Dreams are the last place of freedom,
expression and truth.
We should listen,
learn the language they use.

In dreams I am strong,
grotesque and beautiful.
In dreams I am true.
In dreams, my body becomes a forest
rooted and mighty,
archaic to view.

I reject the quiet violence of perfection
the curated self, or the polished lie.
I reject the machine that replaces sky with a screen,
that hollows the sun
to an artificial glow.

I choose the uneven
the soft rot of something real,
the slow, tender breaking
we’re always taught to conceal.

I am of the earth,
she is not objectified, curated,
or categorised.
She is mud, bones, fractured and blooming

She is remedy, and she is ruin.

I will make work that remains wild
just out of hold,
not easily captured,
not neatly told.

To let something gather
in presence, in touch,
in voice.
Too thick to be filed,
too living to tame,
too shifting to settle
in language or in name.

I will not make to impress,
but make to be,
as moss on the bark,
as salt in the sea.

Let the machines keep their oppression
and their schemes.
We will keep what resists them:
our bodies and our dreams.