinated full-fleshy with ripe protoplastic body-blips, she had a gash girdle grown of pure plastos, and sailing proud behind her, the banner bearing her legend: I WILL ENHANCE YOUR LIFE. I AM BETTER THAN YOUR WIFE.

i was undoubtedly glimpsing the undisputed true queen of the p-plastic scene: the adored pompadour plastilina, smooth in her chic tan-plastique, loving whoever she chooses.

i don't know how to do big money, i don't know how to talk gentle guile, i'll never get a permit to flog it in the souks, i don't even know if my face fits, there aren't any mirrors in the pipes - if I ever do catch my reflection, i'm scared i'll see the starey-sadness squashed deep in me.

i sing the body p-plastic
i sing the nuvo-porn p-part
i sing the dream plastination
i sing the self-healing heart.