2021
Video, sound, painting, costume, tapestry weaving, writing and installation at Chrom Gallery Dalston, London, 2021
PRELUDE
A boy, a void and a storm cloud enter a room.
BOY
(If you can call it a boy, this shape, seeing as it doesn't really possess any edges - only the loud ambiguity of a thing growing into itself.)
About 50 years of melted snow came from me then, spelling
the word ‘daughter’
lost relevance as it bore thro’ the trees, see
I cannot tell if I am riding the horse or
being dragged over forest floor
by the reins.
This was only a matter of time he says
A hard change is going to call
in courage against spite
Either way this clatter of mine
can weigh me down
with light.
VOID
(If you can call it a void, this place, given that the doormat asks that you wipe your feet and the walls are lovingly yet haphazardly adorned with motivational greeting cards. All the while aware of some waiting room smell, and the rude inconsideration of time.)
Something as strange as puberty, slipped thro’ the trees
as if to say I, the ghostly bowling ball, have always been waiting
to snap the rope
that held the fort
that lay the shirt
upon the back
that continues to burn
long after lightning has struck.
Lo, we jellified
then slipped
o’er the flaming arrows
aimed for where the crotch would be
had the idea ever existed at all,
it recalls:
something as stubborn as a name, dissolved
a puddle of wild chemicals
and when Boy walked into my mouth he died
and he died again and
again he died
as he lay on my dirt he ceased wishing me away
began to eat the rocks i paved
began to root the fruits i adorn
and a crown ‘pon his cap did he bore
Reborn:
King of the homestead,
between sofa cushions
in the gap so you can breathe with the bind
Whilst I the void said,
the journey is the ending
and with the missing is the find
STORM CLOUD
(If you can call it a storm cloud, this one, when it seems as though it recharges on its own power and can't look at itself in the mirror. The rhythm goes like this ~~~~ and the lightning comes in whenever.)
A young man from Texas called it Mountain Madness, upon Icelandic moss
That climbed onto snow
Over rock
Into storm
above.
The other froze shouting
I didn’t ask for any of this, there are no handles here.
Strange sibling the shoes no longer fit, and glorious wonder I name thee fear.
A storm has no agenda, only intention to erupt
A form only craves to be unbound once it has seen how the lightning has struck.
O’ sibling, the magnitude of it all, a job simply being done.
The aftermath: split hairs of crises / certain epiphanies when young.
I break the ground below you, moss into abstract splatter
I ripped through the clouds for you, to show you how you matter.
ROOM
(If you can call it a room, this midwinter picnic, complete with Greek statues and a life-long plush carpet - perfect for wrestling.)
There is enough room if they all sit inside one another, and repeat this over and over until they are the humming noise at the back of a radiator. Impossible to repeat and unlikely to stop, not necessarily in the bad way either. Together, they exist in the hanging, the limbo of an air-conditioned airport that will take any currency and call you anything you like. No one is made to feel silly here, but they still do, like all of us who are unsure and humming.
Together, it makes quite a pleasant tune.