Dead Girl Walking

James May – the man from Top Gear, with the floppy brown hair and the well heeled home, is presenting a program on the history of toys. He’s considering an ailse of candy coloured boxes, shelves frilled – like layers of cake, the sugar lace of a Caroline Doll. James May, indigo cored is being told – when it comes to girls, pink will always sell the most. He’s making a face at slippers, Cindies, pink winged frocks. He’s glaring at walls of glitter tops, toxic prams like coloured punch, making the sign for throwing up. Later on, I count the pink inside my flat. The coral couch, incised with leaves, buds like hands of sharp Chrysanth. The slim band of strawberry pearl bent like water round the kettle, the Rampant Rabbit, talcum powder, Hello kitty pen and sharpener. Ever noticed how all makeup’s coloured like a Venus Razor? The slim stem of raspberry plastic, curved across the bathroom Harpic. If Barbie’s corset had a blade. If Cindy rose from out the grave. Can’t escape it.