Writing for Performance

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Inside my tummy I can feel the old people with the long skirts going up and down all morning. My tummy is expanding on the rhythm of quinoa and I realise I have to stop accusing people for the way the pronounce their lives. Olives, sweet potatoes and some left-over humous.

My teeth have fallen today and there is no excuse not to visit the doctor. He will say all es fine, but I know that my teeth have fallen today. I can feel the gaps on my gums, swollen and distracted. Swaying from side to side looking for my teeth that have fallen today. 

Four bullets and you have to push. I have not felt this way in ages. So shit and going down. Like there is a big massive unchewed lunch in my tummy and I have to carry it from here to the library and back home. I want it to go away. Or to remember to chew next time. I'm made of glass and my fingers are melting. I cannot type, I cannot sit down. I can only feel the hole in my tummy, the weight of the hole. and press my arm inside it to see if it hurts more.

A small eel lives at the back of my tongue. I pull it out and it has the face of a baby pig. My neighbour is taking drugs and all of my furs are stolen. We want to do a photography shoot, but someone is sawing wood.

So I fucked the taxi driver who looked like an old Matt le Blanc. I was in an island, my sister was busy. We ended up in a university accommodation eating strawberries. He suffered from a rare condition of hunching. As we were fucking, he got older and older and at the end he looked like my grandmother. My sister was looking for me, preparing a workshop on group dynamics.

Go to the kitchen, lazy. All the answers are there, waiting for you.


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