Will of the limb

Porcelain objects in liquid morpho-logic, 2023

The limb of my tongue is drowning in a melting vessel 

But I can’t be seep 

So I’m heating my breath and it freezes in the air into hard snowflakes bitter as knives

The vase is melting as well as the vessel as well as a tongue as well as a mother as fast as I was gone so far as I was told as must as we have to from vessel to shore from here to the tip of the speech. Your timbre and sounds are only formal data in a guest communicative environment. Your fracture angles are not read as signs, they rise into the air in the logic of body inertia, but without reaching other vessels they freeze, caught unawares by the lack of atmosphere for their reception. They fall back into your body. Ukrainians are scattered around the world like so many other refugees. Loneliness in the experience of trauma, social isolation is transformed into physical pain from the impossibility of mutual fluctuation in the usual modus bodily use of the Mother tongue. Language is a technology, an artificial extension of the body, a cyber-limb of the psyche, especially perceptible in situations where it can’t be used. A tongue, this vessel, the Matrixial Borderspace as a misty suspension where drops hanging in the air effectively commiserate, even if the prototype of this kind of relationship is the prelinguistic state of the infant. This nourishing suspension suspends the question of what exactly is language, how virtual the verbal is and how much it is projected into the flesh of body and routine motility, whether the eyelashes are involved in the act of speech or maybe invisible muscular impulses of the internal organs.