The Gulf

Chantelle Mitchell

 

coral is a dying thing, an empty tin of Sardinian diced tomatoes, floating down to where the Merri and the Yarra meet, or: ‘the love boat smashed up / on the dreary routine’.

coral is a dying thing, and F is a painter nosing at the broken tile with the tip of her sneaker, third floor bathroom of local library; steady stream of piss stopped a while ago

coral is a dying thing, and so is ‘God, the King, Matter, Miracles and Morality’

coral is a dying thing, whilst winnicott is coming up in conversation more and more and with him the subsequent desire to embrace and just be good enough at things to move forward in this stream all by myself

coral is a dying thing, but that was a blackened evening and weary with cold. the scream was maybe a sob, but deep, rich and tonal, punctuating the moments before dull sleep. smells like fresh asphalt, the cry of bad news, or an echo on the receiving end, blurting out a particular kind of loss too early into conversation, like sticking your finger in a gunshot wound.

coral is a dying thing, but the first floor of the library is holding small group-led poetry readings marking off community engagement funding requirements.

coral is a dying thing, whilst the poetry reading attracts f//ive figures, two of which are swipe card officiated employees

coral is a dying thing, like finding out that bioluminescence is linked to the stress of the human body pressing down on some kind of living microorganism, microstructure invisible in the waves

coral is a dying thing but so is self immolation in green cinema fields

coral is a dying thing, and so is small talk about alex garland with a name like ‘to ornament’, and so is coming back and not remembering yourself all made up here in CGI

coral is a dying thing, a vanilla milkshake delivered in the rain by a precarious worker, taking hold of the reins of a stolen scooter in this, the age of the gig economy, while a figure sits and stares out at the ocean painting a lighthouse compulsively in the storm

coral is a dying thing, and the afterlife is a beach or maybe it is syria but it is a dying thing and it is an earthly thing and it is putting your paypal details at the end of a sentence on a public forum

coral is a dying thing, while we speak about ways in which our kids can thrive but only when data is broken down into readable levels of macronutrients, only when data is rendered timely and distinct from the other ones and zeroes that rain down upon us in a steady never-ending stream, like your boss repeating the phrase data dump until a bright green radioactive man brings down data death on us all

coral is a dying thing, something said into the phone, but the phone that links you to schizophrenics future and past … waking up at three in the morning to tell trout fishing in america that the world has ended actually and there will be no watermelon rebirth in this here the future

coral is a dying thing and the sound of the cry in the street was like coral but coral is no longer that fleshy pink tone seen at the back of the throat or that vivid nauseous blue written into pass agg text messages to yr last very polite fuck but it is a bleached and political tone a tone of neglectfulness a type of loss akin to Bob Brown’s last very satisfying joint a loss that Donna Harraway would cats cradle with Latour a type of loss that seventeen year olds could speak to very articulately applying ANT in crumbling old hallowed halls backed by online networked powerpoint mark II presentations

 

Chantelle Mitchell is a 25 year old emerging curator and researcher, with an interdisciplinary approach to engaging with the interweavings of ideology, structure and place within the Anthropocene / Capitalocene / Chthulucene.

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