top of page

Ash Tract

Salomé Honório



corpus, the arrangement of articulates:

hold a lotus flower on the left hand,

hold a handful of flame on the other,

hold horizon in lunar plexus,

and do not move within.


this left hand of darkness: a fist struck down the ventricular of vernacular reason. logo lapse and lay low: slow sense to sink in. must now sink oh!, must never write again. must abolish all archives written & of things ever real. must musicalize this stench deferral. must and must not mutate alternate imperative. or maybe try and gesture without direction? thereby accepting the part, the tilt and odd concept of it. am doing pretty good, i think. and then again, not so much. to the contours of the political heart, i said: “this hurts.” and i did so again the following day. the lotus of attrition complete. so should i turn outwards, instead? unless what i need is some help with these frictions of unfocus.


milieu steadied. milky motion of smooth mechanic. the whale caravan creaking. a drowsy dot in the distance. to be quiet, for now. to just be quiet, for now. to slow down the so-much of it. down to the very last sound. to give it just the one thought, before too many surround. this feels… so still. speech bubble: prosthetic. name for pillows wet, only. rhythm melt on organ-plasm. to start to take root, still sailing. and never to rush, no. never to rush anything again. and yet…story-say contra! pulse of narrative need insists: must move, again! be it inwards, outwards or elsewhen.


withining is a verb. is a labor, as well. serene ornaments of grrrl surface-spread notwithstanding. a twitch in the carapace holds hidden momentum. a token of temporality, lusting. its lackluster syndrome is magicked. enmeshed somehow to nothing. is visceral verbiage, is it. the shit that happened already. i skid the surface, now. unready to protect the world from language. please: hold this. these many manies withined. here we halt, i think. & write horizon together.


location = locution, yes? roundabouts: commotion of mutants. a commune of unlikelies gathers ill-worded fancies round the hourglass. and then again, round the heavy head. one’s hair is midnight blue to tint impossible: beauty. another, busy with the upkeep of humming wires, spews forth ash whenever found laughing. a montage: sleep assemblage, & the slippage of breath a constant. these folx? they are present. these folx, they speak their neverlies. dream their animal drawings awake. have repurposed the scripture of pirates, even, as means of making the loves stupid and supple. and the airs, and the drifts around them. windchime: hand to heart. an x emblazoned on the chest. a patient attentiveness to things anterior to words. skins attuned against the grain of the world. a sweet kinship, this. but no rest, no repose. a magicked faultline, atonal. and all that could be within. they are too beautiful for this world. maybe we are, too. meanwhile, somewhere. something: a sparkling.


and suddenly breathless reds rush rivulets of warm wavvy & whistles, each synched through cheek-to-cheek discomfort. hyper-sensate suckling: lil’ chick, creaturesque! caricature feature: moon. caricature feature: unsmooth. am so happy right now! can’t tell if you are too. to mouth this juice of spoiled kisses, & dubious starlit missives. some pinkish ifs in hand. some blue-trues, as well. have yet to suggest to you, though. the moment ongoing of our being held.

somewhat softly, at first. maybe later, less so.


press [pause] now for breath held.


mx. pissant, afabled:

a phoenix walks into a bar and pisses all over the concept of grace. see now, its plumes too rustled already by violence & vulnerability. feckless godxss, hiccups this something. election just last week, see: definitions of transience as “labor”: elemental absurdity. a succulent clump of quotidian crust. hung-over mythos careening in circles, it sets the stools on fire. does not message hir ex. does not actually have enough change in gut-fold to cover the bill. and most definitely does not want to chat about the infra-structure of cosmic totality. is sort of a wonderful cretin, really. the pissant. volumes of lore tangible only when it vomits. the whorehouse alerted of encroaching terrors, already. and you lost amidst the flight of drunken butterflies which trail lazily behind her exit.

now, you tell me.

is it not helping already?


and the flames that linger will whisper

"unword this world, now” as

streams of strawberry punctuate

para-ontic fevers forever.

Salomé Honório can be found on Instagram at @salome___h and on Medium at


Commenting has been turned off.
bottom of page