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Daniya Baiguzhayeva

Lucky Me

to have my hatchlinghood mapped out in
such
digit-slick angularity, each tooth-
less smile appendicised, the puppy
fat in pixels! How strange to find myself,
[conceivably]
a woman now, to slouch
afront a flat blue screen, a haloed face.
Sit witness to
this technological renaissance
by which I mean:
such astronomical disproportions,
emaciated screens,
such a sordid digression
from the stout naughties box. Technology
is not being able to see things from the side.

So I find myself
finding myself a child, sans
incisors, or canines. Later: premolars
      In data
I am still a baby, like the splayed goat in its
formaldehyde vat. Granular and butter-soft,
blackberry-eyed. A waltz of sound waves and
light.
The point is, megabytes bite
like irony bytes. In a video, I hear my mother
tell someone
‘Our [file name] has a good appetite,
touch wood.’ I am six.
Touch wood.
This apotropaic does not make a difference.
A decade on the pixels will dance out an up-
graded silhouette,
of astronomical disproportions, […]
asking:
how does an organism
digitise itself? Forsake
the analogue,                that
inefficient animal slog
[we call]                 consumption?
A malware in the brain.
Virus, bug,
contagion.


Red sun phenomenon ‘caused by Hurricane Opheliarlsquo; – BBC News

after Eimear McBride

Ago. Memoried a preteen antichristing, sleeped
a devil out & own head afraiding me like bible
that. Citalopram, a low slow lady Macbethism.
This day cruel spent smalling back, on twitter
Jesused. Wept me down, mummy you limbed
a plague. Egged bad, sorry. Am bad like cyclin
-goad, misdeeded hurricanes, deading people
angry. Brain bad like bad am like dybbuk-
nestle. & for atone I kept you safe in multiples
of six, in digit-vigils againing prayers & exhaust.
In neutraling like cancel-out like nothing bad nothing
bad nothing bad
. Unsleep. Mummy keep okaying it
this cargo-suck of guilt like donkey-down or rot,
intestining. Superstition straddled me a man,
glued sex to thoughts that villained me. Some
soiling root. Some digging out unfruitful. Knuckled
knocks raw and toothing gnash a soapbox preacher
squats unevictable, tolling: hell hell hell hell hell
as some scripture-swallow clock. Today red sun
like apocalypsing so calm it is unsoothe. Eyelidded
down the blinds, like push-downed fear like why dig
out when you can bury over. Either pain or survival
is archeological can think not which.


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