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Paola Capó-García 




All Form is a sort of grown-up penis looking at me.

I do this sort of like Fly Girl power spin to avoid it

but somehow I still emerge in this convivial happening of sorts.


This site is an office. We are closed today for a compilation of holidays.

I take the essence of each site: the devil-may-careness of this house; the sexy rage of your

finger wagging; and the crippling public anxiety of that building over yonder.


Let’s just imagine there’s a pop culture reference and call it a day.

Or, maybe, just maybe, perhaps, better yet, let me make one.

Bobby DeNiro is staring at me but I have nothing to say to him. 


I sit on my lady-shaped furniture and stare at the screen, my screen, THE SCREEN.

It’s really shiny and high quality yet wonderfully affordable.

This freeze-frame is epic, dude, everything I wanted it to be and more.


The screen can’t render me the screen is swallowing me.

Mommy Mommy I’m a movie star now.







I’ve been having desires lately and I don’t know what to do with them.


When I want a corn dog I get that corn dog. When I need the lambskin motorcycle jacket, baby gets her lambskin motorcycle jacket. I want all the wants but I also want to not want because the wanting means that I’m alive in a very normal way.


I want to be straddled right now, maybe while wearing leather pants and heels whose soles are emblematic of something. I want to be stuffed with materials that are shiny. I want to shit glitter. I want the things that I see to be reflected in my eyes so much that the reflection makes my eyeballs collapse. I want to be ruined by the reflection.

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