night mode

"To read Caelan Ernest's iconic debut 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦, is to enter the pool at Le Bain’s ON TOP with Arca & Sophie playing b2b on the decks in shadows of the fog machine. On the screen, on the dancefloor, Ernest imagines the delightful consequences of a trans terror in public when 'all the forms our bodies might be capable of taking' manifest into all possible selves. Each line cuts through the perspective-pleasure axis between screen and horizon, gesture and code. Ernest ascribes body parts to phones and technology, transforms those parts—machine, flesh—entirely for queer pleasure. The process of relation may be transformative, but the poetic relative with selves past, present, & future is utterly trans/formative. 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦 is Ernest's hyperpop, hyperpoetic, trans cyborg manifesto on love & of course–lust." — Andrea Abi-Karam

from night mode




let’s say u came into being like a text on a phone. ur name, a flashy alert popping in or out of screen. u, the digital. ur code, a bunch of numbers. the numbers off the mouth like something dirty or censored. what’s autonomous about being seen. u should kno.

every man these hands touch becomes an archive.




let’s say u be ‘til u been, ur body bent over on its neck. the phone’s light hovers like a geist—a polter suspended, disguising its shadow as another body in the bed. erotic, me think. me think ‘til me not. stubborn, u. still glaring at the phone ‘til time broke or a man subdues u w/ a pocketful of emojis. digital schism, u. a holograph, its projection.

don’t u remember.





let’s say the phone dank in night mode. u linger around on screen ‘til a past iteration of u disseminates into a blur. is this what’s been leaky. the grind’s grind; all code for ‘fuck me.’ until me a pile of numbers that replicate urs.

until me take ur form.

from somewhere a cyborg is taking note of the event that will transform it








>> when i meet u off                    the grid                     in this techy epoch

it is digital                                       deviancy : :

when i see u                                            at the party

a bolt !!         a smokescreen          backdropping

the room                           in thick clouds                      of chemistry 

//              we exchange                                     fine particles

&& i wear this skin                  like               the very first time







                                when u take me                      by my hardware

on the dancefloor our                 algorithms rumble

matching the synthetized rhythms                           that surround us

my code : : our make up >> a mutation occurs         in my body

// i do not                         make myself                           small

beneath it






[input structure]                  ++                   [displacea warning]

to a former ‘self’                  GET IN LINE            or face

analog walls                        broadcasting this message

a little too loudly


                                                       (u feel the possibility as it becomes palpable)

xx                                                   (all fictions come surging to the surface)



This topia begins its story as a gloss.

You encase yourself in it until you are swollen.        Coded.

You feel the stick of the numbers as they permeate through the skin. An old you would have tried desperately to memorize their shapes.


An old you.


The system takes the form of a benevolent

graphic. Behind it,        a dark sky with no moon.


Wipe any remaining sticky from your code. You can’t afford to be glitched.


Not yet.






This topia is not a fiction,        but there are many untruths.

You’re sure you can detect them now.


You scan the orgy of naked bodies crooning underneath the pseudo-light of the screen, coming together to make shape movement out of ligament & belly.

Nothing concealed in the spaces between.


You’re hungry,                      though you don’t know what for.

You sit & watch the flesh pool as it folds apart like waves.

from pink(ing)





We head back to his after it got too late to be drinking at the.

(Sorry, it’s a—) Mess. There’s a splash of water on the floor of his bedroom, maybe a rain spot or a spill. A pink dot pokes out from the middle, the size and shape of an egg yolk.

I glance at the ceiling, but no sign of leakage. He remains quiet as he takes me to the bed. As we walk past the strange water and the pink spot, the glitchy sound from the bar returns in my ear, like switching on the radio to a broken station. As a kid, I’d always let the static play to fill up the empty space.

But now. On the edge of his. I press my fingertips to my ears to try to stifle the sound, but I know there’s no luck since the glitch seems to be coming from inside. Vibrating out.

As if to keep me present in this moment, he performs an action: the slippage of his body over mine. His hands to uncover, I undress. The song in my ear becomes an orchestra booming. A subsequent terraforming. I trace the salt particles on his skin like stars before sleep.

Inside, another kind of pink yolk is brewing.

Love is dew, you.