March Chronicle by Ian Nolan & Weronika Zalewska.

| tag: St.Erme


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




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 




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



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




a guilty 




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



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






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 





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