Earlier this month, I designed a programme for a gig a friend was orchestrating in Manchester. To see Pascal live in concert was as terrifying and humbling as it said on the box, and the box said plenty. And by ‘box’, I mean ‘programme’. It was the most fun I’ve had designing anything.
Here it is. It folds into triangles. This is what it looks like when you unfold it, except it was photocopied, so it’s grayscale. It’s probably better that way. In colour it’s more obvious that I dipped a brush into an ashtray full of coffee and cigarette butts for a makeshift ink wash.
Where is my mate, my fire?
Where is the power of coupling?
I dream I walk unbalanced on two legs,
yet cover much ground tracking
his scent. I dream I have human hands,
wet with plum flesh. I dream
butterflies taste bad and bitter. I dream
a boat with two oars, to cup me across the sea.
I dream salt. I dream ancient fish
the size of houses; storms throwing light
into the water. I dream land, rising
like laughter from the sea.
Where is the father of my litter?
Where is my nest? Where are my little ones?
I dream I’m out hunting. I dream
I’m a priestess, a thousand soldiers
kneel before me. I dream a violet flame
self-fuelling at my root-shakra.
I dream I’m a gateway for life,
for re-making and renewing this race.
I dream the smell of male sweat on money.
I dream I’ll fuck if the price is right.
I dream my hair’s grey as the moon
and I’m loved within the tribe.
I dream food is my enemy and I desire nothing
but bone and skin. I dream my breasts and my legs
are a sin that I apologise each night for.
Who is my husband? Who takes this woman?
Who’ll yield this lust, this beauty, this rage?
I dream I’m a she-lion, pacing
the dimensions of her cage.
Take me or leave me; or, as is the usual order of things, both.Dorothy Parker
