Disgust

Disgusting and defiant, Saint Spero pisses on our
idea of desire. As time passes (or doesn’t) disgust executes the degradation of the self through durational constraint and pursues the erotics of going about the mundane while trapped in a net of invisible scars. Through brutal fragmentation, temporal instability, and cum mixed with popsicle juice, Saint Spero redefines queer poetics. What drives their masochism?
Read disgust.

disgust arises from the tradition of queer and sexually transgressive literature which explores the erotics of abjection: George Bataille, Kathy Acker, Pierre Guyotat. However, the lacerating suffering of the masochistic lover gives way to a delicate yet explosive intimacy, reminding me of Genesis P-Orridge and Lady Jaye’s pandrogyny project: the transcendence of bodily limits to merge with the Other, as a means of total identification with desire.

Set in the disaster zone of the recent present, disgust concerns itself with the minutiae of power relations, experienced by proxy through increasingly difficult interactions with neighbours and friends. Simul-taneously trash-like in its capaciousness and alarmingly sparse, the disjecta membra assembled here examines the question of how to exist for oneself and others now. You will taste the charred ash of Saint Spero’s delirious pyres for weeks. disgust is haunting, provocative, unbearably moving, strange, surprisingly tender and upsetting. It will change who you think you are.

If Baudelaire laid an egg from his opium-laced cunt! Opera of addiction, the timing of hooks in, hooks out. Emji Saint Spero drank all the celestial Kool-Aid to
show us how it is done, and if the whiplash doesn’t get you in here, adjust your medication. Someone once
said we should not build temples of poets’ books—
fuck them, build that temple, curling our bodies around Saint Spero’s disgust for the glory of its unholy song.