Jacky T
There are three half-eaten bowls of cereal in this studio. They indicate the day’s meals,
attempted, dismissed.
Around the bowls lay empty wine bottles, drained to the last drop; some form of commitment
here.
There is a leaning tower of crushed beer cans too. Cans can be finished fast, their numbers
quickly building a sense of accomplishment.
Their ring pulls are meticulously removed, then tossed at random into corners; a cueca of
considered ritual, and reactionary disgust.
The walls are littered with quotes from artists, old love letters from people who hate you now,
and obituaries of rappers who would have probably called us fag.
A life spent in mourning, for you,
a body who cooperated, to come back and sort through this mess.
The clank of stray spoons against china, the tink of rolling bottles, the swaying limbs of
empty cans; you lay amongst it all, cells peeling off as the sun sets again, chastened by this
litany.
For a while all the detritus is welcome. Your failing organs falling to lie, amongst the rubbish,
in good company.
Like objects stay permanent.
Like objects,
astray.
A life lived in each morning, for who,
a body that cooperates,
now come back and add to this mess.
Sometimes, caught with a keen eye, the reflection here disgusts you. The glass and the
aluminium, the china and the metal; all mirrors for a second, clear.
The bone and the sinew, dead neurons and the misfiring; all without metaphor, exposed.
So, you get down on hands and knees and begin to make space. You push junk left and
right, reattach digits, scoop armfuls into plastic bags, stick on skintags, sweep and scrub,
frantic to clear a path.
But often, it’s too isolating, dysmorphic, to clean up and feel less surrounded.
