Strictures by Hannah Regel

First it was in the bathroom, then the kitchen. The membranes elucidate: lodged in the mucus and bleeding into the lungs. Boring holes into the present. In the Book of Leviticus I am told that if they had found you on a stone within a house the stone would have been taken out of the house, then the stone would have been taken out of the city. I am kinder, my sourness empathic. I think of you like an accoutrement. Your presence is a signifier it says Hell here but also never mind. There is no edge besides we both grow regardless

Hacking and Hewing
Cow-like and Leaking
So so so stilted.
I want to take pride
In my badness you
Know, get to the logIcal
extreme Howling
With the Omm inside
Everything living.
The continuous
Moo of sameness, “I”
Longing for the Lazy
To dislodge still gut
In the knowing flow
Generative release
This house is a trap
My body a desk
The hole in my belly
Ache is an inkwell
The cavity of
My sex drawers (meaning)
With reasonable
Fidelity, you
Fill it with your work
And I name the secretIons

See how the strictures are always in your favour and love it, we try. Chew 30 times and down. I was not supposed to occur except in flames or in lightning and yet what is this instruction. Wipe the mould off the lemon. ok I see well now it has gone inside me too late. They look like me bent over and I caress them free of their attempts at formal change. I want to live in this world not simply but with hair that shimmers. When I carry their spit backs on my open hips under the sovereign moon I feel brave. It will be a memory I cherish for the comparison, let me. Faces, which are soft and white and bloodless do not see anything and grow tanked — theirs: I hew on you on your Patron fuck you and your sociality. I feel alone inside the Internet and it bothers me.

Everyone is burning trash and building houses in the places where I go to hide. Where is my mother who will fill me with petrol, like hers before her so I can continue, tightly bound.

O tender filament. The walls are alive: black powder veins pumping the liquid that is for us that we will suckle from this flat dank udder we call a home.

I am going to plaster cast my indifference to dying and skewer it.



Hannah Regel is an artist and writer living and working in London. She also co-founded and co-edits the feminist journal SALT.