Our neext poet, talent and Queerdo is.... Mat S Alice Danger!! Alice Danger is Berlin's renegade high fem lovechild, they perform to answer questions they can't quite formulate. Alien spawn, queer hooker, inexpert masochist, they are here to make you uncomfortable - and they will succeed. They've performed here and there, written some poems, helped on some porn shoots. But if you remember them, it's probably from a darkroom. (They run @Whore Moans, an event in support of street-based sex workers.)
Sit back and enjoy our fire and flame ALICE DANGER!
Love & Action,
🔥„We do what we need to do to keep the shame alive. Work out guilt into an oroubouros ribbon, what I’m allowed to do versus what I’m not. What they don’t know is that I’m allowed to do everything. Cold late morning light: I let G. with the Moschino bathing suit stick her tongue down my throat, like a serpent swallower. I don’t want to explain. Debase it. Writhe, high, look at the angels battle it out in cobalt.
Do a line off the Woman on the Edge of Time. Sobriety requires something like inherent goodness. Nod when my roommate talks about how much better I’m doing. Fantasize about opening the backdoor and letting the dogs run away. Running away with them, or kick one of them in the head, just to see blood. It doesn’t count as evil if I don’t do any of it. The shame is just for me, a treat. Once I had a dream about two brothers killing dogs. I remember waking up with raw nerves and the sensation of stroking greasy hair.
‘I’ve had clinical depression since I was 12.’ Also a lie, somewhat. I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I got the diagnosis. I don’t even remember getting the diagnosis. I just started saying that. Maybe I never got a diagnosis. Maybe the old man telling me how unladylike my depressed thoughts were was also a fantasy. If I’m patient and dedicated, I can keep undoing my reality, deconstruct it thread by thread, until there’s nothing left. Then I would be empty. I could fill myself with all my favorite stories, stories that fit me, my personality—new lies. ‘We all have struggles. Guess what.’
Everyone is doing something to cope. Those who say they aren’t are lying. The ones who don’t do drugs get drunk and sway around the bar, hitting on people who don’t want to be hit on. Or they smoke joints in fishnets on the leather couches. They watch, trying not to watch. Some images sting. They scroll Instagram, letting their mind wander until the boredom settles. But the world is like a needle, with all its memories and triggers. It’s trying to sting you. The only way to not get stung is a) to lie about everything, and never open up, or b) to deaden yourself. You can recognize the people who do b). They look like the very sensitive carcasses of trees.
We do what we need to do. I watch people lie down on my carpet, feeling for the heat that comes from the ground. It never ceases to amaze them. I lucked out. Scrape the plant off the wall to appease the landlord. T. tells me to be careful not to kill the plant. I was taught this plant was a weed, and I admired it for that, for its tenacity and annoyingness. When are you going to organize a housewarming? It’s true, I meant to do that. I don’t want to go through my room judging which pictures I should take down, which artifacts are too precious to be left out. I wish I didn’t have this instinct of protection. The first time I saw a house get trashed I thought there was something beautiful in it. But it wasn’t my house. I wish I didn’t assume that my friends will drink and get f**ked up, knock everything over and leave me to clean up. But they will.
Now that I have friends, I want to forsake them all and get new ones, ones that fit the better me. I could tell myself this story in a nicer language: the language of levels and moving on, of letting go, of release. I have no pity for my deluded past self. Not out of cruelty, but I know that self-pity leads to complacency. I’m always fighting against an immanent paralysis. Take the dying plant up into the kitchen. Replace the bouquet on the table after lunch. I struggle to maintain order. The calm it incites in me is directly proportional to my urge to transform into chaos once again. R. pushes the bathroom door open and sits on the closed toilet. They touch two fingers to the edge of the bathtub I’m soaking in. I’m a bringer of chaos, they say.
When everyone’s done eating, undress the table. I put everything back in its rightful place, basil leaves & seeds swept, dissolved oil traveling up through the soapy water, damp scraps like colored clay... When all the guests are gone, the table is sponged, chairs racked up under the wooden table, peel back the skin of an orange. Inhale the sizzling, fruity mist. always dreamed of being a good housewife to my inner demon, that blood-guzzling child. I live by contrasts: oil and water, salt and skin, slices of greens and living things, oozing cuts of flesh.“ 🔥