#daisylafarge

The parallels are self-evident: love moves in and colonises all available space, reorienting everything to itself. It weaves a gauze beneath the skin of its subjects, a mesh through which all experience is filtered for the duration of the infection: healthy cells become love cells, resources are corralled and redirected, the body’s tangible and intangible energies are reconstructed as a living shrine to the beloved. In most European languages the word for love is said to derive from the ancient Nostratic word luba, meaning thirst.

Love’s appetite ends either with privation for the love-starved, or else a gorging, a devouring of its objects. A consumption.’

woman walking past my eyes are bitches and want to measure the oranges in your plastic bag against your calves and then mine

hey baby cows beneath our knees no one wants your milk unless you’re skimmed

if knee caps were coloured like milk bottle tops I’d be screwed (and green) semi semi “oi semi I’d suck on those” she’s a tall glass of ~ what was it she used to say? comme ci comme ça

semi – oh

remember I told you I hated the word seminal for men wanking the canon into existence well there’s no gender neutral this is not a cuminal poem language has fucked us over again

excuse me while I sit in a cupboard and cry wank with Irigaray

anyway, there are orange bottle tops now between red and green for the presque-svelte

*

the last time I peeled to check beneath my skin the bottle tops were there, leaking

skimmed