chinoiserie

Search This Blog

Self Portrait

on September 22, 2024

Get link
Facebook
X
Pinterest
Email
Other Apps

Get link
Facebook
X
Pinterest
Email
Other Apps

Comments

A Viennese Angel - Breakfast Particles

'Viennese Angel' (12 Feb 2025) Breakfast Particles I leave the dining table nervous, half-drunk coffee and a bitten tongue, forked and knived. You - burnt corners of toast and a teaspoon facing down. You woke up before me and placed the tablemats askew, by habit I straightened them. Are we competing for the last sigh? No, we won’t eat together. The crumbs would hitch a ride from my lips to your beard (cross-transfer, cross-contamination). You’d ask me to speak and it would feel like TV static - huge textures, metric electrocution. Put it more simply, I envy your elocution. Mine’s always the slurred lullaby. I run through semantic fields, jump the fence. I should grind the medicine to a fine powder, you should pass my words through the sieve again. It’s ineffective, a half-baked thought experiment, too easy to exist by sticking to the edges. The atoms will collapse if I let this course run through. I’ll dry my hands on the sleeves of opposite arms and push you away. Please, you’...

Welcome

Welcome to my small gallery. Thank you for opening this young drawer. My work focuses on vulnerability, femininity and the ethereal. Bored Dreamer / Smiling Ma受chist

Non Fatal Strangulation

I can’t describe how it felt to be unconscious. It’s just an absence, not black, not golden, just a segment of time cut out, the seams re-stitched like what the surgeon did to my eyelids at seventeen. I believe dreams only take place in the rush of resurfacing. That friction of being pulled through the membrane of consciousness was the only way to remember I had lungs. It was the shock of realising I was tricked. The jolt of missing a step. I hated diving, moving between the two worlds. Nothing happened between the collapse and the resurfacing. I only recall the sensory boundaries: the ringing sound, surrender the refocusing of eyes on a patterned wall, trying to remember my identity and location. It’s lost data. I say nothing happened but really something happened and there is no way of knowing. Without evidence, without memory, it just doesn’t exist.

Powered by Blogger

Self Portrait

Comments

Post a Comment