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         Parts #7 & #8

 Dominique De GROEN


In her soft stomachs they dance in ecstasy.
Swishing their hair they scratch the lining
till the scar tissue shows a Medusa in relief.

Blue light licks her rough fleece
is reflected by filthy straw.

When light meets the darkness
of the universe of the sacrificial lamb
the storylines
the images
coagulate into stones
shimmering and coarse.

Sacrificial lamb boils the stones in real tears
uses yellow eyes to write
something illegible on a mirror
on a smooth body with curves.

The sacrificial lamb knows her saints
scans the horizon for signs of imminent rebellion.
‘Slut witch’ written on an arm in red lipstick.
Stock photos of big cats posted without context.
In rebellion, there’s a glimmer of light.

The sacrificial lamb knows history
knows symbols and patterns
dreams the secret connections
interprets the vague and ghostlike figures
emerging on a horizon poured out of concrete.

She is suspended between media.
Her organs flicker, become signs, fade away.

The bottom of her brain is paved with layers of asphalt
which now form roads, intersections

where we might cross
into domains beyond the visible

the cypt beneath her brain
where molten carcases of images gleam

and to which she has no access
not even in the darkest nightmares, the deepest secret tunnels
of imaginary zones of night.

Sacrificial lamb senses
that all her dreams are interlinked
a network of unstable corridors beneath the days
communicating with each other
in sombre and mysterious ways.

Weave from tangled wool of sacrificial lamb
the yarn that leads you out of the labyrinth
of untouchable images, always just
out of reach, just

out of touch, ephemeral celebrity pink, shade of organs without blood.

Sacrificial lamb once dreamed that her body
would be stick in the wheels, salt in the wounds of the system.
More like lube, she now knows
smeared across a rough and dark path
through ever more craggy terrain.

In solidarity with the bodies the tampons are on strike.
Blood washes over roads paved with liquid crystals.

The screen goes supernova
white flame crackles in the straw
and outside the sky is glowing blood red
Hollywood orange
melodramatic purple of forbidden suburban loves.

These are the planets of the saints
the slut-witches, broken angels
naked, bald and bleeding for our sins.

The only way to be forgiven
for their madness and disgrace
is through a tragic
& photogenic death

angelic & immortal dead girls
floating through the cosmos
swell up in explosion of light
swallow the narrative universe.

The future is carved in stone, its code vomited up long ago
by the matrix of the dream.

Is digested far beneath the days
in petrified stomachs of the sacrificial lamb.


its transparent cast floor glittering with Swarovski crystals.

Yes, by her own bootstraps she has pulled herself out of the organic sludge
and into this shimmering palace of luxury and entertainment
just in time for the final stage of ritual sacrifice.

Finally in Studio Town! A clumsily animated 3D Britney comes to meet you, her smile cracks open and the sorrow of the world comes pouring out. But the smile does not disappear it persists.

Sweet little lamb, will you count down with us to a better future? We have such a suchness to show you.

rhinestones and fine drops from a Pacific Ocean Water spray on tight tan skin under California sun.

Straightened blonde hair on the baby pink velour of a Juicy Couture tracksuit.

At a young age, sacrificial lamb listened to Dirrrty by X-tina and that’s why she is now a ho

Follow George ‘Dubya’ Bush on Strava to be kept up-to-date. Distance: 0 mi. Moving time: 0s. Sacrificial lamb isn’t sure whether her fleece is wet from tears or from the white slime a girl sometimes finds in her panties

Late in the ecological apocalypse we wish to bathe our naked bodies in opulence

I am a dead diamond touch me

The last molten koala will be auctioned on the Darkweb with a starting bid of five hundred thousand million billion dollars

You’ll Never Guess How This Cute Lil’ ‘Lamb I’d Like To Fuck’ Made Cristal Brut 1990 Millennium Cuvée Methuselah Come Out Of Her Pussy Instead Of Menstruation Blood—And Makes It Look So Easy!

But as always everything begins and ends with a lamb, alone, on a marble slaughter block inlaid with jade and diamonds. Consecrated with holy water from a Gem Flask w/ Amethyst & Rose Quartz Healing Crystals & Stones, anointed with the bitter tears of fallen pop princesses on whose reified madness we have spat & spat & spat until our mouths were bone dry

the dicks that were sucked will fade but the lambs that sucked them will last 4ever.

And yeah, well, it’s too late now, isn’t it? The images, the slogans, the deepfakes, the individualised campaigns - they have long since seeped through the porous walls of the day, have contaminated irrevocably the current of her dreams...

And they coagulate into cold hard gemstones forming a path to the next second, where -

Lindsay Lohan en Britney Spears, writhing on the floor of The Real, The Real Real, The Real Real Real?


& 1 actress-turned-singer-turned-criminal-turned-reality-star;
& 1 singer-turned-goddess-turned-perfume-tycoon-turned-prisoner
enter an influencers-only club, and—

The sacrificial lamb, punchline of every joke.

The sacrificial lamb, with her little soft pink tongue she is licking caked urine off the toilets at the Googleplex & she should be happy she’s getting breakfast.

The sacrificial lamb, both subject and target audience of gritty & authentic poverty porn.

In the background of this touching rags-to-riches documentary a choir is singing Ariana Grande’s ‘7 rings’, ‘I see it, I like it, I want it, I got it. I want it, I got it. I want it, I got it,’ while the singers, employed under zero-hours contracts, snort coke from the shaved belly of the sacrificial lamb and touch each others’ erogenous zones with leased diamond dildos.

The sacrificial lamb and capitalism? Still a better love story than Twilight.

And if she’s said it once she’s said it a hundred times:
as longs as billionaires walk this earth, sacrificial lamb will not work another day, another hour. Until the last billionaire has drowned
no extertion will dampen her snow white fleece with sweat.
No labour will bruise her soft flesh
until Jeff Bezos’ neck bears the bloody seal of the guillotine.

’cause if she’s said it once she’s said it a hundred thousand million times: it’s not their money if we take it.

Dominique DE GROEN is a Belgian writer, artist and co-founder of Marktcorruptie, a label for DIY publications. Her poetry collections Shop Girl (2017), Sticky Drama (2019) and Offerlam (2020) were published by het balanseer. Her work was nominated for the Poetry Debut Prize Aan Zee 2018 and the Herman De Coninck Prize 2020, and was awarded the Frans Vogel Poetry Prize in 2019. She has published poetry, fiction and essays in several magazines and online platforms, including nY, Samplekanon, The Low Countries, Extra Extra Magazine and COLLATERAL. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal detective story set in Los Angeles and Glasgow.

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Partner to a press called Tenement, Hotel is a publications series for new approaches to fiction, non fiction & poetry & features work from established & emerging talent. Hotel provides the space for experimental reflection on literature’s status as art & cultural mediator. 

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