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.
I felt so bad I wanted to die.
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 sleeping. 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.
Sticky walls, Babyfish, swimming upstream,
I Dont Give A Fuck About Your Art World
(give my another chance baby, Ill never hurt you baby)
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
dirty fingernails, 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
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, 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.
2012 – Brighton Beach: Noone belongs here more than you, Miranda July
2013 – The writing on the wall, brighton viaduct 2013
If You Repeat Something Enough It Becomes True
2014 – Ghosts of my life // Mark Fisher on Burial //
Wanting an angel to be watching over you, where there is nowhere to go and all you can do is sit in Mcdonalds and not answer your phone.
2015. Sunless- Chris Marker
a trace is found, is lost, all the folklore of dreams is so much in its place that the next day when i’m awake, I realise that I continue to seek in the basement labyrinth the presence concealed the night before.
2016 – Ocean Vuong. Because It’s Summer.
You say thank you, thank you, thank you because you haven’t learned the purpose of forgive me because that’s what you say when a stranger steps out of summer and offers you another hour to live.
2017 – Mouth Scene. 17th Feb, Seydisfjordur, Iceland
To, The Hanging Blood
To, The Burning Rain
August 14th, Trafalgar Square
Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth
Plz capture our tears with ur selfie stick prosthetic
semiotic infrastructures become human patterns of behaviour
8 October 2017 – Robert Montgomery, Billboard, London Fields
Modernism is a psychic love wave – A big gush of sky breath. A shimmer of kindness sung by the ancient earth / it is in the voices of the wind in the trees / it is wild and high in the beauty of the wind turbines that will one day scythe the hair of the troglodyte trump
2017 – Crudo // Olivia Laing. The long hot summer of 2017, the world is falling apart.
It was 19:45 on 13 May 2017. she bought two bottles of duty free champagne in orange boxes, that was the kind of person she was going to be from now on.
Beatrice Gibson, Crone Music @ Camden Arts Centre
This is what happened, I suggested another kind of language, the language of things. The language of shapes, surfaces and wide screens. I suggested speaking through objects and glass. The film became the landscape of those things, the thing, made up of those things, the remnants of a conversation