daughter of pearl

a top and no bottom is always pretty funny. in fact, any article of clothing worn with nothing else is either hilarious or. later on my father would make work like the work i made; let’s say it was an action of mimesis, the adaptation of an antipredator. let's say i was so powerful the patriarchy coiled in on itself and could talk about nothing but what it looks like inside the shell: about nothing but the mother’s daughter. about how it is to be suspended in the spit of the mollusk and known nothing but spit; to be the inner layer of the skin as the snake sheds its husk; to be left








behind. but back to pants. back to how fashion is a long joke about vulnerability, about lizards who hereditarily remodel themselves in the image of the eye or of a dozens eyes so their predators will believe they are always watching. i, too, believe a mirror is the best accessory. i’m kidding; i defiantly don’t think seeing and being seen are the same but i do believe all the auspices will conspire to convince you to never really look at yourself. cult, do not be afraid of masks. do not be afraid of death masks. do not be afraid to put an oily thumb to your own eye to see an imprint on the cornea, to flirt with the lens. use the sebaceous gate to mark the boundary you will trespass, to chart the space between the pupil and the master. you will need to see clearly








that which needs to be transgressed. chameleonic paterfamilias. i’m honestly most embarrassed by the idea of showing up to the afterlife wearing the same wings as someone else. i’m most afraid that the dreams of everyone will come true and the afterlife will be a mall. i’m most afraid it will be a vast dadland; where jokes will never be terrifying and the music is eating. the only story i know back to front is this one where a new shape walks into paradise and the old shape names her after the moment in time that is always just before. this is a story about never arriving. this is just a story about how parents are like a record player with a broken need le, about glitch babies. shame jingle. this is a story about how clothing was invented. about postlapsarian coupons. the only story i know back to front is the one about how there was only one idea about beauty and only one idea about evil but now i have a new idea about both. i don’t mean i’m some sort of spiritual haberdasher; i mean i’m going to grow the clothes out of my own skin.








so really i’m not afraid at all. i’m going to dress in a white blouse and walk through the woods. i’m an anti-uniform, i’m the one who isn’t going to work for them.