Day 3 Surreal prose poem

A world famous actress once didn’t bathe for 7 days so that bees would descend on her and decline to sting.

Apparently this is true- bees won’t sting in the presence of strong smells.

On the cover of national geographic she was photographed with a scarf and decolletage of amber and dun, the bees gathered on her collarbone.

Her gown, classic and pale colour was also embellished with a thousand bees, each moving and vibrating at exactly the same decibel level as a tiny quiet herd of cats or a very distant lovely earthquake

She hadn’t thought of the implications of this, that everywhere she went, would be the swarm; at each philanthropic event at each red carpet on each film set.

The little legs of the bees connected with the cilia on her arms, the surface of her skin, secreted tiny secret messages. She became more bee.

She thought in bee, hated in bee, loved in bee. Soon, it seemed easier to open her Hollywood mouth and invite the bees in, invite them to herself.

So her voice was a low buzz, her voice was a swarm

She sat in the spectrum of flowers and wondered how the city could orient  itself to rain if it needed to.

And considered a palace of topaz glass and hexagon. Chambers to store the honey in

Her translation prompted a sea change among celebs in Hollywood. Some actors modelled their shifts on trees and stood still in Burbank, casting their own shade without agents, hands held to mimic roots.

One starlet cocooned itself inside a designer gown and refused to emerge before she had deliquesced to liquid and then neon butterfly.

One actor dreamed he was a great sunflower seed and buried himself shallow in the studio back lot. His skin shone as normal and he closed his blue eyes, muttering his lines,  waiting for the season to change

The rest I can say were common flies. Rubbing their mandibles, multifaceted sunglasses. No one liking them but serving a purpose nonetheless.