I

18 October 2013
                                                                            I 

My prose is sick... My prose is wicked... My prose is unattractive. By day, making a grand entrance from showbiz stairs, all smiles, clad in a silver glitter jacket. At night… scraping around on all fours in urine soaked alleys underneath a blue silk balaclava. It laughs… it sings… it coughs.