Bean Caointe

On the last Sunday of every month with 5 weeks in it, we—He, I, and our not knock off Gucci, go old school socially & sexually anorectic corridor clubbin’. Pure pop-up trine shrine, our—we, he, I and NKOG, of I, my Animus (sometimes his Anima, but mostly mostly his negative mother complex) and my bag of baggaged, mostly (one mostly for me) complexed archetypes, with some bills and pills (mother relics). I, in a body taught (taut) to speak without saying, to ask without asking, keen, keenly, ‘touch us without, knowing. Without asking. Without any of us being here, arouse us, walk by us, touch us without stopping, stop us without touching, care less than our care lessness ness. Touch us where we won’t. Then leave us, in dire want, here.’

Bean Caointe: Irish for wailing woman, keener at a wake.