I arrange five objects in a circle from a plush seat on a cream carpet, making an invisible pentagram; the poet does a performance for an absent audience to enact the limits upon subjective agency and action in the system from the representation of a female subject position. Eyes each object in turn: ring (metal), mug (for water), red jacket (resembles fire), hot-blowing fan (warming air in winter), notebook (paper from wood from the earth).

I breathe, bend over, touch my head to my knees, stretch, hold. The duration of desire. The London Wall and all falls down. Crisis was built. I want to FUCK SOME SHIT UP. Fuck patriarchy, smash the state, blitz advertising. This is a response to the increasing privatization of everything, including our feelings; I breathe to free myself from this unforgettable lover and, in so doing, (re)join the female, feminist collective. This ritual act is a ritual “to revive among younger generations the memory of a long history of resistance that today is in danger of being erased” (Silvia Federici). I do 40 crunches and 25 pushups. Because I can.