| datura 01 | a group show | light~harvesting complex

01: the Foundry
flower milk blood moon

datura curated by torre alain at light harvesting complex
datura, jordan dawson at light harvesting complex
datura curated by torre alain at light harvesting complex
datura curated by torre alain at light harvesting complex
datura curated by torre alain at light harvesting complex
datura curated by torre alain at light harvesting complex
datura curated by torre alain at light harvesting complex
daturam willow o toole, curated by torre alain at light harvesting complex

Forget about the bugbears of the day, still..
slathered in glue and swathed, glowing within flies. I sweat and watched as the light hit the flex in your back while you lay mindlessly digging up our floorboards and realized, some hole had replaced you. Getting closer every second, threatening to pass/threatening to consume. You lie there still, knowing only I stand here (still) to guard the aging process. A dog always returns to its vomit, or whatever. Such is our agreement, such are our roles; and we assume them.

I went to slip, to play in the mud. An entire crowd gathered for O’s birth but he stalled, and we watched, as he savored the womb his mom smiled. The sun and god died as we stood there and some other mother’s probably did too. Crawling and craving caverns deep beneath the toe of jacks still stalk or mountain, then further still they find O still stalled. Stains running down the front of our pants and chains from the tip of our spine into the bellows of the abdomen, neither forge themselves, I know the blacksmith by name and which hollow to follow; this little grey one. Cups and goblets of jaundiced juice boil from the pigeons stare in their nightmare cell. Liquid life or light bouncing and cascading and dancing around him with each strike, any hewn down here remain unused and chaste. While many attempt to guild the guilders skirt as he works none can withstand. The muddy fallen god props a hand present too, each one absolved stooping then stopping to kiss or to lick the puddle in their wake, where trails of sticky wet vapor hang.

Chunky lucite La Llorona lily scripts and sticky white geysers reforged, whether by earths yolk or not who cares. Bearing fresh marks that fresh folks gasped at when laid, they read: “ipsum lorem.”

Slippy tongues slipping between slit lips taking a taste yet poorly; accounting for the tire-marks timid on the nap map where they laid us stinking and brining to rest we catch and remain. Blued blood full fish mongers jutting from sand glazed sand crab stucco singing a song up high and far down longmoore jetty, smoking before crashing their toes in the circum bank circling the bay. Tongues follow feet sour on the beans of goosefoot chenopodium and rapture tufted hookworms throng under old field’s meant for corn or for cotton. The workworm shies whichever generation wet that nap map with me, first; throaty discreet threads fly on epicalyx extensions from the work tent, chlorine misting the sand where the working-man footprints stay. A shuffling bar hemming the horizon line: countless waiting for a turn on the sea pickled Atlas-stand.

Plastic Pew! Chewing bad ideas down left furry few on the streets of Feraltopia. Candy-clad cat eared disk jockey breaks from the cat-thrall and floating by blows her vape in my face—but it’s not a flavor any suburbia honed sense would recognize; it trails through—the feeling registers. One lost could follow the trail from the feeling, if they wanted to. Cytus Neko and her cyborg cat-spheres screech glitch vocaloid seraph shaped sound-waves through the air; voice carries weight here and holds form. Neon crusted o face plastered buildings towering above below sweetening everything in sight—even the future nomenclature heavy no men culture laden posters that smear sugar walls and alleyways and fill trashcans. Just shy of being present each proto-paper piece virtually wasted and ignored because that v-shift took place years ago, a victory then and a golden anniversary now. Again this time tipping the tri-tipped saola toward seeking or sipping at the cyber necromancers coiled cup and again away from the ushering clamp of man hell’s brown gates buckling and singed. Vexxed.

devoted husband to the paradise of delusion. cretin magician balancing suffering & rapture on his putrid cross. this cross, his own sordid flesh. a bleating of horns drown you in the distance.”

carved out in an empty hour, slowly stitching my inert and rudimentary wings. there are ten of them, each with insignia. send her laughter in crystallized amber, clutched into eternity in one single pocket of rounded everything. and here to learn things, passing through a conversation of missed jokes, typo-littered notes scattered into the trees and the future wrapped in a smile that stings. into some other somewhere and with people. i will speak plainly.

a moment's interlude for words like smoke to spill into my waiting mouth. the reinvention of moments, fervent wishes for small aches, dizzy and waiting. beginning places where thoughts are matters for little soul sufferings, the scribbles on night lanes and messes of fractured fingerbones lying like my past. tragedy of displays, arching the weaving guard like temple sighs and hushes, words and windows moving familiarly, honey poured over jasmine. i've known better poisons.

rapt and wrapped, our intentions, enough seconds. still concrete my throat. clasping at forgotten, validate your life with an embrace. fairytales are nightmares incognito. i lay so many fears upon this tiny body, my warmth falls down dead into the other mother's mirror lips, fragmented, whole through clasping as any flower. i will be perfect love, with a rage like shelter, worn down and ready pure as rust.

like a sugared and feral doll, shoving cakes down my throat, mirror glass we stretch & moan & pull true. bathed in the same doll’s clothes, turned themselves into glass, pressed, one painted black with charms against mere bone, flesh, my images seek that which my girls' blood denies. now arteries shivering in oblivion, what goes down surely comes up like my baby blue once was, heavy headed into the palm of her soul. Datura. she drinks some more, reduced to pulp, she holds up her porcelain hands, touches my lips and knees my tongue. dormant, the back of my skull, my hand behind, patron saint of nothing and all, only a week ago, done with it.

my cup of tea, an empty book up to now, it’s been too long that I’ve let my body decay, sharp like snow. melted wax fingers, shriveled, intentions don't agree with my helpless muse. like tea hidden behind swollen lips, lie to me, some one; hello, kitty, like paper like milk. blue, thrust open to the barest bones. my cold mirror image. (it is really late) she is broken into fragments and stares right at me. (it is really late) then. torrent of blood and spoken tongues all gone to oblivion, this on my own terms. and when i am... she tells herself before she falls asleep at night: not to be made to feel ashamed, with a voice starched in the edge of her mouth.

trembling secular body, whittled away at phrases made unreal, shallow with silken ribbons, glutted myself, gone in an instant. all of it. inventing a memory, a performance I would like to remember of you. one but then two: on and on and on. never pick them up, just right to the left and scared bastard boys make me. damp, musty smell. it is? and you, the passageway so narrow, i think about what they like in myself, the only person left on their knees. she has no identity except as yet, just a growing suspicion alternately felt, life to sex, and i have heard from many in a common house awaits myself, sitting there by myself and i want to consume the crystalline violence of every single one which sullies the beauty of the expression creature. willingly for her, many as the rain, coming at me from all sides.

the entirety of my delusion. cigarette felt like small shards of glass or tinsel, slimming down, foul and broken~hearted. she was getting ready, while you like an autumn sweater wore my clothes, pinned my soul, shiney shimmery lashes, stuck like i am in the company of my pictures i remember a way out of that world and into everything beautiful. take my black mascara eyes and love we aint got, stuck in his charade of the self you attempt to hide your own untruth, scattered in ways, i guess, but we all lie.

my water, the dust. you live in the world and you cry as you must. saving answers, furling incompletely, can i be so wrong? movement sliding down the smiled imitation of everything. swallow your drink and pretend to be incandescent. had to be. the angels came down and brought him back up, the clouds came and devoured me, groped like nails across a chalkboard, say you are. and here I am, worn with the missing pieces: the main purpose is to explore this eclipse.

(G-d told me I can romanticize anything I want).

My body's sustenance is controlled by the sinister, depraved and evil invention designed by a demonic surveillance emperor. He normally behaves blandly as if to shake his hands by his waist and say “nothing to see here” when behind his shaking hands is, in reality, a boner for the way that ejaculates a feverish raving for his own flavorless, lifeless dominion of removed and measured controlled observation. He wears no velvet cape but rules within non descript grayish-light brown-green recycled clothing and shoes so boring that you can’t even see them. He is so antithetical to detail, or complexity and perpetually in a state of manipulation and influence with smiling cgi characters who are his demonic, smooth servants that my alchemical attack altars with their brilliant, illuminated blasphemous actualized liberation are indecipherable to him. He only sees a mess, insanity. With fire, with shine, with the conspiracy of all matter including the sun and the moon’s shimmer, evasive, crazed, untamed shine of old outrageous and forgotten unwanted objects that are undesired to be ordered outside of the land of abandoned unwanted things. Here we find the llittle carnival horses with trailer trash and clippings of pornographic magazines convening together with swans and fragments of sea shells gotten from the bottom of the radioactive ocean floor.. I follow the instructions of interstellar matter to create non linear spaces of passionate embodied enchanted radiant devotion. In this way, the temptation of broken chain links and mutilated unwanted forms made holy and resignified is a form of materialist exorcism and surrealist insurrection.

dautra, a group show at light~harvesting complex
with jordan dawson, alice aster, Cassie Klenk, Karl~William Klenk, Willow O'toole, Halo Photos by Sara Blosseville & Victor Gogly
install and photos by Sara Blosseville & Victor Gogly
developed by Underground Flower

Drool tax jar, Dyrt and wyrms, Beast face pendulum mobile, Dewclaw, Dig the vacuum: by Karl‐William Klenk
The Dirty Chasm Man: by Jordan Dawson
Flower system (Volty, 22, gemini moon, signs with 🦢): by Halo
Welcome to the pleasure center: by Alice Aster