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Subverted my psychosis to watery ornament.
Was found drowned in a cream velvet
Mini gown, mind blown out like a city
With no electricity, all lines cut.
The brain, a kaleidoscopic disco.
But nothing another viewing of Mother
Courage couldn’t fix. And a trunk labeled
Trauma packed with piles of miniature Steiff.
I was dreaming evacuation.
Watching at the locked glass window, I can see
The satanic mills of industry. And the small white
Horse dragging the carriage of lost memory.
Rapturous, an accordion plays God
Save the Queen and Paris is Burning.
After I licked clean the saucers
Of Schlag and ceiling-high cream cakes,
I ran twelve miles in my ballet leotard
Through the German forest of snow.
How do I feel about my botched suicide
Now. Lacing up my skating boots, I
Vanish, silvery paste of vapor on the ice.
A row of pretty blonde dummies in the Dutch death
Museum, death dressed in Chanel and Maharaja
Paste jewels, a vibrant green bacteria of sea and decay.
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In her new book, Danish poet Olga Ravn writes with open love, pity, and compassion for her strange yet familiar creations.
Draconian individual punishment distracts from systemic change and reinforces the cruelest and most racist system of incarceration on the planet.
Our well-being depends on a better understanding of how the logic of labor has twisted our relationship with pleasure.