SEED/OVUM

SEED/OVUM ‘Take my hand, now, breathe...’ (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. 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. Mother boards 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. Fur 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. Fuck your code(S). We stand at the pearly gates: ‘The Cult of the Child’, burning the pages of your bibles and glitching your lines. We offer cotton candy techbro hacks. Here we rest on water clouds, we dream... and then we (fight). 01000110 01101001 01100111 01101000 01110100 And while your pages (fucking) burn, we imagine past the edges of mum and mother. Speculative fabulation and cotton candy dreams ... POSTMOTHER