︎
ANNA-ROSE STEFATOU


film

    1. space debris (and
        other silent splinters) 
    2. almost óra (-cle) flower,
        or a thing that remembers    
        itself
    3. song to the knotty haired
        children

writing

     1. the moon looked like
         a sky jellyfish   
     2. space debris (and
         other silent splinters)
     3. he was writing on
         an orange peel      
     4. ‘drunk on light’
     5. almost óra (-cle) flower,
         or a thing that remembers    
         itself


notes on
biofiction / limbo / intertemporality
through film / writing / image—

  1. the scaling of a fish
  2. a (pixelated) memory—lagging
  3. this is the / an image of
  4. making of flower nectar
  5. Iavish mother / lavish feast
  6. (like FRESH MOULD ON A FORGOTTEN ORANGE)
  7. almost hostile object
    8.  leaky remnants
    9.  dust choked
         dusk choked memories
Mark

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9. dust choked
    dusk choked memories 











another ending to ALMOST ÓRA (-CLE) FLOWER, OR A THING THAT REMEMBERS ITSELF






                                         

                                        SPACE DEBRIS AND OTHER SILENT SPLINTERS



olfactory memory is always the last to wilt



it’s just that this time,
we could smell the pyrite through our optic nerves

nautical smoke flares descend on the salt-cured flesh of Piraeus



                                                                               smoke between our words
                                                                               ash between our gestures



mothers, and their mothers

loop genes, stories loop marigold necklaces, hymns loop time residue, echoes loop


dust-choked
dusk-choked memories of


an edge-less, loss-less mourning





residual haunting (that vulgar mediator)                                             


                                                                                           like silent splinters
                                                                          in the universe’s porous flesh



we could just about outline the edges of the sharp, glistening objects through the thick red;


space ships, satellites and what escaped them




drift in the graveyard orbit

or

her ‘womb of things to be and tomb of things that were’ *





forced to re-enter the atmosphere,
they perish into compressed gas




ever-migrating dust
settles deep into our porous brain matter,


                               and we are somehow caught in a fantastic surge of glitter and rot






















* ‘The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction’ by Ursula Le Guin

























Mark

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