Prefix – Poly

Images from Hunters Tryst & video of performance: Whistle-blower your table shine is mine: Seduce and Destroy.

More images of AWA exhibition & residency here: http://gogoproject.weebly.com/18-05-2012-fotos.htm…

Performance: Whistle-Blower your table shine is mine: Seduce & Destroy

Like children engaged in parallel play, until we met somewhere in the middle, amidst a temper tantrum or two, indulged in decadent singing of la-la-la-la in order to transcend the moment when your badge licked toffee Italiano from the towering floor.

We battled and fought, through fraught and tempered waters. Tit for tat, and tat for tash. Through stories told we closed our circuits armored for war. We built a solid fortress out of syntax and song, and danced a mirrored image across our caged wall, over the phallic mounds of the male gaze.

I built a Trojan horse from matted hair, and sticky chambers of sugar and gold. Your blimp hung over it like a mushroom cloud dispersed into the air, collecting debris into its soft glistening folds.

Lady Erricson stood tall and regal amongst the grain of her giant shadow, as the shined and folded platoon of battleships unfurled before her. A sphinctal coronet of candied sugar seeped, conjoined into its counterpart mountain-top fold, as it sought to disperse the borders of its gender.

We found our feet from Hunter’s Tryst to Jewel. After our skinny dip – well, it was more like a plunge – in to Adriatic salted waters.

We parted ways, after we spoke of feelings of being set adrift on a swollen sea of intangible memories. The place we once called home, walls smeared with the sound of hypnotic drum and bass, now a lofty space in our hearts, or is it a hearse? The death carriage of sympathy, for all that’s over. But we are not over. We have just begun. The track that taints my heart still plays through my speakers, your brush strokes carry my sequins, and my embellishments speak of your words. Enmeshed. ‘Haunted?’ you say. ‘Let’s set up camp and track down with pens the rhythms of the hunted.’

Enacting an imagined scene ‘tween Lo & Herr ‘bedside-Doktor’ H.H. – in bed with a bruised and broken finger.

A bitter, red ‘v’ rose across the circumference of her middle finger, lingering near the tip, exposing pink tinged flesh underneath. I lifted it up to my nose and sniffed, searching for the sweet scent of visceral odour. The incision engendering a passageway betwixt inside and out. Intoxicated, I nuzzled its gnarly nib with enveloping plump, soft lips. Kissing away her woes.

The detective – Black mass