Whistle.
It's a gold metal skull, the surface indented with crystals, leaving the hallow eyes, nostrils and mouth that grips between its teeth the stalk of a red rose. It’s comforting to touch as my mind drifts to the apparition of an over 6-foot tower blast of scowling rabid dogs at my ear. At some stage I was pressed to be concerned by the appendage in my skirt I assumed a species of butterfly. If you stroke its wings it dies? I asked my Geography teacher, he would not concede and threw me out, to stand in the corridor for the duration of the lesson. When I discovered its proper name. It seems misplaced to consider it a species of flower which at first I thought. Unlike an autophiliac I refuse to concern myself with exhaust pipes. I suppose there could be easier things to personify as dead. Though I refuse the accusation that eroticism associated with inanimate objects is allied with necrophilia. At times the skull hast felt like a perverted object I might submit. Am I ambiv...