seed/ovum
‘Take my hand, now, feel…’
(bullshit) breath is taken, swallowed …
before it has the chance to seed.
Stories and mother images; another ball of cotton wool.
We know this. We know this, we know this.
Blind eyes, algorithmic vision (of the Trad Wife).
Seeds suspended in maternal threads,
my grandmothers stitches. A broom handle to block the door.
Our little fingers watching from holes in the code.
Just a little prick and keyhole kisses.
Motherboards and image offspring.
We weep, we weep, we weep.
Cut my skin, silent witnesses and non-compliant bodies.
Mother. Mother. Mother.
For my child. For the child that I am.
For their shoots and roots.
Hardware/software.
Furr and blood. Consume them.
And the soil where we stand.
With sackcloth and ashes. Weeping and gnashing teeth.
We wove stories and coded images.
And still, everything is cotton wool …
scrolling through your image offspring.
Bearing down on our bones.
Cells, code and more-than-human kin.
Folded future selves entrapped in systems of control.
Postscript. Hardware and software.
Assemblages and non-compliant bodies.
Aliens and cyborgs. Plastic Barbie.
For the wombs and the wombless.
For those who belong to the land.
For the photosynthesising cells.
For those denied and those enforced.
For those that move through the spaces in between.
For the stolen and those stolen from.
Fuck your code(S) (social and technological).
We stand at the pearly gates: white-abled-latent-christian
recoding the pages of your bibles and glitching your lines.
We offer cotton candy techbro hacks, a thousand fluffy lil, velvet bots
After the fall (of almost everything … )
Cyborg, chimera, entangled lil data points (text)
… we rest on water clouds, we dream …
and then we reimagine, recode, and birth our own.
We imagine past the edges of mum and mother.
reaching back to the past and extending into the future
We bake Heavenly Lemon Tarts (sweet lil string figures) (M)other Monster. †
Speculative fabulation and cotton candy dreams …
POST(M)OTHER.