FLESH ON THE FLOOR
Young things chomp at the bit. Young things don’t play by the law. Young things in their beds are afraid of the closet. Young things see tricks, antipodes, skin that shows all the wear.
Trembling grey tits on a plate slip from outside to in. Every breast size in the world can be chosen. Backs arch and hips squat, muffled lips and legs split. In pink and in blue, sticks repopulate. Cum acts like shellack. Cum always protects. Dressings are sheaths. White things unravel. Nylons run ripples. Tattoos make sparks. Pantyhose cradles the innermost curds.
Inside of other people’s bodies are mirrors. Boots crack the glass. Shovels help people out. Even in a mud-scape of swelling or hate: there is the soliloquy of a face, there’s flesh on the floor, there are nails laid out, there is silicone belief. Through the brume, slick new bulges are born.
Bodies will tell everyone. Bodies will always get separated. Bodies will point at each other through diamond-shaped holes in the fence. Bodies will always come trembling to the plate. Bodies feel figure-eight loops piercing ears, heart and clit.
Free people fuck things up. Fantasy is mortar. Stitching stays loose.
— Tamara Faith Berger
Curated by Maya Fuhr