disgust is an epic, fragmented poem born of a week-long performance, a series of escalating constraints that send Emji Saint Spero spiraling into a frenzy and ultimately, a manic break. In this hesitant and hyper-confessional excavation of the quotidian, Saint Spero constructs a manual for maneuvering as a body under duress. Debased, abject, and perfectly problematic, it asks us to dissect the ways in which we are othered and the ways we are complicit in our own objectification. This transcript is an architecture built on lack and inter/dependence. Their language stumbles, stutters, interrupts itself, gets it wrong, doesn’t know what’s being asked of it, is left unfinished, exhausted, and is at its most clairvoyant in its collapse.
This book rattled me—I can’t come up with the right words to describe it. It got under my skin—no, it went through my skin. Was it osmosis or a series of tiny injections? I’m not sure—all I know is that it’s inside me
now. It’s a poetics of abjection. It’s a new star in the constellation of books by writers who steer language through the body and its complicated relationships with desire. Saint Spero creates a form of witness that allows for infolding, doubt, unflinching self awareness and micro calculations of shifting feeling. A book about now. I’m freaked out and fascinated.