Porcelain faces. Porcelain eyes. Porcelain halls. Porcelain skies. Pick a proper place for pleasant porcelain lives. White and shallow and made of clay. Bedrock of ash and another broken day.
This place is less than a veneer. It’s a hollow. A resounding clack in the void. It looks smooth. It looks clean. But a single finger can mark its dusty cover. Tap too hard and you’ll crack the surface. The smiles last as long as they aren’t touched. There’s no substance. But when it crumbles, it crumbles on you. Then there’s substance enough for the both of us. Transgress on this dainty territory and it’ll crush you with its heavy slabs and fine powders.
Better to be unflaking. Unmoving. Let entropy have its way. Let motionless titans stare down one another with ceaseless grins. All is well in the porcelain city. Don’t shake the table.
Paddy Dobson
3rd September 2020