We know little of your character.
When we hear your name we think tits and red hair and red lips like pillows.
Shiny coke can brilliance of your dress and the S shape that lies beneath.
Purple lids frame cartoon eyes and cartoon person looks out to see nothing and strains to portray your cartoon womanhood.
stop selling me love i’ll never have
i don’t want to walk on high beams over cities
or beam in a convertible with carefree plastered on my mouth
People who think of Rick as grandpa are missing out on his sex appeal.
Stop relating with Morty people.
You’re relating with Morty too hard.
Games give an agency and power where there is none.
I can exercise heroics, aggression, spontaneity, without earthly consequence.
Opportunity is flung my way and Escapism lends it’s hand.
I can explore the imperfect brain-child of imperfect creators, see the seam in the sky.
Imagine another medium that drinks you up the same, where you can plunge into sea or long grass, where your actions can fill and animate the body of a character.
TV can break the fourth wall, address you, look you in the eye.
Books can call you “dear reader” but I can’t put my hands to use around Rochester’s throat, I can’t bang on the other side of the attic door for Jane to hear as a bump in the night.
People don’t just disappear because the main character stops sleeping with them.
Rolling hills, grassy carpet daisy-dotted,
Teletubby land but without the disturbing lion and bear who were the fear of all kids born in the nineties,
A vegan KFC plopped in the middle provides ethical nourishment in the land of Bedfordshire,
Red and white tiles, but we’re in England, not America – I assume.
And I can sit on the floor it’s that clean, just in the corner where I like it.
Cake and custard for afters and you don’t have to pay, obviously, because who pays for things in dreamlands.