RETROSPECTIVE by Kylan Rice and Sam Thayn

I. Montages are about the future. Montages are pure phenomena. Requiems are nothing more than thought experiments on dying. I was lying in a pile of blonde sentiments. It was like luxuriating with a depressed woman. A luxurious tapestry even though I’m not a tapestry person. A medieval gauntlet that is also a mastectomy. A breast lying in a dark corner. There were bed-sheets in the corridor, the smell of yeast coming from the end of it. Later in galleries I have multiple flash-forwards to the sex we will inevitably have. A half hour into the future where the body is at its dulcet angle. A perfect angle is a moment of pure foresight for the viewer. In other words a montage but in a stairwell a montage of stairwells or various collapses. It wasn’t enough it wasn’t sweet enough it wasn’t enough in a beanbag to repose in the blue glow of the new tv with you the window a complicated cough wearing blazers on the outside but changing on the in a fucking choice between a tapestry or nothing a nightlight or nothing a nightlight or nevermind a nightlight coming from the other room the doorway as its own kind of never never enough. II. We can't do anything apart, so we do it together in sweeping motions that cover the mountains with a very small cloth. We rummage until we find what we liked best about each other: the green skin under your rings, for instance, and the way the veins break on my eyelids. We find wet places. We find the death of a very small man, preserved in ambulatory motion. We tear him in two and I keep the half I know is mine. The half I know will take up his cross eventually. The half that fits in my mouth. There is a ringing memory at the door, and the peephole is your face in broken angles. Let me in, you say, but the doorknob is too high to reach.