CHAPTER TWO

BY AGATA CARDOSO AND BJØRK

Neurosis and psychosis went for a walk:

Abandoning the holy family, their names, their town, their lives, an incision into histories, in the stars with the minerals and trash of strangers.

I wake up next to a woman who claims she’s my mother. I feel privatized in a network of networks and decide to change the algorithm on google. My eyes are closed whilst psychosis tattoos on my eyelids: “Don’t kick or resist in any way. If you do, you are going to be in a world of hurt. For repeated rule violation, punishment will be harsh, and you won’t have anyone else to blame but yourself.”

It all turns into decodable fictions as they walk, an ethical dilemma incompatible with tears. She’s the opposite of ground-breaking, her uncreated body, lipstick-coated burned lips governs the short-lived.  It’s about losing any ability to remember a meaning, significance like being high on all substances at all times, voluntary auto-intoxication, a post-war situation. I compress time as I block flows of biology and claim my right to be deleted. That night you decide to commit suicide, a particular way of existing.

Then I slip your body into consumptions of surfaces. Wait a moment, do you feel your anus enter the trees? You are ingested by bigger cells, pushing your way inside him. In rare cases one grows along with him. The banker. I look him in the eyes then shoot. He was not supposed to survive, bleeding only drops of instability, capital’s reliability, and he tells me that around here my mouth is for sucking. Fix me motherfucker, I’m standing right here. 

My eyelids: Her five fingers, a fist between my legs, submitting to disappearance, deep fucking, spatial pulsation and a virus replicating inside the living cell, opening and letting in, letting go, investigating inside animals.  Nothing here is representative; toxicity by the body itself, neuronal modification, gliding, hanging in the air. We are reconfigured in the skin of civility, discourtesy, an overwhelming platform of life, recordings, the story of not recognising your own first layer. You are sitting in an airplane and the wings blow off. The day after: lived emotion of having a cunt: contemptuous laughter, suffering, female programming, active centres, rewards, sensory cortex, hunger, thirst, numbness. I refuse belonging to the hole where gravity pulls so much, where a woman dies in labour, abuse, misuse, sucking dry, squeezing till she dies of rupture, anaemia, abortion, development up her ass. I ask your dead body to rape the multi-coloured light into glitch malfunctions and pull the moon out my womb: septic shock.

Disciplinary side effects, a limited discursive reference, caught up in limits, place a limit on, hold in check, erupting into total destruction, cosmic, cosmetic suicide. Knowledge does not liberate, she disidentifies, turns into a self-experimentation, a laboratory, limitless, uncontained, untamed monster cold and uncaring; productive failure. You have created a checklist of things she has to do but she does not work for you. She denies access to warmth, honesty, your dreams. 

She is a broken limit, a lesbian limit, a tampon torn to pieces extending its surface area, spreading itself across religious displacement. I find a poison and build membranes around notions of us keeping out from in, from them, from cracks of confusion and genetic materials in translations. The ambiguity of transgression and survival and proximity and thick skin when desire unmatches ability to kill the power transmitted from body to body through codes of control, when all you want is a sad fucking soul fucking other souls into sadness and lucidity and coma, you self-conduct, destroy the waterproof barriers, the skin tone, the tough connective tissue, suspicious to what has just been said, risking a revolution. I enter the trees indigestibly. Once inside I develop an energetic obstruction and constitute a new form of life, a firework explodes in my face, value of resolutions blown into pieces. How stuff works: one minute you are with someone and the next your hand is swollen and you are wondering who moved the stove.

Malise RosbechComment