Yorgos Loizos exhibition at SSE Space collab

DOMESTIC AUTOMATA 4 Kirsty Irving The skull is back, meshed inside your seven skirts, reminding you that a hundred skirts will not swaddle you from death. Not even you, King Annelise, first breasted king, who fidgets at the muslin, at this, your own coronation, stands during sitting time, roars like an ape as the skull, its sockets gauzed, knocks against your knee, looks emptily up, up, up to the flag being winched on a dumbwaiter of admiration, the fluted A and R hugging across an apple or a pregnant belly; what could be a shadow could easily be a bulbous navel. King Annelise, my liege, run for the woods in hessian, itching as your castle turns tramp to the rag of state tonguing from the turrets.

Oh Lise Rex, your doom outdoes you.

The walls mutate into branches, the cobbles to dung and creepers and your own hands to claws, your damned skirts to patchy fur, your spine lurching like a clock hand from midnight to quarter past nine.

Somewhere the trumpets are calling dinner so you dip what is left of your head, and, wetly, between your teeth, you end your first life.