My friends and I are forlorn fabrics haphazardly stitched into a quilt.
Comprised of different textures and fabrics, frayed at the ends, rejected pieces meant for the trash, not good enough for made-to-wear mall clothes.
My friends and I fit like a puzzle consisting of pieces from various other puzzles-- found under coffee tables, between couch cushions, tossed into the bowels of forlorn toy bins-- forming a collage of something disoriented and ambiguous.
Crammed together, smashing our appendages, leaving crooked gaps, wrinkled, torn, ****** up, but feeling better here than in our small contribution to the bland image of our factory's design.
My friends and I, outcasts, rejects, punks, convening in the junkyard heap where we dance and laugh among trash that makes us feel clean. Pure when we're filthy.
Quilts and puzzles, to instill and befuddle; ****** treasures.