the destruction of disorder
reordering cleaning up
a large broom a large dustpan
a feast somewhere beyond the rain
wafting smells of butter piping hot soup
mistaken for steaming rain illuminated by sun

or the strata of the earth collapsing
the pressure of which ejects from the molten crust
a plume of ash and debris
wherein histories collide

she’s glowing in the painting
indicating transformation through light

enter dominique
she is grounded she is steady
projections of falling money pixilated glowing
she is dressed in a slip we see her naked body underneath or we want to anyway
on her head a staunch white erect hat
somewhere between a wimple and a candy striper visor
a microphone or an orotund theatre voice
a spotlight or an actor
dressed exactly the same
enters with a construction light metallic sunshine yellow
beautiful with its extension cord

she breathes
we all enter dressed the same
she points to us with enthusiasm
we respond as we did to a party once
the pulsing could be kendrick or drake or frank ocean or whatever
something jordan tannahill listens to at an afterhours
we dance in slow motion
or we just emote emotions
but it should feel invigorating

build-them-raise-them-cover-them-in-spilling-oozing-hot-to-the-touch-steaming-pure-fucking-gold-cover-it-in-gauze-in-tarps-in-plastic-tar-and-feather-the-god-damned-thing

a tree is dragged onstage and planted into water
they lay piles of shoes at his feet
the daughter lies broken tarnished
the red boots are shoved onto her feet
a column of light descends
water vibrating from the voices
a moment of truth between mother and child
he dies when the timer runs out
lights flash on a dark stage
the horror only visible for bursts of time
sudden silhouettes against static snow
she dies
mic at her lips she finally speaks

he walks through a field
light isolated in darkness over water
hands of unlit bodies closing in
clouds evaporate turn to air
become a cyclone and then stop
settling into a vast whiteness
it expands horizon to horizon
breath to breath face to face hand to hand

I grab a hold of the sky
isn’t it just like everything else
doesn’t it become mechanical?
I tear it apart

“I’ve wanted a horse my whole life. And now I’ve finally got one, and you know what’s funny? Having a horse is the opposite of what everyone says—all the books and all the movies: a horse makes everything bad. In the olden days horses were so good: if you had a horse, you won, you were the winner! But not anymore. Now it’s like, you have a horse and you’re fucked.”

Jill Connell, HROSES: Outrages à la Raison (2012), 30.

“history always begins with a cry
and ends—
maybe history doesn’t end
maybe we go on
sometimes this sometimes that
what can I say
in one month
cold so your skin shrinks
in another month
fields of risen colour
water-meadows filled with sky
new birds
on and on
world without end.”

Clive Barker, The History of the Devil.

“in the couple’s bed
everything is draped in white
milky light

cinematic intimacy in the theatre
a sense of melancholy
perverse humour
endless games
always these games
intricate multi-layered games
will we ever know who’s playing
who isn’t playing
who’s who in this game of cat and mouse
and when the tables are turned?
always these games
endless games
games to compensate for the inability to love
and even more
for the inconvenience of being alive.”

Louis Patrick Leroux, “Embedded” from Ludwig & Mae (Vancouver: Talonbooks), 27.