You poison your veins, 

you’ve long ago been bitten by the venom of fear. 

You state that there’s peace to find in an orderly, 

de-globalised world, 

but you’ve snorted the stones from your greasy screen, 

you’ve swallowed the fat from the dripping flesh between your fingers. 

You crash and burn there in front of us, 

We see you passing out on our bed, 

dressed neatly, groomed nicely, trimmed to perfection, 

you throw your tattooed self, six-pack first, face down,

on our hollowed-out mattress, 

and for a moment we see the world through your eroded eyes 

and we’re terrified, 

but now the curtains are closed and all there’s left is solitude spitting at us 

We collect the leftovers like cold, over cooked spaghetti from the bottom of the pot, 

the floppy strings remind us of our own spine and we feel a cold, familiar shiver 

and we yearn for someone to tell us they feel the same. 

We put ourselves to sleep on the other side of the wall, 

Our little bed on the ground floats on our tamed desire to be desired by you, 

you put your hand on our mouth and say “be calm,” then break down in laughter on top of us, inside of us, but not all over us, 

and we ask you what you mean by all of that and you tell us we're very loud, and that you don’t remember laughing. 

Meanwhile someone else strokes our hair compulsively and looks at us from above and we look up and see him say 

that we have to learn how to restrain ourselves more 

and we make puppy eyes and smile and blow smoke into his face and we should have told him to fuck off, but we didn’t, we just nodded and giggled our way away from him,

 while our sister with the hoarse, penetrating voice and the strong, enlightened opinions tells him for us. 

And we admire her for it and at the same time we want her to stop cause we couldn’t care less, kind of. 

And we turn our unbothered head and look at you and we ask ourself how we could have ever looked away, for those hundreds and hundreds of seconds, cause you’re sitting there with your mesmerisingly rugged face. Your sudden presence in our world, and we look around the table and see you all, we see you all: 

the Syrian feminist power house, with the hypnotic, blue gaze, her, you, 

the Ukranian gay refugee, 20 years old, yet smarter than most, him, you, 

the British trans woman whom we gift SCUM manifesto in red clouds of smoke, her, you, 

the Polish wrestler with the cauliflower ears and the sophisticated articulation skills, him, you, 

the German pragmatic with a real job and the aristocratic sense of style, him, you, 

and we see you, you, 

our new creative force, the right wing poet, a walking contradiction, Him, muse, you. 

And our sister says all we can do is to objectify you, you, to utter perversion, 

and we like the idea, it’s smart, it’s reasonable, but we know we’ll go much, much deeper if we get the chance, and it seems we do, cause it’s sitting right there in front of us, at the round table bursting with range, gathered, underneath the red lights, fuelled by alcohol. 

And we're the sun in this little self-created solar system, right here in Cancel City. 

But we feel fearful, fearful of the violence housed beneath the beautiful mess that is you, 

and we know it’s this very fear that activates our new found fascination. 

And every time our back bents, we bent towards each other, towards the next broken promise, the next act of compromising our integrity, 

yet we’re still full of bubbles and tiny needles bursting them as we make our way through the sunshine to the grey big square with the many lanes. 

We ask her if chaos and conflict sparks her artistry, 

she says no, 

that she needs a home, a “Zuhause,” 

and we understand, but we don’t get it. 

And she says she thinks we want “stress,” but it’s a reduction of what it is that we want and we never use that word anyway, cause it’s too practical, clinical, sterile. 

What we want is constant inner explosions, for our minds to be twisted and our intestines to be lifted, contradictions, confusion, conflict and tension, constant disruption of what we once thought was the truth. 

And we’re going to get our next disruption who’s gone all the way from Copenhagen to Cancel City to walk with us. “If you don’t fuck him, you’re fine,” they say and we can’t stop smiling our evil smile cause we know ourself and we know very well that we will do everything we want to do cause we suck at staying inside the lines, the lines, the lines of what, the lines of righteousness, the lines of faithfulness, 

and it’s not that we don’t hear the choir of wrong singing inside of us, as we approach our next quest of fucking up again. 

And you smell like beer and kiss us and tell us that you smuggled one gram over the border.

And we ask how? 

And you point to your black suede shoes there on the polished tiles, and we laugh and think “oh no,” and feel the fontanelle spot that is our spine sighing. 

And you grab our waist, you grab it, and we throw our arm around your perfectly sculpted neck and we take you into our world, our mind, our body. 

And we know ourselves, but we don’t know what we want. 

And we don’t trust ourselves, but we trust ourselves to be ourselves. 

And we don’t choose not to when we have the choice to fly to the highest point, 

only to hit our lowest the next day, or the next week, month, year.

But we choose to deal with the consequences of our actions the next day and the next week and the next month, if at all, and we cheat and we lie and we screw and we snort and we write. 

And they say “wow, what a beautiful text, congratulations, it’s your strongest work so far,” cause we love it when someone else tells our story without judgment, we love a mirror in which we can see ourselves united in compassion and vulnerability, and we slurp and laugh and run and cry and sleep and dance at the abyss of freedom and we tremble and fall. 

We fall. 

And along comes the grief: First denial. Then bargain. Then anger. Then depression. And in the end: acceptance. While we look for the meaning down there in the ruins cause we know it’s there, that’s why we went here in the first place. We find the glowing carcasses and we take them and take the pills and flush motherhood, the ultimate transformation, down the drain, and we know it’s so much more than a blood lump and we feel so endlessly raw and begin stuffing ourself with life again. And we look at B and he tells us that there’s no point in caring anyway, but his gaze is off and something’s off and he tells us he’s drifting off and we take his hand and lead him to our home and we fall asleep intertwined in affection. 

And we think we understand B when he falls down on all fours there on the concrete pavement in Cancel City and he smashes his head into the ground over and over and over again while he screams: 

“turn off and start over turn off and start over turn off and start over.” 

And we know our narcissism is out of control and we love feeling manic but we hate ourself for our self-destructive powers. And now we’re a black hole again, here, and after our abortion we felt so empty that we needed someone to enter us again right away, enter us fully, we needed him to stuff us with his ephemeral love, but in the moment it was all there and it was all ours and we loved ourself for it and we loved him for it and then he left in the night and left us feeling full and fulfilled again. 

And we thought this is the way to go, this is the way to feel whole again, just stuff ourself with their desire for us, with their lust and their skin and their flesh and their eyes and their tongues and their fingers and their scent and their juice and their coke and their evil words and their poetry and their lightness and their darkness and their art. 

And if it’s not enough we’ll demand more we’ll demand more we’ll demand more and if we don’t get it we’ll leave in anger and despair in the middle of the night and go find what we need elsewhere. 

And sometimes it’s easier said than done, cause true intimacy is rare, but we're good at giving into it, at least for as long as it takes for us to feel loved for a second. 

And now you’re on the other side of the wall speaking your mind, and we're writing this and feeling hollow and invisible and not at all invincible and we don’t know how to proceed from here, other than to write these words. And last Sunday we were hungover too and B was next to us in bed, he said “please come,” with his fingers inside of us, but just to shut us up and turn us off and of course it doesn’t work like that and we didn’t come at all but we did fall asleep. And the next day Salomon came and he’s so trustworthy, like a trustworthy, calm horse, he offers us his back again and again and we love him for loving us. But now we’re fucking and we’re fucking it up and that’s what we do, we’re lying here on a sunny Sunday coming down from yet another ego-hedo-trip and we didn’t even want to do coke but we did it anyway and we really really don’t want another abortion, but we let you enter us unprotected anyway. 

We say: “You don’t like condoms, do you?” With our legs spread apart in front of your tattooed body, the cross hanging in a thick, black chain around your neck.

You shake your head and grab your dick and then we grab it and take it and suck it into us and you come on our belly, at least. 

But we check our app to see when we’ll be ovulating next and we know sperm can live for days inside of us, patiently awaiting a soft, little, helpless egg to violate. 

And you leave us with your raging poetry and we read it in bed, in our sticky sheets, they smell like you, and we read and we understand and we’re terrified, cause right there, right there, on the page, you tell us why you laughed, you tell us. 

You say it: You laugh because we’re women. And we’re petrified. And we say: Say our name out loud while the cameras are rolling. And we know we shouldn’t. 

And we know we shouldn’t be cheating, and we’re doing it anyway, and we know we shouldn’t hurt ourself, and we’re doing it anyway, and we know we shouldn’t cross here and we know we shouldn’t cross there and we know we shouldn’t and we know we shouldn’t and we know we shouldn’t. And we know we will. 

And our brother is on the phone saying he doesn’t understand this way of living, that he’s exhausted from our crash outs after our burn outs after our fire storms and burned down bridges, post manic self convictions post possessions post ideas and his love is giving birth to their baby soon, we almost threw up when they gave us the happy news, we cried and fainted, blood left our head, cause it hadn’t been more than a minute since the violent expulsion happened in our home, in our “Zuhause”. 

The one thing we did not do for the plot. And motherhood, fatherhood, parenthood: the one thing we won’t be doing for the plot. And here we are, 

after all of this that have become our ideology, our art ideology, our method, our strategy, our system, our way of making and our way of loving and our way of living and our way of dying. And of course we started writing this text way past the precipice. And we know it’s what will bring us back up in the end.