Some may call them summer-spots, but they are not, although they may manifest themselves when the sun bakes us into compliance. Each freckle is a small drawing, carefully inked while we doze, indicating what will grow, eventually, and take wing. If our eyes were keen enough, microscopically adept, we might decipher the tiny glyphs. This one is Pegasus, but Pegasus with a shedding disease rendering him far less than bird, just a disappointing pony. He will clip-clop through predictable, grimy suburban dreams, paddocks of misery dragging after him like a poxy peacock's train. That one, on that exposed shoulder, is a full Brexit of portraiture, disastrous, yet achingly slow. The creature which it represents lurks in the future, almost recognisable as someone we once knew, but different, different in the way a beer-glass distorts, screaming like Munch's bloke crossed with a fairground clown. We will meet him, surely, in an alley, late one glassy Friday night.
Who does the inking? Some say it is an alien, armed, or an octopus, clutching a tool in each convenient tentacle. Personally, I believe that each spot is injected by a cockroach, taking revenge for all the traps, all that kitchen-laid pain. The freckles will birth themselves into air; tiny puppies, whelped into the future, sucking on fear and disgust. There is no escape from the skin-maps, pointing where they will. Our noses detect the provenance, painting air a clutching brown. Far from cute, further from lovely's farthest shores, our skin itches with a colony of a thousand pregnant clouds.