onto models on the catwalk; furs, feathers,
leathers, synthetics, moulded round the tit
and cock. Models walking to me like a cocked
pistol. I was doing sketches of the patterns,
looking for codes on the front row; Anna Wintour
knew the crack, VOGUE! Her Chihuahua
was a bitch in Louis Vuitton, always biting!
Somewhere among the waiting staff, a spy,
a glass of champagne and cyanide.
I report back on the future of fashion;
buttoned to the left, trousers worn knee-high,
sartorial semaphore, scuffed shoes.
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