March Chronicle by Ian Nolan & Weronika Zalewska.
*
not a greek sculpture measured by line
but a verb
a becoming with
of the cells
in pleasure and pain
a rhythm
between generations
until one becomes back a snail
twisting not so differently
a necklace of bones that
turns into
a mushroom flower pot
only if we let it
be
could a smell of decay be a smell of love-making
letting the layers of compost
boil in abundance
a slow steam between the legs of the forest
though not without tears
not how we’d wish it to be
a safety within
us remaining integral
- are we ever
more than we hope
and who is
us?
*
no sharp shapes
in shapeshifting
as if all bodies had a mouth
but not to say things but
to choir
- that’s a hard one
for me personally
speechlessness as
a moment
of gift
bodies
refusing definition
but not complexity
*
free massages
that don’t spear the objects
no wonder furniture corners wear down first
they collide with bodies
and withdraw
to meet us softer next time
us too more cautious
we learn to remember the dangers
without looking
or rather -
remember the bodies that surround us
and then the stress comes
a bruised-up child
angry at the objects
suddenly
seeking
a guilty
protagonist
*
drip the world with juices
into corrosions
of once cleanest utensils
not with the tip of a tongue
but with a full tongue
as when you eat
a body of fruit that came from earth
nourishing the body of yours and the lovers you share food with
extended kin
non-nuclear homes
of gift-making
this necklace of bones
is to be read
insets
I might have inherited
from an unknown ancestor
what she ate
or what she thought of
for too long
my emotions steer the belly
of an object
my? bacteria move with me
- or move me?
the orchestra of anxieties
or passions
love and digestion
all too well connected
I’m an ant swimming in slime
sometimes resistance only breaks legs
move easily
easy to say
*
we are clean lovers -
a thin line of acceptable
but why not celebrate a birthday of a rotten tooth
that ate well, and nourished the talk
as a worn-out family armchair
still soft and favourite
don’t discard lovers with bad teeth -
they might be those that lived
we fear the look of death
in each body
so we will
be
fixing
things
don’t call it love
but aesthetic allergies
- subjects or objects
*
a lover creeps in invisibly
to heal and transform
no you cannot be everywhere
but the tiny necklace, the rhizome
goes deeper
than the rats
and volcanos
in darkness safe
the oldest seeds
lay protected
but the womb feels the pain
I’ve seen her sink deeper and deeper
as we go up, up, up
making the love broken
by verticality
the second birth
making us
unrecognisable
*
even if becoming with means
shrinks, folds, wrinkles
worm-like movements
might be our hope
BACK TO INTRODUCTION: COOP study group ~ Curating Positions: A cut through the screen