Wednesday, 29 August 2012


Listen. Princess. We cannot have you dying like the others, can't have you skinning your knees, can't lose the crabshell-pink glow in your cheeks.

This town needs you pristine.

When the minstrels and the alchemists ask, where is your princess, where is her smile, we must be able to unhook the catch on the tower window and let it creak wide and say, "Lo!" and "Behold!" and reveal you to the world.

Too long, I say, too long we have been the butt of the jokes, been the punchline. We are sad that they point, your mother is sad, there are postcards of carparks and suburban shopping malls with our name on them. All we want is to be something.

All we want is that people flock from far and wide, that they gather here like mercury. Unconsciously led. All we want is a trickle like the hole in the damn, the pressure, the building; all we want is goddamn immortality and diamonds, all we want is an arrow lit up round the sides like a starlet's dressing room mirror. Listen, can you hear the sound of the bulbs all turning on: plink, plink, plink?

It's been too long that we've here sat and shrunk, our village the final manicure on a dying woman who left her will to the geraniums, left her diamonds to the dirt. We don't need diamonds but we do need to singe the alabaster from our skies, we do need to paste a typewritten love letter over the cracks, we do need to bung our holes up with glue.

Listen. Princess. Stop tugging at the leather, stop turning quite so pale. We are just waiting for another sunrise and the world to notice.

We are just waiting for this telephone to ring.

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