sitting on the boulevard eating cold noodles, its late september and summer has crept away. the sea is full, swelling and pounding against the wall with growls like great thunderstorms; spraying and folding over itself, straining at the barriers that hold it in. At Hellsmouth a great black wave rises and falls into grey and green gradients. the debris of summer teeming with flies black and buzzing. everything melts away. i woke up this morning with a cosmic wound.
Its passed down, the hole >>>> I used to play in a hole at the end of the garden, my hidden spot, the moss growing on the compost bin, the cracked glass of the dusty window on the shed lit with morning light. I would hide & spit worlds into stones with sticky baby fingers and primary coloured plastic blocks covered in specks of dirt, I would bury them deep in the ground with my secrets.
Buried deep in the snow were my secrets; buried deep down under piles of ice. I forgot that a place could be so white, so heaving with thickness. White ice piling like soft pillows reflects the spots in my eyes. I’m eating lukewarm bread and peeling eggs and everything is frozen around me. The whites of my eyes are reflected in these great puddles, like round white eggs fried on the ice. I’m trying to remember my insignificance, surrounded by tiny shards of cardboard picked apart by nervous fingers, here and here and here. Tonight I sleep restless in an attic room.
In Iceland, I felt so bad I wanted to die.
Warm wriggle against skin, I dance inside you
Your rhythm moves with my breath
Grey, blue, white
The moon pulls you off of my skin
I haven’t got anything left
My lips fall apart like rainwater crushed against skin crashing with seafoam
My bones turn to sand underneath you
Im not turned on by anything. flicking through the TV channels, the night is alive outside, dark and teeming with the kind of life that surfaces on the streets of london after 12pm on a Friday night. I got stoned and crashed out in the hotel room. The ceiling was painted with fake clouds underlit by that same blue hue emitted by a sleeping laptop, or rather the blue hue that keeps you from sleeing. Fuck, the clouds were so realistic. I ate a whole bag of jellybeans and fell asleep with the television on. I woke to a text from a girl on Tinder about sunshine but there were no windows and I felt like I had been pushed through a time capsule, my head was dense with sugar and nicotine. The maid kept knocking on the door and I just couldnt get off. I woke up again a few hours later to the tv blaring and emitting an orange hue. >>>>>>>>
Sticky walls, water. Babyfish, swimming upstream, I Dont Give A Fuck About Your Art World
my head is full of cotton wool I self medicate to eradicate
His hands are black, dirty fingernails and he shouts at me in the street and grabs my body and calls me a bitch. My tongue is heavy in my mouth heavy slippery stuck erupting sensation tingle reverberation across my back shoulders shockwave shaking muscles low key pain undulating belly rot heavy and expanding flutter dance black liquid seeping through my skin pushing against my sea wall. The belly undulates. The belly undulates
(give my another chance baby, Ill never hurt you baby)
I wanted you
To rip me in two
Like petals in the wind
I wanted to be carried on
Stretched over mine
Until I disappear
My lungs expand with smoke rot, the belly carve, my name into the fleshy underside
Of a tree we planted in your memory
The soil packs around my bones heavy underneath damp skies
I never thought I would be here again squealing for my morals
skin stretched under
Yours like a horse corpse
Shed on the bathroom floor
My fucking body quaking
Under yours the bullet
Slung from sinking ships
Red lipstick kissed the rim
I dont trust the boy
Who breathes life in lips
Sun kissed the windowpane
Silver lips walled up
Shining curve of light
The sky went grey before i had a chance to feel the water licking my body
She is made from stone and gold-plated. Flies settle on your legs hairs sprout from roots. You are uprooted – deep –
Waves lap and children scream as cold water shocks their diving bodies
Stationary boats rock to the beat of the ocean current
I dug down deep into the sand beneath me to find gold plated stones
Flies circle my body waning
Sails flying a crisp breeze like biting into an apple
I worked to the bone.
Under the undergrowth, the piles of seaweed rot
Your muscles flex in milky waters,
Give me something to believe in.
> Everything has been so potent over the last few years, the political backdrop to our lives unravels into chaos and we slowly slide, hiding, into digital worlds that map our thoughts into timelines & unearth curated selections of memories. Meanwhile we navigate growth and becoming, personal lives, (un)/employment, lack of clarity, love and heartbreak, depression and joy. You may imagine it as two interlocking timelines.>,>
> I can trace these years through books read, instagram posts, tweets, people encountered/loved/fucked, bouts of depression, and moments of joy. Memories become so important. I don’t know if everyone does it, but I relish in them, glamorise them, repaint them over and over in my mind as details fade and dissolve into sketch-marks. When I think of the time I have spent depressed, it makes me feel like I’ve not been fully alive, and so I want to hold onto every moment of life I can, and keep them in this special gilded box in my brain. Because when it’s lifted and it’s happening and it’s life and I can feel it, everything is technicolour and I want to throw my body on the waves and hold strangers and everyone I ever loved near.
> All of these texts are stuck in my memory, as traces of the last 10 years, voices read aloud pinpoints of an event, a moment in time that managed to slip through the cracks.
Remembering being read aloud to, or repeating it back to yourself like a mantra, or passing it daily in the street.
All of these texts are stuck in my memory, I share an intimacy with them.
They hold me, as I may hold their weightyness in my hand, it is a comfort.
evergreen – leaves – mountain ripple – moss – freshcut – fade
rain dripping through the iron ceiling. I pull the root from the tree. Your chest- water dripping from the bark. On the mezzanine, telling me about your mother.
blood seeping from a hollow stone. the curve of lips. im sorry (oh) not sure where to put this love, spread eagle, face burrowd into pussy, spit all over the bathroom floor, tiled cold. handshake
Sound maps of Westbrook Beach.
Different colours correspond to mechanical sounds of construction, natural sounds of sea/birds, and interjected by passing voices.
The beach is a construction site
Ive let the data-giants into my private-life and now I track my dreams through electricity
im not sure how it works, how it knows when or how I am sleeping, whether I should be scared of the device on my pillow next to my head that produces graphs & sends them to the cloud where they accumulate for years- What would anyone do with my sleep cycles? Isnt sleep the only thing that cant really be monetized? Even though I just gave a company £1.49 to tell me how im sleeping, because I guess Im sleeping wrong. Once sleep is monetized our dreams arent even safe.
sic. (The Third Reich Of Dreams is a book by Charlotte Berandt that maps the psychosocial affect of fascism on the dreams of people during the height of the 2nd world war. )