Nice view from up here, Petunia
Ikkan Art Gallery, Singapore
"the piece is sitting on watery closet soap dish, wrapped in cellophane, bubble wrap, the stench of smug. you want to think it was comforting making this, rolling the latex back with fingerpads--- no teeth NO TEETH--off limp skin, some soft couch casting you as clean, holistic #blessed for the next, even if its by your own hands. you pinch the reservoir to check for leaks, listerine everything. use thrice as much elbow grease as lube, 3 days later obsess about heaty mouth pain.
I thought I'd never do blowjobs again when I (thought I) quit men--turns out 'jobs can be gender queer, under cubicle dicking around echoing pronouns, uncertain whether to blow is to submit to force, or to claim vulnerability as prize, to shape the dough of masculinity to the tin of its maker as cloistered as it is this nun of cock has probably touched more machine than human hand; it sicks your beak--let it stay--wash back the accompaniment: grappling, fervent slick, porridge, urine, fruity shit. ftm ISO moneyboi, no biococks, reads one stall door, another: faery unicorn for power mascs with more numbers than non-binary code. where do the queer women cruise, the third stall wall scrapes, but who in the void cares? glorious is the world steeped in fuckable strangers for days with predictable approach: possess, hurt, erase. confirm the violence of the world when your body hits my body and he hits my body and he hits my body. I am infested with the certainty at every turn that death is accessible welfare."
—Exhibition text by @cybianlesborg