poem04 Jul 2022 10:28 am
Sarah Shirley
Camera flashes, crimson sashes on a catwalk in Shanghai, the newest line of fashion on the newest line of models fresh from the grow-vats. Tall ones, short ones, slim and plump ones, faces engineered to a blank smear onto which the audience can project their own features using the handy goggles from the gift bags: this is how you’ll really look in the season’s latest offerings! Bass notes pumped in are hypnotic and everything is energy and striding strutting motion, the mannequins marching the precise measurements of the walkway, no need for eyeballs - their feet have been told where to go. Concern was raised a while ago, but quickly put to rest - no humans were harmed in the making, my friend! They come unstoppable, stalking the floorboards draped in silks, wrapped in satin, strapped in leather, and when a Float-Cam stutters and sparks nobody notices, not until the flames lick up the cheap material of the sashes, turning them into ash and smoke. The hall empties out, a thunderstorm of pounding footfalls and shrieks, but the models march on in the thickening fog, driven the fifty meters from the curtain to the end by instructions hardwired into nerve and muscle, and the meaty beat of a porcine heart.
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