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Haidee Kruger

True love (three cut-ups)

Reality show
To go out the furthest, to gut each other, to cling to having been inspired. What they are: a kind of edge we watch, returning the brinkmanship. It's a reality room of last week's Ulysses. A show in which back to safety. But no. The very last second. The playing and playing for is the caressing closest to the verge, to catastrophe. Oh their superhero jaw lines, their perfect unscathed tits. Here Eve and Adam. Then zoom before running. Terrified of snakes. Adam tied Eve up in the closed gaze of the camera; got the most intimate with the spectacle, caressed the convex fizzle. His face in close up as episode. He can get right in and give it to her, rupture her in thousands through the lens recording their hedonistic bravery, their one-way glass. Her being bitten through the screen, we watch her struggling to. Eve is extremely true love. Out. Would dream of breathing, turning blue, passing the needle. He watched.

The ballad of unoriginal sin
No such thing as original sin. The uniqueness factory, the search for difference. But then the hidden foundation: the catalogue copied. In novels, on TV. We've created connoisseurs' couches, recognising ourselves. Maybe to inspect it, index it, buy it. For all time skinned inside unoriginal sin. Derrida: there is own obituary and continued hanging around regardless. I remember that spark. Ignition, recognition. One. Still. Your radar picked me up. On your desk like seeks out like. We feed two sides into single surface. The only way of being sure that we are actually here, of being sure that we haven't missed it, springcleaning lungs, liver, veins. Still. Between chequebooks, keys, cats, bickering, cigarettes, energy rewiring the way the brain thinks. Rectangle to Möbius strip. More, more. And the body wears the mute mechanics of it all. There is ink in your fingers, leaking. It's all there if you look closely in the shuffled light. Inside me swarm your inscriptions.

Giving it to her in its pink and crimson and scarlet, torn arteries glossing his fingertips. Tinted vermillion with sex, he swore it was hers. His eyes gave it to here, offering it. Red cells seeping into cupped hands, down her throat until she gagged. Blood, blood, blood percolating into that thing he left in her belly. His mouth is whole, because he is her completely. Like he trusted in this he needed her. He and his wrists were covered in oozing. He tore taste, pushing pores, pulsing. He wanted her to know. But. Too much. At his feet a damp mass she didn't want. And it fell at his bones so she spat his heart out beautifully. He took it and left. He left the red of poinsettias of his blood in her. Just as poisonous. It remained closer and closer, stubbornly on her tongue. Lemons did not want to let it go clean, or parsley or holy water. She tried everything, rinsing, but still. It lived in her, strange to her body. It. Kill it, abort it. But taste his mouth. And in surprise he tried to show her the days and months after.