There is a home for you, a network of stone circles – noman can diagnose you here. Here is the realm where your pagan soul is absolutely not a symptom. Not of your family or friends or lovers and the dysfunction of kinship. Don’t get me wrong, ties are also sometimes blissfully absolute, but you are not property. That is more like a figment of your tidiness and compunction to organized structures. A model of queer that resists exclusion. The most distantly reparative loose network of shapes – a cupmarked updateable stream – untamed by status: like that contagious thing trying to bury itself in your heart. Something like love, or intense disorganisation. Dark bird always, lives ever. No medicine to cure the cluster of fire, the flame thrower. We feel like outsiders, all the caged queers in history are speaking in our apologies. There is a home for us.   

There was no blood in it when the cold heart of theory rested against my ribcage. Yet even the druids taught the end of the world, a pre-Christian prophecy of catastrophic inferno. The realm is galvanised (not destroyed) by this particular bonfire, and can spark it by dancing hare-magic against the grain of the wind. There is pride in that. Queer lives ever, nevermind tattoo creeps up his neck in the looking back. Then we will sift circular rubble and feign sleep night by night, living ever end it in my notebook, the design of my last unfinished tattoo never did, not in all earth or the immer name of creation. We’ll have time to think of destinies, for new kinships. Built no family - where the leaders belched oak and ash smoke day after day, birthing was unthinkable. The productiveness of crying, the liquidity of it - lives ever, soothes: deep as in fail. That’s the way my kind put it in.

The stone circle gets me every time, it’s where I embrace hunger like it’s healthy, not like someone’s doing me a favour by feeding me. That pastness – darkness - is a suitably hungry image and a perky way to suggest that you no longer eat shit, unless you decide it’s on the menu. No gratefulness. Just under-your-skin, in-your-belly imagery that may lie dormant momentarily. It may just wake up. I’m dead-asleep to it, put it away in a minute and we’ll sleep on it, I’ll sleep on it and fuck tomorrow, I promise (that is the kind of organisation that leads me to my current proposal). The crux of the mystery. Queer invented language, verse, recast his head & history for the demons he loved, his gods, became dead all so the fuckers could rub up softly against him in bed – J did it when his girlfriend was away. Could do better, you say? Pain is not the mental distress they told you it had to be, and relocating this sensory model to one that a priori conceives of hunger in a far more delicious way will be fully combustible. And fuckers can’t rub up against you in a stone circle, this is a matter of science rather than poetry. Believe me when I say your own relational model of queerness is coming. Already here, the immer name of your own creation. 

By the first night we were already fucken freezing. Not in the way that we had been used to cold - on a night out - but out, in the stone circle, after the catastrophe. The stone circles communicated to each other on the first night of the conflagration, updating. The earth was not bare, except everywhere was razed to the ground. Everything was there and not there: the properties we denied ourselves and constructed for ourselves no longer held us like lovers. Counting time beyond time, counting a new model of being, we were so cold, so happy, hopeful & cold as we stumbled all night over the outsider earth, keepers of the realm.