A shotgun in her parlour, Amazon says Enter.

A barefoot wedding. She gestures like treacle,

a guttering of purple in a dugout canoe on the

dream banks of the living room carpet. A diva, she

demands more body. Her want is citrus scented.

She waits in silence, a pulsating black

widow's abdomen. A calling. When you finally

wade into the first-sex smell of nectarines, she

tells you a night-time scare story : of alien

autopsy, the power of the drum, and the psychic

potential of humankind. Designed to send your

blood into the web. "Relinquish" she mouths into

the spaces between your outstretched fingers. Give

way to the sinking vibration of a temple bell. Let

her drop you, head first into the green with

nothing more to cling to than the ozone, ivy and

spider within.