Magic Craic, Brockley Gardens, London, 2020
Magic Craic, shoe shop mirrors, forty bottles, breath, water, floor cleaner, washing up liquid, hemp powder, maca root powder, vaseline, baby oil, soil, found picked flowers, petrol station flowers, leaves, food colouring, lipstick pigment, tin foil, dried petals, clay, key, laminated inkjet prints, cable ties.
Magic craic. The same letters, a’s and c’s and I.
Circa gamic. The same letters, a’s and c’s and I.
And that meaning around the time (of), and that of fusion, and that of ovum. It’s sex. It’s
manifested. It's the future, all or nothing.
And I, imagining a thing, with a lot of presence;
and at ‘present’; the way that lava erupted on the place.
It’s boiling the kettle, it’s hot wax; truth serum, liquid love. It’s ephemeral dancefloors,
bedrooms and supermarkets. The woods.
Ascending freak folk. It’s scaling a fence to even get inside it,
trainers and boots in hands.
And it’s the getting inside that's important.
Inseminated; the experience of a drink. And every bead of condensation is my own.
Blown into, huffed. Huffing all the elements: hair, animals, twenty quid,
women in anima form, floor cleaner. Insoluble, and coloured, cracking bones, racking brains.
Dreams about love are put inside a shoe box, I suppose I will be inside in a box when I finally
leave here. (Erupting on the place).
Definitely not romantically. And it’s a spell
and its a cluster fuck. And it glows.