With candlesticks and Midsummer Commons we laughed, the sunset never stopped our light, we were kids with a limbo-like future.
Can an artwork play the role of sunlight?
A poem about when disordered eating swallows menstruation.
A poem by Eve Colyer.
You open your mouth wide, I peer into the greasy tunnel. I got lost in there, I slipped on all the surfaces.
We want it so much that we succumb to the illusion. Talking circles with a distinct sort of nausea. Flagrant on our own accord so don't believe every thought you think, fool.
I am tired / of being tired / don't mistake my / helplessness for laziness / if i could do something / I bloody well would
I am not such an interesting creature. I talk about moss, I dream of fog. I am a prawn head on crustacean shoulders.
Our bare walls are created upon against their will, sculptural relics to activity all of which is good even when bad.