Your teeth are falling out and I am like a clinging baby to your breast, I need constant attention. I need all of you inside of me – I am starved of your affection, I can feel the tickle of its ebb and flow as you give me crumbs of words, then withdraw again. […]Read Post ›

But I can no longer get the consistency right, I take a chunk, it still tastes good, so I go back for more, the need to gorge is strong. The hole where I took the first piece is no longer there, it’s so fucking watery it’s shifted back into place, like tectonic plates. It looks […]Read Post ›

Lately I have begun to act differently, almost predatory. I have a hunger inside that is not fed with sweetness, but raw flesh. And I want all of it. Yet, when I get it I choke.  I feel conflicted, violently ambivalent.  I want the thrill of the chase, yet the security of having the prize. […]Read Post ›

What is it about the pervert, the peeping Tom, the degenerate that I so desire? And what sparked it off so young? What does my desire say about me? Does it speak of my childhood, my upbringing, my parents, my siblings, my friends, my ex partners, my first time, my fears, my thought processes, my […]Read Post ›

A false epiphany, or did that giant blockage finally release itself? I feel like I’ve just shook hands with a monstrous demon, who now in the light of day, looks more like a sweet celestial creature, who greets me on my road to self acceptance. Maybe it’s ok to be a little crazy, to have […]Read Post ›

Everything looks wonky, is it my eye level, or were things always that way? I can barely walk without wanting to curl over, and fall to the floor, my feet are heavy, like clay, but they don’t have that same soothing earthy smell. I want to lay bare to the ground, for it to be […]Read Post ›

We used to speak so candidly. The world felt like a place that was safe to discuss the hypothetical, to ask awkward questions without any definitive answers, to question ourselves, to come closer to understanding our own desire. Was I naive? It’s been a year and half since he broke everything down, since I erased […]Read Post ›

Daddy I am a Man project   Image credit: Father & Sons, 2014, Daddy I am a Man project, AnnaMaria Pinaka, Dad & Prefix-poly, (photograph).

#1 I’m really nervous. My pockets are full of wet tissues and my heart is full of worms. The only thing I can do with any success is to look gay. But will they even believe me? I’ve spent my whole life trying to be beautiful and now I’m right back to zero and my […]Read Post ›

Yesterday I was a pervy little horn-dog, hanging out with my pseudo dad. We were enacting what it would be like to be ‘one of the boys’.  Two hillbilly hicks, with questionable morals and no true sense of self. Did we push it too far? Are they still relatable? It was fun to be ridiculous, […]Read Post ›

  A woman dressed as a man masquerading as a woman. The detective;  a camp parody of female manhood, in black spandex leggings, high heels, and feminised dinner jacket, face plastered with a thick layer of badly applied make-up, 5 o’clock shadow and ruby red lips. She/he/they – someone told me recently that it reflects a […]Read Post ›

Taking up space. Women dominate significantly less space than men, closed in on ourselves. Sat down across from us reading a menu, sit two men, their arms spread out as if there is a lump of stone in front of their chest.  We try to replicate and it feels awkward and heavy limbed. It gets […]Read Post ›

We were very generously awarded a New collaborations bursary from a-n The Artists Information Company in order to carry out a research project in Amsterdam, in which we will explore our fantasies of masculinity by attempting to become our masculine desires, how they appear, relate, seduce, experience and reflect power and weakness. Through the daily […]Read Post ›

  Image credit: Like a once tame beast, part two, 2013, Prefix-poly, (collage)

My father is an edible sugary substance, and I seek to consume him. To taste bitter, saccharine, my tongue as it licks at his wounded thigh. Why is my father consumable, why do I make him so? The sharp glide of his dripping toffee cock, as it both enters me and gives me my fatherly […]Read Post ›

I grew up wanting to be like my father, a ladies man, and yet I was born female, and my relations are generally with men – you’d think perhaps I’d sway the other way in order to fulfil this fantasy, but it seems desire is never this logical. So where does that leave me? In […]Read Post ›

My mother, my other, who is too close for comfort. I itch, scratch and fumble as the warm heat from her body seeps into mine. What is it that I am repelling myself from? Desperate not to mirror, I can feel myself recoil, set to dance away. But I keep returning to a familiar discomfort. […]Read Post ›

‘But when does one become a woman?’ he asked. ‘And why do you not feel that you are there yet? You have all the traits of womanhood, even though your breasts carry the essence of the indolent pre-teen.’ I pause, wondering what it is that will make me into a woman. For years I have […]Read Post ›

The erotised girl-childs in the writings of John Ruskin are often described as hard, impenetrable, breathtakingly beautiful jewels, crystals and stones.  Young flesh is taut and pristine, untarnished by the weight of womanhood. The crystalline jewels of my sweet, sticky toffee speak of my own desire to hold onto girlishness, as time slowly dissolves their sharp […]Read Post ›

On a project with Richard Taylor in Amsterdam at AWA Gallery: Like children engaged in parallel play, until we met somewhere in the middle, amidst a temper tantrum or two, indulged in decadent singing of la-la-la-la in order to transcend the moment when your badge licked toffee Italiano from the towering floor. We battled and fought, […]Read Post ›

Enacting an imagined scene ‘tween Lo & Herr ‘bedside-Doktor’ H.H. – in bed with a bruised and broken finger. A bitter, red ‘v’ rose across the circumference of her middle finger, lingering near the tip, exposing pink tinged flesh underneath. I lifted it up to my nose and sniffed, searching for the sweet scent of […]Read Post ›

For impossibility. To be like father, stripped of womanhood – disemboweled. Femininity removed like a shroud. And yet I am female, there is no escaping it. Your very closeness, maleness, mocking my allusions to simulation. Can there exist a relation in time where I do not run from the role of [m]other? To be dressed […]Read Post ›

In my search to define my detective character, I have begun to think about the notion of masculinity of which I aspire. The more I dwell upon it. The more I see that it is almost like a caricature of manhood. A childish demonstration. He is a strange mixture of sexualised rogue and asexual Oxford […]Read Post ›

I am finding it difficult to visualise my detective character, it is something that I have been trying to bring to fruition for some time now. I don’t understand it, perhaps I am not focussing enough, perhaps I do not want to give him a face, maybe he has too many. He is within me, […]Read Post ›

I like to hold it up to my nose, pressing myself into its spine so I can smell the stench of the black ink impregnated within its pulped pages. A shiny surface, indented and scratched with the passage of time, its pink tinged edges curled up exposing yellowed pages underneath the imperfect semi-gloss off-white exterior. […]Read Post ›

From a conversation I had yesterday, whilst I was knee-deep in panic about my love-lorn insecurities …I realised something about my detective character, or rather my desire to don the guise of man. It was something I used to make me feel safe when I was a child. If I was a man, I would […]Read Post ›

  My voice resonates all around me, as if in taunt to my elocution. I shift between whisper and high pitched whistle, moving on my haunches, the amber coloured liquid moves from state to state in a collorary to my emissions, I am aware of its slippages, between form and formlessness. I pick and fumble, trying […]Read Post ›

  There exist several characters that weave throughout my practice, I imagine they are kind of like the multiple John Malkovich’s, in the film of the same name, myself again and again; in drag, pregnant with sexuality, fornicating within internal abscesses, a reverse birth canal of abject arseholes. My main character the Detective; explores my […]Read Post ›

  Image credit: Little Red and Little Blue, 2008, Photograph series, Prefix-poly. Photography: Red Reel Productions    

  Image credits: Polymorphous grotesquerie, 2007, Installation, Prefix-poly. Photographer, Darren Key, Darklens