I think of flesh a lot. Flesh is mainly what I think of when I think of that window seat I snuggled
int

 

glitch

I think a lot. I think a lot of this easy-to-tire-of strawberry flesh having been grinded out of that
jovial-jingling Munich; cork and white metal armchairs of mid-century modern exhibits, no
swells, shrinks, cups or gaps, no warping, just monolithic s(h)immering. About. The city maze?
I too (could’ve sworn) belonged t

Glit(s)ch

​

( - Queerfeministischer Buchladen)

I think of Fle(i)s(c)h a lot. (Hack)fle(i)s(c)h is mainly what I think of when I think of basking in
the sun in that window alcove. Loafed up there, it came to my mind that my Fle(i)s(c)h could
be twiddled inside-out; (Hack)fle(i)s(c)h or raw salmon, Gua-Shad and neatly pinched at the
corners of my very temple, briny from my eyes, torn through my screeching mouth. Till I be a
punch(ed) pink draft snake, slowly frying. (For draft snakes, upcycle old remnants by moulding
a tube and filling it up with dry ric

glitch

I think a lot when I think about thinking. My flesh. Being fried. Salmon! Don’t get me wrong,
I’m a by-side, slow-ly, away-bubbling stream of Europe’s straight, white, cis majority, though
as a woman (fed forcibly with clashing prints) I hover on the edge of androgyneity:

        velvet, bouclé, soft cotton and cashmere throws on upholstered ottomans, sofa arms,
        trying to balance tastes, the only places to which I would pin berry-flesh are skirting,
        dado, joinery.

And I think of my anchoring on that sundowner’s bookstore deck; my eyes hitting the floor

and rolling away like heavy marbles... or their bouncing away like rubber balls onto the head-
tops of page-flipping customers. Leaving behind statement slime-snakes. Or their behaving

well (for a change) and sticking to my ski

gloss

flesh, I mean. Is not all. I think. Of. When: salmon, salmon! Screams!

I...may (may I?) easily windowsill-fry, radiator-atop, by-sunlight: contents of someone
ordinary. Or dine al fresco a whole dense of a strawberry field, one of whose strawberries if
you poke, it might bleed sweet Hungarian summer dreams. Charming and ruptured? You’re
going to want it: red.

​

                                                                (This is how my mother makes salmon:
                                                                After removing the fishbones with a pair of tweezers,
                                                                she seasons it with pepper, salt, and olive oil and
                                                                cooks it at 175 °C for eight minutes.

                                                                This is how I devour strawberries:
                                                                raw)