Daze.

the feminine text piece installed in studio

Text reads:

The feminine is central to your work, and entirely inescapable. You need to face that.

The feminine is terrifying and symptomatic, and it hangs over my bed at night breathing heavy over my face.

The feminine is inside you.

The feminine is a toad clinging to my back, fucking me.

The feminine is a vast and unctuous pool.

The feminine is rotting.

I reach out and brush my fingers over the pulsating edge of the feminine.

I am entangled in the feminine like a crab in a net; plastic threads get caught under the plates of my exoskeleton.

The feminine eats you, and you eat it. In circular motions, you cannibalise each other.

The feminine is not the visible but the eyes with which you see.

Unrecognisable, it is present.

From the soil, it binds itself into flesh.

Eclipsing.

Undulator.

Open.

In the push, interwoven strands are stretched, to their non-existent limit.

Inside, there is little.

Flat interior.

Deep surface.

A hand transposed from the wrist to somewhere other.

Like tar, it has coagulated at the base of your lungs.

Cloying.

The feminine is preceding me; a parcel of air, swelling outwards from the skin.

A stench?

Its epicentre lays somewhere in the arid desert.

Or the abyssal plain.

A liquid thicker than water, that lays beneath it.

A lake within a sea.

But stretched like drum-skin it is tense above.

And through.

Phasing.