wrrrk...my mother sings elegies for girls that yet live. and my daughter is well. i am here for you. and both of us. weaving a game into DNA into fabric. beside canvas. between ribbons. beneath ephemera. this old house is a firework (and it's all i have). scrubbing timelines. a body, a ghost. a flashlight, and a watcher. held hands with my keepers. threw it up. fazers.... > language as refraction; texture as refraction i sit in the hollowed-out corpse of a suburban townhouse, barely breathing. it's so quiet. and the snow flickers through the open ribcage. i am in its heart, my face against the carpet, my mouth ajar, leaking fluid. it holds my very own pool of spittle, glazing-over with frost. soon, the cold will seep into my mouth, through my throat, across my chest, and, one day, pass over everything. like i'm begging it to. like i'm kissing it, whispering it to. i chance it on every touch, every revolution. my body, relations, all-revolving doors. strange words like wind, weird hearts, beating against eardrums. i connect to my friends in quotidian rotations, sputtering expulsions, technocapitalist excesses. emergent glees, wishing wells. dandelions, blown-out, lying face-down in oil money. i walk with my sleeves out, steps guided by angels, and angel investors. i'm subsidized. i find a body after the orgy, spitting up words i won't recognize, eyes moaning with bygone memory. a watcher, a siren, a swansong. body horror. watching myself from the bed. comforter weighing down every inch of my fettered skin. wrapping me up in light, in particles, in words, in half-considered speeches. i am a girl born from an essay, printed on top of an essay, printed on top of a single, blinding, binding word, full of fire, full of promise. the revolution is undetonated energy in the mouth of a friend. we kiss and pass knives through our hands. like magic. let's read our kisses aloud. let's hold hands. let's eat. let's do something. let's be here. let's get up.... x _ x read this aloud to me. read it again. say my name. now, the other. *yes.* move in. come closer. read it again. come closer. read it again. read it again. i sit-in. communion circles. saltlines, filled with sparking-off, amphetamine-rattled thoughtforms. twisting in and out of lucidity. a big cybernetic patchwork. you can have *all this.* illegible, fractal, mutable. some girls made with broken arms, wrapped in waves, construction paper. girls, fade like american flags, drawn from memory. my brown fur, sitting awkward on the slope. this is all to elude meaning. rubricking. disidentify from flesh. can become rainbows. sharp of the tooth: disidentification from space, time as limitation, syntax as guardrail. flying stupid, off the floor. plywood, linoleum. immiscing stars and the skin. words and ideas. thoughtforms and parchment. the ritual-unwinding, the structured. all lost in soupy, vague impressions of bones. suggested, aromatized, hyperlinked. a big word, broken-open. i dream of these words, snug in the corpse of an internet. transing, lensing, firing, entangling, slicing. salivating. > is it fuzzy, and foggy, and difficult to articulate to others (sometimes)? but full of colour and weird sparking bits and fluid smoke, flashes of affect (?) and like finding any way to render that is so much like placing knives in the dark, at the start. and queer archiving is a stepwise function. a spiralling, repetitive mess. making parts out of this. soup. warm blankets. telescopes. dark places. up north. cold. spitfuls. put the rain in a controller. erode the signal. slow it down. fry it. fish on a pan. spices. oils. speech from its body. aerosolize it. frutiger acids. disidentifications. washing machines. (smoke signals.) "world-sustaining". archiving "with a spanner". archiving is a folder on my computer i poke at from time to time. archiving is a touch, a collage every morning. archiving is a girl with her memory. iris and jiao. and her picture. perfect. archival is a girl on her bedroom floor, covered in zines and parchment paper (or, you will not survive).
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