Open removes a cup of hot expresso from Null’s mastectomied chest, spills it black on genitals mutilated as lilies. Loses another version of herself. Waits for the silence of divinity to crack. They have become experiments and deformations. How long till absence achieves pathos? Anna would like to know. Faded summer splits angled grey skin with deep sulci where graphein stars fuel her remodeled body – an extension of the Sea House’s brutalist shell. Webern’s String Trio Op 20 plays on the couple’s old turntable. Each phrase constellates a unique death etched in biography. Losing herself between walls, Anna acknowledges this pornography with tinnitus of seraphic babble to ornament the phrases Webern wounded. Her exorbitant body blooms love for their pure game of death. Moon shadow transcriptions scrawl up and down her midriff, shifting columns flicker histamine purple. In the initial phase of the abject freedom represented by the ontic plaque, their eyes were replaced by the black kelp that chokes the coast. Framing the script, surgical diagrams from pubic bone to midriff Anna made the previous day with a marker pen.
They violated less to extend somatic limits than to manifest the Lamb’s rotting avatar. She is insidiously happy. Inserted as a further, destructive, iteration we didn’t know we’re waiting for, as Delta’s inhabitants coalesce like bioluminous mold, ceding not only to what has never been, but was hitherto impossible: new nature. Its prolepsis. She can advance our agenda, use critical bodies as dollies to map the subtractive desert we both seek. You and me. They Three adopt a holding pattern. First hints of the eaten sun over the water, bleeding up to the reinforced concrete. Null and Other break their fast with gelid fusions. They crawl under furniture, attach to ceilings and wall; intermittently fall with some plaintive gesture of exhalation. The Ectopics are not memories, not so much, she realizes, but fecund and oblivious vehicles, furtive in the absence of symbols.
Anna, uneating, faces them dressed as a false wall. They do not ask her or speak, asymptotically locked on spaces beyond, where the Rose agitates the monstrous Other. She will disabuse them because she intends not ending but prolepsis. Does not desire what she can understand but will understand desire by effectuation like skin torn off a pubic mask. She has never been anything. The ectopia is superfluous.
For their first movement, Anna coaxes Open to the decking outside, now supplicated and cuffed. Chastises her with the couple’s silicone reserve paddle. Formal between greedy legs, angled for the severe vicious switch and chains concealed in Null’s trouser drawer. She striates bold contusions. Says ‘Arch’ and Open arches over the decking, proving adept, and asks nicely for her punishment to repeat.
Rigger floats above the grey swell astride a co-opted black ship, wearing a bulbous cosmonaut helmet replete with extraneous goggles and irregular panels of black glass.
Rigger fifty from shore humid scars and a more implacable tormentor. Close to you, absence inherent ejecta. Slow goggles. Leatherface behind speculum and stellar remnants lists through the panoramic window of the Sea House. Appropriate concrete.
Absence is never simple or enclosed and indifferent. The incompletion that lends her the energy to compel and falsify. Ritual switch and chain. Remasturbate flat against the glass. Flat. Null resumes his customary position before the panoramic window, extrudes another fleshy wet bag down in some cold lamina. Black Ship Morning.