We discuss hot grief. The collusion of stone against stone, finger against finger. There’s blame: no blaming, only blame and that mixture of gases surrounds us; become unfuckable and that we breath roses. No. Then there’s sleepless, 4am forever. Their story begins at the foot of the womb where success is putting the hours in on the couch, the bodywork, then born into sunrise nightcaps and privileged denial—defensive. Then the phonecall, dividends touching the seams. We imitate one another, all three, and cleanse ourselves with silver amongst the bulls’ unbearable market where, at last, after time after time, the displeasure of reading comes back like vanes that suture flat bellies, southern plains and miracles yes miracles like it’s 1999 but only much later in history, much earlier in time; I think of that body, yesterday mine, such a yesterday boy and paint all the colours of revenge. In respite, liberal flag waving heartbreaks. Not enough. That is our sentence; this is sentence. We is liar. Though the fur we skin isn’t enough for our bodies complete; this is our sentence; our bodies are never whole in kind, never finished or minded between other bodies. An invocation to betterment is heard at the pelican crossing. So We herd around this crossing to sight the stones, minute pebbles dashed on the road that stop all cars from heartbreak. Is this really the battle you are choosing? I sail into new tenders with rested fingernails, then eat all the crumbs; what on earth is spotted dick? Where’s my hat? Where is they? Then honestly this gender of catharsis; then yes the release of institutions; the before, the after; this month’s commitment to inequality. Here’s some larder advice: up the egg in the mix for this delicious thigh and it’ll stick around for the next recession of parliament. I sit like tinder in front of the fire, I lie in the field on feeld all up in my feelings, hang from the edges of the door thinking of the hinge. I Squawk the government’s song, god save the preen. That’s just the way it is, never untangled, always entangled with this chromatic half life, one day half, one day half, one day whole again. It’s not a half life at all. Do not love half lovers and their shimmer! God save their sheen. Earlier that day I tried to slice a lemon in half; the challenge is in being precise, uncompromising and the knife was sharp, sharp as they come, but unbelonging became surplus in the moment, making my fingers wiggle, when the weight and heaving of elysium patterns heaved onto the chopping board’s edges and this is our sentence; amongst other gardens, the botanics of the line break eddie—Caution: retroactive bourgeois mythologizing may be dangerous to your health—us into beige hallways where the holy trinity of becoming mud, dead cats, rotten eggs, potatoes, and buckets filled with blood, offal, and dung the †holy trinity of becoming is friends, not friends, enemies. Then as a father is every joke destined to be a dad joke? does it mean I’ve got daddy issues. when we dream about recovery it’s outside of a ruler. Was it then the diagnoses and treatments you gave? ignore the matter at hand. kiss the matter at hand. infer the matter at hand. decipher the matter at foot. love the matter at heel. eat the matter at home in bed. allow the matter at hand. better the matter at eye. please, love the matter at dawn. colour the matter at night. elastic there, confused access to the otherside on the nodes visible on your skin. evergreen hotness in park, sweat flush of growth—where these memories are called desire, nostalgia; we have a recurring dream I’m stuck in an infinite polycule with you & only you. we are colours and this bright light shone from you, all of you, a reflection. there was the blossom in the wind again so we take the stage and lie down and ask: what is love? baby don’t hurt me don’t hurt me no more. The brief light of memory returns. A hand hovers over the phone waiting, the curtains are drawn, the grey sun is outside. Our memory is twisted, remember, we sat in the elevator blazé where the sweet open language of air & twisted crystals, hot smoke & fumes & the forgiving toyboy & stop sleeping, grow & its 1am & freeze my heart shy earth queer & why yes the yearn & why the flower & why this gender & why this & why you & then not you & what is this but a tender mistake & education; this happens for you not to you & there’s light, constant light & now this treaty of distance; this ever crueller optimism & so we take the stage and lie down and desire and ask: what is love? baby don’t hurt me don’t hurt me no more. Y’see now the foundations of this plural body are built on yours, the structure of the air is built between you; there are no miscellaneous gases in the erasure of nostalgia; we rub out the leisure patterns before the sun comes out & the ignorance beneath knowing the institution’s memory is short and the dancing all the dancing with the fair weather allies. The purplish institution is the pressure for an audience and its assemblage of translucent passions and garments and governments. Then suddenly, without sleep “We eat in a restaurant called Rain” where the privilege of looking back, that turning of the head is fragile like primroses. I dream of a definition of our bodies; like myth: berth girth sleuth birth growth sloth breath hearth death faith. I dream a seduction of the mouth: south blouse douse trout spout clout doth sprout moth. We were standing outdoors in our birth bodies. Can you dig it? I said can you dig it? This phat bass of erasure. The hook of history forgotten. The fuck of memory. They stand centre stage with their dressing gown open. They rest, they exhale. The stage is filling with smoke. There is no fire. Another person, they enter from stage left and walk across the stage and exit stage right. They continue this cycle until: then the disappearance of skin, that breakfast of forgetting and again that constant structure of forgetting. The delirium of forgetting. The decisive forgetting. The forgotten, when to forget is seated, what if we kissed and forgot about it; the dance of forgetting; the pleasure of forgetting; the erotics of forgetting in the forgotten palace; we forget the melody of your speeches: Oh tell me why Do we build castles in the sky? Oh tell me why, are the castles way up high? Please tell me why do we build castles in the sky? Oh tell me why are the castles way up high? Then the blue coat, the yellow vest. Enamoured with yesterday, besotted with workwear, smoking in sportswear, rose shades from a they/them on the dancefloor. Shocking, with tiled skin, we are introduced at last to our final complexion and in light of this new texture, new voice, the throatwork of protest silences. Hey there hey there this is you this is you in disobedience savoury and peeling. Suddenly, all my friends are rectangles; they're entangled and far away. We send kisses across the sweet spheres of curved spines. Correct of the posture amongst the pigeons, our blatant mist is electric like a blanket: I love it like slag heaps. Heaps and heaps of prisons, here, like notches on my elbow from scratch es, you my bitter & sweet epsilon, my sweet & bitter epsilon.
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