VENUS CANNOT FLY, SHE'S TRAPPED BY CHARLIE BOWDEN
Your dream girl is waiting for you at the post office, billeted behind the dull blinds and titanium door; her feather cap, meant to be flaunted on a train station platform, taunted by sticky oak wood floor. Air limps from place to place as if lugging around dust, unable to take any more cargo, brushing past metal frames furnished by rust as it unknowingly mocks the goddess realised. She’s a sphinx trapped in sandstone, brain in a jar in the dark, heart elsewhere and full of sugar, ribs an electric piano brought to life but sparks when touched. Trapped, attainted, too proud to blush. What are you going to do about it?
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