WHAT NEWS OF THE SNAKE THAT LOST ITS HEART IN THE FIRE

When it calls, we manifest. We rise from the undead.

We slide out of our wet holes.

We untwist our bodies from warmer bodies.

Our pleasure oozes across the concrete

like murder. Our lungs fill like the miasma of stale sex.

We take stock of the rusty pipes and tungsten halls.

Rub nitrogen from each other’s eyes as we consider those flimsy walls.

We take the stairs. The black sun beckons.

We storm the high roofs of high rises as windows shatter on the floors below. We are those glass shards in free fall, screaming with joy as we slice into the belly of the rising tide. We spill out of these skeletons.

Smoke rises from the calluses on our feet.

When it calls, they sing. The clouds in the sky sing

a song to send skulls flying. We fly. We fuse.

My erstwhile selves sink into the deep. I turn to the smoldering sky.

After the travails of the day, nighttime is when life finds expression at its deepest, truest and most intense.

Covering a span of four years, SNAKEFIRE presents a portrait of the Malay/ Indonesian night and is the second installment of an existential trilogy on night time, night life and night space – three essential elements that exist both in grudging harmony and brutal confrontation.

During my time in south-east Asia, notably in Penang, the world’s largest recorded python slithered out of its tropical jungles one day into a construction site, in obvious physical pain. Amidst unwarranted media frenzy and hysteria, it died in the arms of humans three days later while giving birth to an offspring.

SNAKEFIRE is dedicated to this paradise that has been lost to unmediated human greed, a greed which has lost all sense of balance and harmony in its relentless march towards evermore consumption and evermore appropriation from Mother Nature.

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