I do it too
Careful scissor lines not to hurt the hem but remove the tumor. The removal of a heightening of the shoulder. Something that says power. Softly.
Rip it clean off.
Some surfaces require a softness a top or a fluffy membrane, an artificial growth, to pad to add or subtract. Add material subtract pain or lack of definition. Some structures prefer it, she prefers to cut it out.
Prefers. Prefer. Ambiguity with tense.
I think about the imprint of seat on the bedsheet and ruffle of padding, a slight adjustment in gesture, it’s uncomfortable to sit in one place for too long. Make a fold. Gently now around the hem. And don’t impair the join. Don’t endanger the seam. Don’t engender.
There’s a fiction here because I can only imagine the ritual, I don’t now it.
She’s a bit confused, now. She’s slow in the mornings, now. It’s difficult, now. She’s not so easy to rouse, now. There’s shouting in the house, now. She bites, now. She’s in no pain, now. No, now.
Remove the heightening of slippages towards fiction.
I do it too but I shed the pad. Rip it clean off and chuck it out. Don’t keep a discarded course correction. I did it to that last shirt double two. But I didn’t chuck it out. The shirt was hers and from what I can gather she hadn’t got to that one, yet. Now. I know this because we found all the shoulder pads in a large bag. People keep all kinds of collections.
Rituals and -
I did that with my own hands and gold shears and I kept it. I completed her cycle not mine. Now, I lost the gold shears. Now. I authorised an heirloom of her silver shears. He wanted a lock of her hair. And he said he knew it too well. He would keep it in mind.
How I never thought the bag could exist, as hers. I wonder if the habit burrs deep in the roots. I err I burr. Hereditary grasping before the bag.
The removal of a height.
I own a bag of relics, and can’t find them a ground. Accept this for your collection. If I were to make cuttings of my own would the collection be a series by my hand. And how I adjusted the object. Extract an ore. What’s the count?
How a series is established as separate to a collection: the bag was to be thrown away but I said, no, I want them, now.
N O W. O is enclosed in N a jagged N and a W is a bouncing knife. And his initials are a mirror image. It is NO and it is OW. There’s not enough letters to make a circle so let’s say it’s like N O W O N O W N O
Proposition: would it leave a shadow.
There is fiction here. I think about the imprint of body on bedsheets
I think about the imprint of body on land and joints flung around. The impression of limb on concrete and current lost. Guttural sounds over stone and soil. Counters and Caves.
Friction. I’m eating a lemon and poppy seed muffin and I think about my thighs
boundary lines and battle ties. Limbs, libid - in. Slugs and sand trails. Twigs dragged behind impress the gutter or the barrack by the rabbet. Lazy lag or strike a define a hard unwavering periphery. The imprint of erasure and the impression of reduction. I, to a foam memory. The deposit of capital M. The posture of capital S.
The removal of design of form could should
would be natural made, of determined edges and foul hedges. Rhyme to get out of the room, she said. Light lorn leftovers, I read. I think of people on their front, backs up. Heaps and joints like geoformations. Like architecture of mysterious origin. Like similes. The rain, the rain fills you in.
Feat unknown of feats unknown. Anon, arranged. The removal of a
cover song. Fiction in the reproduction and friction in the flattening it out.
The removal of
senses. Lapse into a lost lang. Languid. Scatter assonance and touch to learn. Find incidental unlearning and slipping up on laminate. Learning by touch the feel of a knit you always knew. It’s new, I new. Now, I now.
Radiation poisoning. Positioned as radius
I see circles, and imply compliance. Live flatly. Smooth it out. Work in adjectives
tangled up in how to calculate conversion tables and traditional mathematics. I had a mind for it once until I abstracted
(slippages towards) fiction.
Hard shoulders require softer contours. Taller planes. Doesn’t look great on a small frame. Cut it out.
This madeleine is too brittle.
The double two (or once a very comfortable) woman sits on the shelf and aches. The double two woman attempts to get dressed, stretched and stapled and trodden flat like my shoulder. I see. They see. She and he sees. One does, two does not. I try to get dressed but I just can’t decide.
Published in Alice DeBourg's EARTH WORK zine