This is a performance/spoken piece in response to Jordaan Mason’s Divorce Lawyers, I Shaved My Head; an album related to our breakup in the way-back-when. If you aren’t familiar with Jordaan’s work, I highly recommend you check it out.

I once dressed like a man for you to prove how wrong it was.
Those images now so stained with semen, so preserved,
I wonder bodies electricity static and who will turn the lights off
when we hide in bed so afraid of being seen for flesh?
Years later, have I ever told you how afraid I am of the horses?

I was one of those poor girls, wildly gendered and misunderstood;
so studied, so indecipherable; all inference in corybantic war.
Your wild eyes, your jism drying on my back, your passivity;
that quiet wild war held between bodies in fervent friction.
You could never know I was just a scared child.
You could never know I had never touched a horse before.
You could never know how those reserved, furious eyes could frighten me so.
An animal so animal, when stables are stocks and neckties are nooses.

What the Vivian sisters forgot was their own animal alliances:
the raven, the stars, ursus majora, the snake, one each her own.
My own were lost in the war, the foxes are buried below the earth
and the Morrigan fled with what was left of my agency.
All that is left are the horses, the horses and You that fascinated creature.

Isn’t it clear?
You’re no midwife!
At best, a reluctant husband, a tenant,
you held my hand when my hand needed holding
and I pushed and pushed and when I cried I cried heavy tears
so heavy, and so heavy I carried them with me
you tried to tug them out of me while I dreamed of dying
and when we showered after, i celebrated in that scalding firehose,
hoping that skin would slip from skin
and I could catch a glimpse of the animal underneath you.

I cut off all of my hair. It wasn’t so that you would love me again – I knew you loved me and I loved you and we would never be able to love each other again. All that time I loved you I was shearing off locks of tinder so we could find warmth in those cold places. And you documented. And you sang me songs, you sang, “She slipped out, I don’t know how” and I
feigned a smile because I was so in love with you that hurt didn’t matter.

It was so cold. I was so cold I was so alone. You sang songs about my my cock while a kilometer away I drank until I couldn’t stand up and considered castration. I wonder still if you know how close we came to death that ugly warring winter. I wonder if we ever took off our animal masks and looked each other in the eye even once. I wonder if we children knew what love looked like, that ghastly shape; I wonder if the war ended or if instead we simply took on new meaning.

Will it I love you. Will it the Vivian sisters stop singing for the stars.
This is all that I have in my hands; I want to forget who I am.
This is all that I have in my hands; I want to fuck and forget who I am.
This is all that I have in my hands; how do we get warm?

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There are three instances in the past year in which someone found my blog by searching “feminist teratology”.

Dear three people I don’t know: I want to gamarry you.

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6 January, 2014 · 12:41 pm

for ravin

Dearest dead friend, I mean what i say:
in our lives thru havoc and hope;
    blood and alcohol,
    chocolate and cinder,
    scars of novels and revolt
you reached out thru the riptide of calamity,
    grasped my wrist, and pulled hardest of them all.

My lungs half-full, I am left knowing that
    i would have drowned were it not for you.
For we hit stride in the same strokes,
    our common current binding, defining,
    shaping our bodies, erosion wearing us away,
    pulling us further from the shallows in to depths
        our mothers never wanted to see us reach.
I remember a shore, once, the safety of coral,
    you would read in bed and i would read to you;
    when drugs kept us sharp and our bodies kept us warm.
I remember safety, once, knowing you.

No cartographer, no mathematician,
i am pulling out all of my maps:
    atlases of scars, my compass, pictures of you,
 looking north south east and west,
moving the minutes back and forth on my watch,
looking and looking, looking for you where did you go?

Thru all of my charts, catalogues of the water
    we seemed to know so well, so deep –
what ravine, in to what trench? What pulled you down?
Where do you go now? Where do i?
And which is safer –
    these calamitous shores
        or those calming, seeping depths?
I miss you i miss you i miss you,
    when will you be coming home?
You are a ray, a geometric ray:
your beginning is fixed – then,
even thru catastrophe or death,
whether you go on or your breath fails you;
thru the life you take in and take, you are infinite.

                                          3 April 2013

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everything is

everything is fantasy, all is sharp;

everything is brilliant and ethereal,

what is oh everything, yes,

everything is.

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just when

i just know and I feel this body worry when, what,

what will I know before then; and it’s never enough,

and so it’s so; goodbye, daily, goodbye.

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test script


A: possession and exorcism

A2: document of possession and of exorcism

A2.5: blood is spilled


B: recovery

B2: document of recovery

B2.5: small pills, pillars of smoke, pilates exercises, perhaps blood is spilled


C: language and semiotics

C1: what. what. on

D. possession and exorcism


E: language and semiotics.

E1: document of recovery.


F2.4: blood is spilled

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feel better like don’t think of an elephant

Feel better like Don’t Think Of An Elephant. Don’t think about being mad. Don’t make yourself worse. Don’t let go of what grasp you have left. Don’t don’t don’t. I keep watching movies about me. Yes, I have magic powers; yes there is some quirky-functional-worldly romantic interest waiting to fix everything for me with the healing power of love; yes my madness is pretty and saccharine; yes i will pace in circles muttering to myself because yes yes those voices tell me terrible things; yes i do not trust you in the depths of your sanity and literary device. There is no fear in those – no shit, cum or blood in it; only rejection and acceptance.

Feel better. Do not. Why is the refrigerator so loud.

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Will or what yes then, then billowing yesses

yes or no then yes, death or death

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Tell me that which is creative. Tune tales outward, stave off out areas.

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Nick I don’t know where my body is. I try to move and it flops. I am made of something much more flexible; I am infinitely longer, all my appendages, longer than they were before but they look back to me just as efficiently. Nick what is wrong. Nick where are you.

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