Indigo

For Gemma Boyd from Northern Ireland: Lover of rainbows, Disney, board games,
swearing, casual racism and old sagging prostitutes.
In the section of sky directly opposite the sun, a pig up a tree floats balletically down to earth.
The laws are no obstacle. Indigo is not an object and cannot be physically approached.
Her future is mapped in blocks of technicolour made of secret formulas by pretty girls. Often,
above this city of games, a fogbow appears with a glory at its centre. In Amsterdam
aged twenty, Indigo sat clothed in the window, wondering if All Of Me is a song for
conquered minds; her exaggerated body a Minnie Mouse meeple. Yeah nigga yeah, yeah
yeah! shed squealed, astride a customer at her home without books, vinyl, everything,
whod spoken of not knowing what it was to be in a black and white room, but that if youre
in a grey one, youre fucked. For fifty years shed chased back and forth inside that moviola;
making lampshades hadnt held the bottom down. Her twin sister still works the window,
totally naked, nowadays; a thinning curtain seven shades of shite selling rusty trombone.
Leaning in, Indigo spots her animators drawing board is lighted from below. His pig flies on.
Gemma Boyd