No joke. She’s never worn the same outfit twice.
Today, her shirt’s a careful hand-stitched reproduction
vintage-90s soft-weave cotton-construction
fuchsia Tastee-Tee – glitter-flaked device,
a rainbow over rampant horse, with shooting stars
– one size too small. Taupe miniskirt, pilling tights,
the brokest pair of Docs debased to just the right
aporia of Hubba-Bubba gum-smeared tar.
“Transgressive!” rave the Twitterati. She prefers
“freak.” Her installation of Clément’s “tarantella”
as witchcore suite went double-viral. Her sisters
confide the cutting –then, later, her paper-doll
amputees, Groomsman’s Prostheses for Falada,
those Medusa heads painted in cereal bowls.