︎
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

home    /    info    /   contact

2. space debris and other silent splinters





On its way, the moon drifted among

                                        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                                             

                                                                                           like silent splinters
                                                                          in the universe’s strange flesh.



We could just about outline the edges of the sharp, glistening objects
through the hazy 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

Next︎