this is the page that makes love – transcript/ text of a spoken work by madeleine mills (hardy)

The floor is not so subversive when we fill it like that and our absence is no instruction for retreat.


* * *


This cult of Lack serves itself first

Resource leaks out

Piping that was used because it was once useful,

take my old shoes, your old coat, this old hat


Alice’s garden,

the Walker is observant


but it splits often, and then

how to dig it up from the millennia?


Themselves, one single body of a lover

reach for things stewing in tanks, crocks, plastic buckets, wicker baskets


insultingly wholesome edges

of themselves and no boundary


becoming the edges of other things,

like this fleshy, living speech act.


I go to the end of the equation, sidestepping

the nonlover who accommodates my must-change


and the punctum of one’s birth chart being that it swells at the synapses

thru each passing Emotion, divided by Time (Time multiplied by Emotion etc)


comes to know the screaming chances of more chance.

our Stupid fate is only arrested,


but how to do a deal

with authentic multiplicity.


The longer you live the thinner or thicker the skin

and the risk of dissolving into each other like lozenges.


My job is simple: never take your eye off

the page— but never mistake available writing


for the dog’s biscuits. Watch its eyes

never leave a gaze above ground zero.


I’ve never flown

before September 11


so I grew up arbitrating business deals

for the Pansies and sweet peas, their hectic lives at


Community Level, spirited

is the convivial interconnectedness of our gen.


Excavate from the ruins of this century;

try to witness there, the beautiful broken boughs in the rubble


thru wrecked words we won’t or cannot say, stories that were not untold but

are unearthed in digging, while watching, when waiting, in listening


with your own notice.

On death.


This is a choice or a fact, there is a fold to come to;

a spectrum, also, on the ability to show up.


The Police are at one end.

Some risks are concrete.


Bodies come or do not come together.

She tells about half of the body being aluminium foil.


This is reality if I choose Her.

Victims here are fast and beautiful in their careers.


Mine is that I am a fog, committed to gag

inspirational spearheads


Dumb fashion— I want it


cultural groups, in

Art, Music. Most relevant is their work on Worms, Moles and Hermits.


How to be proud of what you do, of

how you survived until now and then.


they tell about a way of learning time,

locked in a room with a clock.


Bodies that stay relatively still,

the bed is a legitimate club.


Clocked, they’re not looking for the look.

They are the look.


Are a ruse, because

now you’re surrounded


in really kind time of Hostile

city. I wait it out, and I dream a lot.


Is it that I don’t feel truly part of the conversation

I’m supposed to be having with myself?


I can praise you because of inter-generational merit.

Backwards-Class-Others gains on back-door entry


but lateral oppression flattens Women still

Righteous indignation lives in a caged egg, act


from a place of compassion. These chickens

run free.


There’s a paste up over the mirrors but out of body experience triangulates. I watch myself coming to you. I don’t take my eye off the dog. I catch myself as I ricochet back and


hit the bottom again, refracted fragments of an in-house kind, kind of compliment:

“you are a very lucid person.”


Laughter saturates the throat and tells me that it’s trying too hard.

It mouths to me across the room, leaning


in on my forearm very gently pressing over an excess of time.


Do the synapses

register the weight?


There is a steady texture on the face

of transformation.


I object, write Dead letters

And speak them into living.


They never asked to be born, so they

Act precious. Know that it’s only an Act.


His thick, basic hands on the handle—

the Silver Princess only appears to be animated.


maintains a fussiness next to

all the Man, did


we register the weight?

“It’s not a weapon,” I lied.


Becoming playful as

my gardening does not follow


Serious rules. I

tend to over-herb


rebuild hasty beds, and

try to sprout the heads of something, anything.



The dog coach or whisperer says something like “brilliant, radiant visionary” and I think of your aura. I think of the lethal, cut way that conjunctions, squares, and trines get ignored— annihilation of annihilator is a perfect paradox. The natal chart could be like un-reading, another gamble to strip off, get naked, stay home and eat all the food— know less and less about yourself.


Finally, you come round for some saccharine, milk-powdered baby-tea and a speculation—

facing the demons of my ancestors is my important, secret mission.


Consider this: Our natal charts



There is no place for fate

saying this excuse


I’ve been here all along,



the longer an internal thought wears the concept of a body, the more likely the contract breaks down with the others. The crocks, the tanks, the poisoned creeks and all the water-ways, the plastic buckets; fermenty business. All this orphaned swelling, visiting not no family but accumulating life based on Loves logic, entrance into the things that that intimacy might also grant. Smells and touches and tastes and sights and sounds and stars on the paws, padding downwards rather than piercing up the sky.


We overlap, We

mingle spit; disrupt the rights of passage.


Trying not to morph and change a due or charge,

is a trick against the Greater-Good.


If I behave complicatedly,

it could be that I’m 98% Brat.


* * *


I used to pop the boot, we didn’t call it a trunk.

I’d fall asleep in the back, hang out; any excuse


to fall asleep. Disrupt

the usual tone and annunciation—


the punctuation point and the emphasis of the subject

with that faded harbour called slumber. Upset


the Articles & Demonstrations.

Nothing is as fun for profit as clear context, like


a Possessive neuter. Triangulating the pronoun,

the grammatical gender, leading that Imperial conquest up the Non-Serious Gardner’s path.


I wanted to be strong because I thought it ought to make me compelling and a bit brutish. I crave pectoral breasts or personalised shoulder blades where my chest is— imagine collecting tears in your scapula


the long lost daughter of a dinosaur.


* * *


But not yet ! Let me read to you first…(or Read Me the Bit Again)

I love to read to you, I hate to make you read it.


How are you finding the details of no seed or future?

Liberty’s a Bitch.


I can ask these questions publically

like an arrogant Toast


to less fractured community.

To space to unwind, like


the boot, the bed, the spit-pit and the tea room.

Connect with me in Public, underground


in Private, bring your own thermos— mine is green, so—

I’ll c u in the greenness of hours before dawn


before exclusion turns up with the lights On.

I’m trying on a new Thing—


Erosion divided by Time spent desiring.

There is a lot lacking but I am, of course, well-fed and hard to get along with.


I don’t comment but I’ll respond to your Call,

We deserve our own innovative shout-out.


Whistle to me across the Orchard, across the Hall.

Re-do whistling and invite the neutered Family


It might be fun and liberating to laugh at me.

Sorry if the Dish is dull, kry_kry_kry.


I feel unmoved this close to the sun…

It’s a baby formula for no stable questioning and


a tally of the times you Depart from me.

It never gets old; not so long as you remain dispersed.


Ceremonious, floral, chokehold celebrates

where it can: She has distending eyes,




“there is nothing like placeless-ness.”

My Trade Secrets are that I will steal for you,


Prop up the celebration for the Keepers of the Soul.

I Love You & I’m Proud of You!


Standing against me


stopping your studies instead of cleaning out your trash

never studying instead of healing the threat of no real support.


Risk is buoyant. I am a buoy

loose-sea-limbed, loosening school secrets and sensationalizing


no performances. I’d much prefer

to sit and talk with you for hours.


If you feel out of control or too hasty that’s probably a good thing.

If I feel the same, I’ve probably been killing caterpillars again.


Once a month on the waxing moon I’m s’posed to destroy their Nightlife,

there is only one ritual in my blood family; the pink bitter light of it.


Love cruelly, this sweetness is also vicious.

I watch myself going again


charming and sure of my body; it’s interesting honey.


Catch me now, turning back, trying to change, every turn, every pillar—that is also a symbol, which is to say a friend— every languid, idle underlay— sometimes walking, sometimes crawling, sometimes dragging, often digging and trilling the roots, the grubs.


Visibility is low in the home, between the bed-sheets

where our tenderness folds out like a throne.


Limb-loosener’s got me looking for a Body Party,

I wake Itchy in the night and every morning, all thru the day.


I knew pretty quick that I was low-key in love with her

and with her being levelly-keyed in-love

with our Sappho Daddy driver.


* * *


SJW’s take back sensitivity and can start breathing again.

We’re resting together and it feels like transference


if a mass verb where to relate to the characteristics of humankind,

to soldiers that want their statues torn down now


Gossip would start to feel nourishing, maybe

more Men would fall. The one’s that toast at parties, ride


in ‘subs’ for fun

and pinch at the flesh of intentionally crafted space.


Eventually I’ll turn to myself again, two reflections not really knowing one another because the paste-ups, but we’ll linger and give away hours for free.


Serious, Limitless, missing drought, like “I’m not holding any weapons.”

It’s one small resistance breaking the virtues of a mind.


Thinking of friend’s stories, I shine inside. Arse-hole out.

Kindred rings— that moment of release called All Hell Breaks Loose.


Is Eros diuretic? Like shitting yourself?

Again and again and again.


Self-confidence stuck weirdly to the seat

If this romance is untruthful then it makes for good Praxis.


The prefixes should all be inverted but Invader’s don’t actually know how or why we use them.

The babies were born anyway and they rule the households of most of the worlds and underworlds. Every letter in the plantation is now dislocated or dislocating. We’ve got to uproot a few, no beginnings, just one long Now life; catastrophe by candle light with its aberrant shadows all fucking things up.


Consider every well-known argument formed on it’s own,

every damn sentence you’ve never strung together on the stripe of vernacular English.


Earth’s is oldest speak, so naturally she goes first.

The voices got louder and syncopated, globally.


Please do not wield photos of the happy babies.

Please do not condense into a gilded hippy, or ply snappy yarn bombs over the streets as an extra claim. What’s a metaphor for an un-happy baby?

Or a devastated, skanky, street rat?

The Ferals were Icons.


Who would’ve thought there’d be only 30 minutes’ difference between Bruce Springsteen and Emily the Strange.


The outfit of this place is clogged and home-brewed.

Aging, becoming more or less bitter, more-Anti, anti.


Big Tee-shirt, no pants.

Thanks to/o, not quite a shirt-cocker.


Post-clogging there is Teak and suddenly we’re feeling self-conscious.

I am the outfit or, at least I keep getting dressed everyday.


She eats, she put on weight. She feels joyless calm in moments of friendship. She hangs herself out at night, which transforms her back into a blank sheet. The sheet sees the books of babies, cartoon carcasses, animals eating other animals, pale-skin people in Sari. Raging cartoon consistencies. There is a pure pressurized pain somewhere in the sheet that on a human body might register low in the chest, high in the stomach under the lower ribs and at a depth to the core—way too central to be in the heart.


The aluminium body—not present in any form at this stage— is still at political risk. The blank sheet turns into a blank flag. Ruinous flag be burned, be political or not at all, make love as Fictional Praxis; let your Love-making be a historical abandon.


Learn about ancestry if you have that refuge.

Owe it to Earth.


This page makes truth about the lies of Love, or else, lies based on reality.


I am standing on the edge of your desire—

A secret desire to participate in a meaningful or regular way.


If I’m to trust you, Spirit, what is it about all this reading and writing

that liquefies sex and brands eroticism? Calls us crazy, then leaves with the door open.


My Doctor gets cute before she always expects that I’ll cry and I feel like we’d get along great if we went out some place together. I’d like to see her dance sweaty— but it’s risky for everyone if I don’t know the floor.






















selected works

“gains”, “sets” and “reps” … (between body-building and body-language), 2018.



(this work will be presented in an upcoming group exhibition, at BLINDSIDE, curated by Brigid Hansen and Zoë Bastin)

For information on this work, please refer to the link below:

gains, sets, reps

suggested reading:


suggested watching: