The pink in her mouth
Spencer enters the room through the broken side door, the handle has fallen to the floor, smacking the tiled surface. Spencer notices that everything has been rearranged, this is no longer a place she recognises. It is a new place, lime green fixtures with violet curtains. A record plays disjointed, on a continuous loop. The house still stands straight yet it feels as if it is in the state of falling. A collection of boats stand in the centre of the room, they are useless yet significant.
Spencer was born in 1971, she grew up in a semi detached terraced house next to a fairly disused train stop and a recently shut convenience store with an unusually yellow door. The village of Buxton is a small place, it is not an exciting place. There is regular rain, at least twice a day. Every day. Her hobbies include, chair making, crochet and occasional water hockey.
Hand's swiped across the door of the car, oil washed and rusting.
Projected on to a chipped surface, her frozen elegance is trapped with the frame.
Flickered with REPEAT.
CRUMBLE, CRUNCH , SMASH ,CHEWING ON REPEAT in your mouth OVER AND OVER AGAIN
TALK WITH YOUR MOUTH FILLED WITH COLOUR AND GRIT
Digital confusion, neon pink with green borders
Laughter repeated with an echo
Removed from static
Rubber yellow that peels away,
Leaning on a metallic frame, half rusted
Sliver gloss and sanded surface
Lips smacking, chewing slime
Laughter in silence
Burnt sand with rose coloured ash mixed in,
Neon liquid trickles passed
Seeping into the cracked surface, staining the old paint
A sun setting behind the metal shed.