The Death of Knowledge/ The Morbid Truth
Live posts on social media…
To whom it may concern,
I’m clutching my dead mothers lipsticks
thinking about structural problems
I’m sick. Of. It.
I have an illness,
Not something u can catch
Not something that goes viral
Like gossip or hashtags
But the kind that’s contained
Where is your studio?
I sit in the gender neutral toilet while you are all in yours
I put on my make up
In mirrored reflection
Make up meanings during lectures
just lying here
No time/energy for institutional stuff
Every spare minute I have to hustle
waiting for the critique after the critique, Like the party after the afterparty
Like someone jumping from a building.
Arty parties. Networking and schmoozing.
Career getting? Suicide?
Where someone inevitably does or says something stupid.
Did they fall through?
What went throughout their mind just before it happened?
As their warm feet left the cold concrete floor
What critical thoughts
How did I end up here?
Someone. like. me
White hard loud opinionated walls
solid concrete doesn’t hold the trickle or permeation through the scratches of surface
Mute soft brown femininity
We fill in the gaps
No one listens to our language
clean, serve, secure, protect, satisfy
Yet protection is needed FROM us
Lost in theory about objects and bodies
flicking through reading lists and references I must read
I’d rather be endlessly scrolling on social media
Yeah but can we listen tho?
Language of our colonisers
White western canon
Recycle- remix- repeat- reinstate- reinscribe- re-enforce
The death of knowledge
Who was this student
did they ever wear lipstick?Yours truly
Someone who wants to know the morbid truth