to exist in this space. days when i lived through my longings, my longing to live. i could mean something to someone, i could imagine nothing for myself. i memorised desire. i excelled in theory what i failed in practice. on the island, the women were turning to stone. sorry, to stones. glancing down at the sad drumlins of breast and belly, then looking away. the crust of unfuckability that formed on us. it is not subtle: being stared at, being looked through. imagine a rock so super-massive that it disappears altogether. say the words: hag stone, gowk stone, gawk stone, glacial erratic. common carlins in a round. say cove and cromlech, menhirs and maids. stones of unsettlement simmering, standing tall. the mane of misfortune is blue, is blue as sabbath’s afterburn is blue. sometimes i wake up so angry. i move about the house, accomplishing small tasks with absolute precision and with absolute futility, wanting to smash up the furniture. to exist in this space, scald of assumption, fantastical scar of regard, where we were the whiplash of commonweal, the hysterical swagger of stone. stones. to exist inside yr strategy we were everything hidden behind consent. reworked the moor in the dark crook of our mood. when we were made of flesh, love was indulgent and tyrannising, the look on yr face, caramelised exquisitely. on the island we turned to stones in order to exist. a tor, a tender emblem, limb of flint i wrap around yr courtesy. averted eye is washed ashore. stone, irrational anchor, jury of androgynies, licking the slow chops of intent. to exist in this space. a witch. my incendiary architecture. when the ground sinks, when the land slides.