a bone white linen jumpsuit hangs in the corner of my lush pad it spits up crude reproductions of ink samples but you remember its scent you know you must ward off its digi vomit stains which transfer to other materials like your skin cells and your soft spotted knickers or else i might have to expel you for taking my crouching figures and hurling them towards my mouth hole while the bone white linen sends signals in through our earholes and we flee, we flee
into the
recesses of my lush pad it seems the bone white linen jumpsuit is trying to acquire genitals but it has not quite figured out what genitals are since they were eradicated in the last great witch wars of the previous century before the linen jumpsuit ever was dreamt into existence we return to our history to the fold of carpet in the corner of my lush pad you reach into your pants the owl arrives at the window and is accompanied by organ chords we try to uncover the source of the organ chords you rip my shirt open. there is a vibration from beneath the carpet and we are immediately suspicious of the bone white linen jumpsuit & you forget that i liked to repeat phrases from my secret lover the affective labourer bot like ‘i produce a sexist sonnet to make you
feel relieved’
you don’t even know how to write a sonnet you scream directly into my mouth hole i sob i admit it again but can you admit something to a person if you both already know it, is it actually called admission i reach behind the jumpsuit it electrocutes me you try to kiss my ear hole you are botanically inclined towards certain sexual positions but i am forgetting the last time we were in this lush pad there were fifteen of us and four owls and alette was descending and we stroked the window pane, cried out ‘what is a surface’ how do we tension relate to each other’s experience of hostile school ground memories i couldn’t see the linen jumpsuit it was no longer in the lush pad i hurled my stomach contents onto the vibrating carpet it reaches up to my face as if to say
‘it will be okay’
the jumpsuit is spitting up crude ink face spots into your pants it is emanating a soft violet glow it brings out the violet in your eyes which are now welling with tears you glance down to your hand and your pants,,,, a squid is breaking through the carpet now and i remember the first time you encountered doreen massey & i wonder whether witches can expand rooms or feel the inside of a squid without breaking it open i close my eyes i hum i squeeze your fists into your quads i squat down in the toddler squat my trainer taught i picture the gummy insides of the squid’s body i forget for a moment the bone white linen jumpsuit has been forged from the bones of my body i plead
to the squid
and to the witch that was not me but in fact another being in this room i had ignored until now i fake orgasms to distract the linen jumpsuit so the squid can escape i read loudly from the inside of my skin you remove your hand from your pants only to discover you have removed your hand entirely from your body and it sits now on your pants. we gaze around our walls of this lush pad really my lush pad i remember fondly the moment before we were cursed with the bone white linen jumpsuit it is now fondling the witch’s shoulders it shoots its ink like sex juice into the squid’s mouth we realise we were thinking too much about sex this entire time and wonder if it’s a side effect of the fish oil tablets we’ve been
wolfing down or
maybe because of certain deaths that have left us numb & then our boyfriends start raining outside only they are not whole people but body parts and they looks suspiciously like everyday household objects. objects that have a point of view are they capital? or did the spell just backfire baroque eroticism is the name for our eulogy slash memoir. the linen jumpsuit is no longer quite bone white but remains bone, it hopes for memories outside itself it wishes the universe a
long half life
