In the beginning was the ward, cold and buzzing, day after day. Birth after birth, and babies under glass cloches, forced like rhubarb, until their first word was rhizomatic, and they were solving complex equations and tabling proposals for social and cultural regeneration. Revolution was in the air, but also revulsion, because who wants babies calling the shots? Who wants to be lectured on utopian socialism by a neonate as you sponge its puckered butt? So, in the beginning was the war, cold and buzzing, day after day. Death after death, and dogs bristling beneath iron bedsteads, scavenging the scrag ends of society and culture, growing taut as barbed wire, until their first word was consume, and they were drawing up plans for grinding and laying waste. Fear was in the air, and fire, because who can live in a world measured only on a scale of meat? What happened to all those babies? In the end, it all comes down to words.
Oz Hardwick
Picture JOAN BYRNE
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