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daàPò is a writer slash a storyteller…

Pictorial prose or poetry is my way to document the supremacy of individual drive and the inexorable subsequent waves generating, our tongues as the first unit of measurement to communicate, cohabit, connect and/or affect and influence one another.

THE RANDOMS…  

KISS THE DUST |  LA MOTA & THE KINDAHUMANS |  AT THE CRACK OF DAWN |  MOONSHINERS  |  SOME CRAZY DUDE DRINKS A CUP OF TEA |    

I am a thirteenth rib, adrift in the glowing meat of the universe. An asexual vehicle, voyaging the inexorable thread of seasons foretold in the ancestral lace of cowrie shells. My thoughts, they soul their mysticism into loose translations; a realm of paraphrases, some which sticky skin and angular skeletons are straitjackets, and others, which ropy flesh becomes raw slices of red prophecies… I live where your wildest dreams go to rest, and this sensation of blasphemous omnipotence that lingers in your tepid bedsheets after you awake from a night broken free of your handcuffs, this sensation of having picked the double-lock of everything beyond your gaze with a bobby pin, this riotous sensation! It is but a ghost memory of your passage through my womb. I am a mother of millions, clasped in the perfect vacuum that serves me as arms. My children have earned themselves a rebirth, the comatose fabric of their physicality no longer an illusory shroud wrapped around fictional bones. I am their mothership and I am their motherland in their mass exodus from the semantic field of limitations, to a country of reboot. They come to me puffed up with factuality: how human beings shan’t fly unless aboard aircrafts, shan’t respire below the surface of the ocean unless boxed up in submarines. Fuck dat! My children do not belong to Humankind anymore. They branched out of the biped race after giving Darwin’s theory of evolution the finger, and they went straight ahead to grow a pair of anomalous feet, bulging with tens of sky-stoned toes. Those impossible children of mine, you could not put a name to their faces. For there is not a single name for motherfuckers skating on Polaris, walking the zenith and riding the moon like it’s a unicycle, inhaling and exhaling clouds, like suddenly the nocturnal sky stitched with shimmering stars has nothing on them and tomorrow’s sun risen all over again is no miracle, and the economy of China ain’t shit…

THE ORIGINAL SOUNDTRACKS…  

A PORTRAIT OF THE YOUNG MAN AS A ZOMBIE |  THE CASSAVA MONOLOGUE |  WELCOME TO EARTH: POPULATION 1 |  PRIMA FACIE |