The lures are perfect when I find them. Ground down and crusted with sand and salt. A trace of iridescence they had been shot through with- in their making- a ghostly taint. 


Allure- there are two, and the basalt step and sandstone pocked by salt spray where they were found alone- again. 


I had been in this excellent flow for days on end.

I go in and out of the ocean and hang my underwear to dry on the rearview mirror, eat uncut the ingredients for salad and get so so turned on by the sun and sand that I am fucking everything. I have no border. Walk dance dive in the spark sparkle glitter glimmer of the horizontal sea.


I think of one and let another put their hand down my tights in the bushes in juri park. dark, it is dark. 


Allure is the scent worn for weeks after the lures are found. The move is attraction- a faded iridescence, a painted mouth, a wide eye shimmer in the flows- a twitch, a rubbery flick, colluding with shadow, with sunlight, with the slick shine of the sea itself and a hope is cast- into the flow- a lure.


In the dark street you think I am latina, arab, french, you think I am foreign, indigenous, a bruja-a witch-you think I am what you eat, what you prefer. 


A simulacra- a mutable fantasy, the evocation of desire. The lure is a slippery sign. 



This kinda fishy thing- cruising- know a few spots to wait- wiggle the shimmer the flicker the slip the side eye the shoulder roll the dangle the whip. I think of the one and let another put their hands down my tights in the bushes in juri park.


In the dark studio you think i am honest, forthright, kind.a lure. a slippery sign. 


Wiggle, shimmer, flicker, slip I just want to fuck everything- your books, rags, brushes, your sawdust, thumbtacks, coat sleeve, thermos, drop clothes, your hair, your eyeballs, your paintings, your books.  I want everything. wiggle shimmer slip.


a lure a slippery sign, the evocation of desire- a simulacra- a mutable fantasy. a remembering of the death drive- libido, libidinous- the lure.