the long-awaited frenchiel collab CONTENERE is out now on itch dot io for FREE

otherwise not much to say - currently at work on a postmortem, around 6k words in, we love these dolls so sincerely & completely

this is a story about depolicing the boundaries around flesh & what materials can constitute flesh (vs. the air-quoted “flesh” — flesh within or bordering those aforementioned boundaries) and #transcendingflesh as in crafting your flesh — in its most expansive definition — to fully and desirously embody, in modes that can include being of or adjacent to “flesh” and/or non-“flesh”, in an infinite variety of ways

which is to say it's transgender

you should make lesbian art with your friends - bricklay your corner of the yurispace underground

it's fun, most of all

also read present perceptual consciousness while you're at it - that's dolly senior over there - or dollylover? anything is possible i love playing with dolls

1 of my favorite installations is greer lankton’s It's All About ME, Not You because it really was all about her

(“trapped in (her) own world in (her)/ head in (her) tiny tiny/ apartment”) & not at all about any of the rest of us, & in that defiance &/through ego|centrism — in “artificial nature/ total indulgence/ dolls engrossed in glamour and self-abuse/ the vanity/ the junkie/ the anorexic/ the chronic masturbator” — there is such admirable anger

i admire anger so much because i’ve tried to be sincere with/in my anger for/in my work for so long & yet i’ve consistently failed i return

to begging & hurt too often like the small thing i once turned myself into & now regret having done so

∴ of the very few early poems of mine that i still think somewhat hold up my personal favorite to return to is "my own private nonexistence" → 1st lines go “too much begging in my poems i’m sick/ now, i say of it | decoy to hear me my bio/

-organized mess | orthogonal in all my/ repositories all tributaries to all”

– 1st time i let myself 'flip out' poetically (lol) so to speak - 1st time i resisted the easy impulse to have the poet fall to the ground, pathetic, hands reaching for an elusive something, at the end of "her" poem

i really really was sick

of how i had started resorting to apologies & laments as facile bows-on-top of/for my poems - i was/am sick too, in its literal meaning, all the time

so (buddhistly?) i tried to get myself used to the idea of death at a certain point – & that does wonders, wouldn’t you know, for the 'wanting' part of wanting to do things - i guess i thought if i really could die at any given moment i wanted to have been a poet who was a bit firmer with their voice

i wanted to have been poetically angry

for a change a poem saying “"i" - even the constructed i yes - am a mess, this is what my mess is” + letting said “mess” of pain/anger situate with/in itself or themselves without resorting to the relatable → submissive-author frames of hurt & sorrow – which are as real as pain & anger yes but for me

they exist as dilutions of the more offensive but perhaps more truthful - more base - intensities of pain & anger? how else to word this

i've realized i sometimes need to be a bit angrier / saying all this because i've been thinking about glamor-(ous/ized) pain as expression of sick transfeminine anger

"[divine] wants to die with dignity" ... "just as that air-force lieutenant went into combat in his dress uniform so that if the death that flies overtook him in the plane it would find and transfix him as an officer & not a mechanic, so divine always carries in her pocket her oily grey diploma for advanced study" ...

& that made me think of greer again - love greer