Designer Flesh Tank
As Goldfisher tinkles her fingers across her
interspatial sensor field on her AV piano bar,
instant easel, self-indulgent, IP publishing
device, she feels an imminent rush to closure,
arousal and erotic exhaustion her signature,
noting that she is “signing off, “aw, aw,
signing off, now!” Fade to stygian radiance.
Reviews begin pouring in as every piece of
receiving equipment chimes and clatters
approval, gratification better than applause
since each signal announces 1K credits in
universal money, love and devotion. On a
million moon dark avenues she reaches
and satisfies multitudes of private clients.
No studio occupant, hers is never a fish
bowl life, belying a ‘flesh tank’ trade name
by keeping to the shadows, sharing nothing
of her personal success. Public appearance,
a rare, tightly orchestrated, life & death
leaves no issues unexplored, no premises
unsecured. Her business: totally dark ops.
Fame is a danger to herself, a dead end for
friends, except for critics and rating orgs.
as she sits faceless in her lonely actuality.
Like the heroic life, hers can only be cryptic
expressions or exaggerations of the truth.
She is both fool and ghost, like the jester;
impugn, like the phantom, unknowable.
She may be the envy of her fans but few
would cherish the way she must live. Spies
and war criminals live in greater comfort,
sit in hellish enclaves, tawdry taverns,
familiar with the seclusion of an off beat
assignment, her anonymity coming as
a blessing but without any absolution.
6 E Broad St.
1 thru 28
insult your very nature