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collective fruits

collective fruits

March 15, 2016

George Watson

twilight rose, light spray painted onto stem, thorn becoming silver, glistening

do you watch pornography?

yeah but it makes me depressed

a worn and ripped lion red t-shirt, the letters A.C.A.B. on her knuckles, the stench of fuzzy black graffiti everywhere

someone needs to design a drug that makes this effortless

a backyard in dunedin, frozen vegetable gardens overgrown with weeds, wet earth, picking spiders off logs before putting them in the fire

approximate effortless

in high school my best friend scribbles a phone number onto her pillowcase in black vivid, the phone propped against her shoulder. her mum makes us watch porn with her then she falls asleep and pisses herself, urine slowly dripping onto the grey carpet

you must perform a certain sort of social labour

a dark room, eating cold slices of melon together, orange brown and sweetly off, pulp shelled in musty skins

need to simulate social interaction now

his breath on my neck, the light waver of my still standing body

a labour-selling drug for retail workers

no break, no revolution, no outside, only this, only moss, fruiting branches, weeds, scraps of newspaper, smashed tissue, leathery petals and fingers pushing through fence lines, apartments are numbered and gardens immaculately apportioned and yet they are unable to contain this abundance

police line the streets in rows wearing high visibility uniforms that are reflected perfectly in segments of wet glass, here civic architecture seems to be made for this very occasion, here the street holds the crisis lightly life grows through the cracks of unloving structures provisional plastic, greasy cardboard, empty shop fronts, faux marble tiles scattered with brown leaves

we are wearing dresses over jeans, everything frayed or cut at the hems, ink bleeding onto shoes, skin, phrases scratched onto forearms, hands, backpacks, trish, candice, april and me, we are putting things in our pockets, little pots of gel with glitter, nail polish, rings, incense and jewel boxes, we are sprinting exhilarated past flattened cans that look like shiny roadside beacons, running across the slightly slanted streets, across the tilted world and as we run we are tripping on all this, on the pavements, the buildings, on this world as it is

skate/lever/board/
dick/pic/ankle/tilt/
sock/chain/cuff vivid/
wet/body/smudge/bruise
/soft/note/red/eye

womyn/rye/goldenchild
angelstar/scattered/
nebula/sadcore /fem
antibiotic/potpourri

collective fruits, after Sam Hunt

subterranean fruits

kind and generous hands
push their way through fence lines
abundant with fruits
dark mahogany fingers with pale flowers, too
grow up and out of a devastated ground

today i drank the juice from his garden

sky fruits freshly snipped
and still tinged with green
lie amongst dry bracken and serrated leaves
deeply alone with just a bunch of loose change
i always take what i can get

falling continually
over my small breasts like cut stars
an ambient psychosis is gently
laying itself around the house
with orange pulp and black seeds dripping from her mouth
she describes to me the taste of forgotten fruit

i stumble to the kitchen,
i raid the fruit he left

fingering a neck lying upturned and tight
hairy knees pushing though ripped jeans
fumbling with another day
broken off at the stem
and a love that can’t get hard for me

i raided his garden today. it was
full of fruit, fat grapefruit
rotting on the ground

potency, intensity, a thicket of heat
and the air of getting fucked up all around
bruised subjectivities, a palette of glass

the policeman slips on his leather gloves

he calls this ‘facilitating’

i simply squeeze the fruit,
suck the bitter lemon dry

light a candle for our future and our undying devotion to it, light a candle for our heroic leaders, for our coming prosperity, light one too for our anxiety, for our substandard housing, for our minimum wage, for our absolute and utter alienation, light a candle and set ablaze each and every desirable location

i raid his orchard to the roots

the very little we give each other
is only just enough to live on
like most things in life
but still i take what you offer
your small gestures
your contraceptive pills
your hand to my mouth
still i take what i can get

these branches that hold our

collective fruits

are almost bare

these grapes

that cling to season

enter suddenly

a genderless spring

Born in Tūranganui-a-Kiwa, Aotearoa, George Watson currently lives in Auckland and has recently completed an MFA at Elam School of Fine Arts. she is interested in contemporary art, critical theory, poetry and ficto-criticsm and the roles that these disciplines play in collectively reimagining and re-shaping ways of being in and engaging with the world. Her research interests currently lie in the fields of feminism, decolonising methodologies, as well as in recent turns in speculative realism, post-humanism and affect theory. By working in a variety of roles including art making, curating, editing, writing and publishing George has collaborated closely with, and in support of, a diverse range of arts communities and practitioners within Aotearoa.