El Moaour, the bottomless, the terrible. Compulsive need to fill to be filled. How about movement? What became of the abandoned one. She has to be punished because she wants it all. What happens if you give all freedom to female sexuality?
my work
Puta madre conceptual garden sub specie aeternitatis, where every deed happens.
Truth is a bitch. Say the truth and you will be smacked around.
out-of-place, naturally dislocated
Nymphaea looked for her earring on living room floor carpet. She said she has bad eyes. Great Horned Owl in her, in her bra was tightly pressured against her skin. Wanted to study her pressure marks, sunken bloodless steps on her, leaps of red. I thought it must have hurt to wear such bra. To wear underwear she did shaping her form. She always had a nightgown for me with a cartoon figure. I loved her furniture. She hung her jewelry on corners of her dressing table with oval shape mirror. Smelling her bottles. Her sheets, her plastic pearls, her things, her and valuables, details, piles of magazines. Hers, language of her. I looked for it through her hanging clothes sitting on the floor. I poured everything that was in the box on the floor. language of clichés
language of beauty
language of trauma
language of banality
language of architecture language of aggression
language of being a child
language of being alive
language of acting out
language of close
language of an old woman
language of dust
language of turquoise
out-of-place, naturally dislocated
Nymphaea looked for her earring on living room floor carpet. She said she has bad eyes. Great Horned Owl in her, in her bra was tightly pressured against her skin. Wanted to study her pressure marks, sunken bloodless steps on her, leaps of red. I thought it must have hurt to wear such bra. To wear underwear she did shaping her form. She always had a nightgown for me with a cartoon figure. I loved her furniture. She hung her jewelry on corners of her dressing table with oval shape mirror. Smelling her bottles. Her sheets, her plastic pearls, her things, her and valuables, details, piles of magazines. Hers, language of her. I looked for it through her hanging clothes sitting on the floor. I poured everything that was in the box on the floor. language of clichés
language of beauty
language of trauma
language of banality
language of architecture language of aggression
language of being a child
language of being alive
language of acting out
language of close
language of an old woman
language of dust
language of turquoise
I had a thought, couple of words. It was perfect couple of words.
and now and now and now and now and now and now and now and now and now and now and now and now and now and now and now and now and now and now and then I started to feel anxious and I said I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry to explain what this is, I probably should, it is when you repeat a couple of words multiple times out loud they begin to sound something else and you see the letters in your mind and begin to wonder what do they mean and what does it actually mean when I repeat what I just repeated
Stony ground drank herself to death
wept green rage
lachrymose trashed surface of psyche
weeper pulling and pulling as much as she could see from her tears and running nose
opening mines, ore of gutters, excavation of self, can opener, cans, canisters, junk, barrels of mud
It is an unopened well gone unnoticed the sweet water and soothing sound of liquid
Tomahawk, 2012
Semi-Opaque leggings, liquorice between teeth
Time in blizzard. Some time spent watching it take over air. Proliferation of perfect plural seemingly alike white. It is not time to abandon adolescent
disparity of two legs, points of stars in snow
external world of accidence coming down fast, shadowless anti-human riot
breathe, in order to have faith to this interrogation of present of delinquency
Fear guides me, that is what I trust. Battle that cannot be won, but it has to be fought. Deliberate subversion unraveled with such speed. Enraged, cloudy, earthly, muddy, dark, behind and under, in
experiencing historical ontology of me, of ourselves, of that other I see and don’t, verifying existence via cruelty, inner must of terror which drives me. Fear that keeps me going. Abomination, afraid when
afraid always, keeping me alert, a pulled string, pulling
Episteme
Meaningfully vulgar, foul contingency
and open arms them to be cohesive, to bind us together, Juicy Lucy, should I believe her, taste her orange. Her disorder, her glory and glow, techniques of domination, open arms, tenderness and warmth. Standing powerlessly not moving an inch, only my eyelids do their reflex shutter movement on my lenses as I capture the moment to my archive of every moment in my life. The wet grass that I am standing on has given up on winter and black earth. Dividing practices come without forcing. There is something I cannot stand and it is a lie of affection. How much do we live in world of abstractions. Is all abstract? Sensing and reasoning to have sensed and reasoned. Certain amount of rage which follows, burns, boils over and torments. Deflower the girl. Deflowering earth. Deflowering her. Considered ruined. Difference is experienced. Deflowering truth.
ReificationQ Xhyperreality
Oh there is so much I don’t know. Tame landscape making all places alike.
Disposition
Infinitude and a day
speculations on eternity and nothing
a frozen girl at one corner of a busy street. There is never enough one can do.
My heart was as if someone was pounding the front door. I checked.
There was no one there but a bloody dog.
Majakollektiivi Timanttimetsä 