March Chronicle by Muyang Teng & Despina Sanida Crezia

The Field

In the pitch-black night, a skull shoots up from the middle of the archive The crate on the ship is like a word kneaded from a dead woman’s mouth like a letter burning in the middle of the night sea like a body going up in flames inside a wooden box labeled specimen but inside that botanical flower a priest counts his money the dead can wait

Yourfatherinheaven. Belovedcivilizingfather. Heasksfortheskull. Atnightthebones hiddendeepintheground surfaceonebyonesecretly likethewayacolony takesoffitsownmask we’reallnakedspecimen whenthemaskcomesoff DoIship theskulltoBerlininthechild’sname? Thearchiveiscrying. Thearchiveistrembling. Yourfatherinheaven. Belovedcivilizingfather. This skull. Thisskull. (I catalogue. I catalogue like an abductor. This skull this skull.)

In the morning when you awake the empty grave has no edges anymore the ledger bleeds into the specimen bleeds into the acquisition record bleeds into the glass case in Berlin where your grandmother’s face is still making an expression no one thought to write down

Filthy Latin sticks to your grandmother's name

The Bush, Book of the Dead

Listen, listen to the voice of the woman who has just been through this The candlelight inside the revolution is extinguished Depart! The moment the first needle of sorry enters the air between them the sky made from her endurance covering her body lifts up The Achilles tendon of the uprising breaks

Hersorryisnothersorry. Belovedbullshitsorry. Itwantshertocarryit. Atnightthesorry hiddendeepinhisbody riseswordbywordsecretly likethewayarevolution takesoffitsownpromises we’reallnakedcomrade whenthepromisescomesoff DoIcook hisguiltinhermilitaryissuedpan? Therevolutioniscrying. Therevolutionistrembling. Hersorryisnothersorry. Belovedbullshitsorry. This task. Thistask. (I care. I care like a woman. This task this task.)

her body is now a mop floating above the tiles of the newly liberated state her face is a uniform floating above her body her thoughts are the smoke of a future built without her measurements her torment is a breath a scream filed filed filed again

Listen, listen carefully to the voices of the baboons on the ridge Don’t look back. If you do, you will turn into a stone that sinks into the minutes of the meeting Don’t cry. If you do, you will be reborn as the bedsore of the newly independent nation

Listen carefully to the echoes of my words on your distant eardrums No one from that world will miss you walk into their century when the diploma arrives offer your eyes when the office arrives offer your hands when the sorry arrives offer nothing put it down let it sit in the air where it was born let him pick it up you have carried enough

Your rifle flutters like a ribbon on long hair Hurry, depart! Before somebody else’s war is lit inside your body

Asphyxiation

InOnAt
ThroughUnderBetween
AgainstBeforeUntil

ALLEYS UNDERGROUND ARCADES PASSAGEWAYS BUSH BARRICADE TRENCH TUNNEL CAMP CAVE CANYON BUSH FIELD

the archive is still breathing put your hand over its mouth

The Page

The Bush Bureau of Disorientation published its first pamphlet as soon as the concrete building became a rocky cave, wishing to be bush. The page wishes to be working as a field of open speculation for new futurities, negating the allreadytone of the already-published, allthewhile refuting its futurepresentness. Can the bush, as part of the infrastructure of a world not ours, entail the worldnotours?

the charcoal smudges grew into a barricade against artificial lighting

The conception of the original sin, trapped in its immaculateness and the cavity’s low-fi theatrical staging, illuminated the forcefulness of the encounter. Makes the rock understand why a dog would slip down a cliff – if it wanted to. The sorry dances as a peb bles tone in the gorge of the sorriness. The sorried hands slowly rot and become incapable of holding a gun.
“The bush must be built!” The sorority’s scream echoed harderthanstone from the basement of the cave. The transition to cavedwelling is rather painful if you think of the leaf through the rock. If you want to hide, you need to do so properly – by digging yourself into the earth’s mouth. Otherwise, you could hang from the boulder with your tiny fingers for as long as the raid lasts. The bush allows for flexible maneuvering between morethanbodies. And still, forgiveness emerged as imperative – flexibility assigned only to the sorry receiver.

the ancestors wept, begging for a seat in the memory&dignity palace – the repertoire refuses the entrance to the vanquisher – I Entered The Lists.

By the time of departure, they saw that it’s the bush repertoire that smothers the archive. It throttles&chokes&gags among the morethandogs and the morethangrass striving for lessthandeath. 

Footnote 1
He repeatedly plucked the leaves from the thin branches, with no attention, only with the necessary force. Leaf labor intoxicated him and others, close and afar, all along the supply chain, despite the unavowable beauty of the celestial fabric moving in the wind.
Let the motherandgrass decide for us.

The Pane 

Conspire, conspire, listen to the faintly pronounced technological dream of the morethanfog. The peb bles tone slips through the bush utterance.

A cutter reveals the russian doll is us all. The archive vibrates in our eardrums in maracas sounds

               filed

                              filled

                                                     field

The cutter is a Staatsräson orientation gadget used to quarter the bodyspacetime into a sausage formation of the before/during/after/again/back to/ante-/anti-/post-/under/below/more than/above/between/until/since/less than/more than/morethan/lessthan-.

what do we lose in abundance

Footnote 2
We have always been in the midst of catastrophe, i.e., the Apocalypse.