Rose Dagul


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Some roughly categorised work, though you’ll probably find a bit of performance, music and other in everything! 

[Performance]
- Alien Wind
- Joy Workshops
- Some Solo Performances
- The Surround
- The Tuesday Plays

- Untitled for cello, mangle, youtube and voice


[Music]
- Peckham Chamber Orchestra Compositions

- Rhosyn

- Rutger Hauser

- A Song for Wimbledon School of Art


[Other]

- Some writing
- Some knitting

- Some teaching





©2022 Rose Dagul
Rose Dagul
Two poems, published in declan wiffen’s Cruising Nature zine (2022)

Tuning Meditation
In St. James Park,
We sit, back to back, humming in harmony. Eyes closed.
The vibration of our fluids
Is better than actual kissing
You hold my foot in your hand, through a yellow sock
And I think about Isabella Rossellini's Green Porno


Costume
I would be a lily,
I would wear a comically large, white collar, reaching upwards. My face and neck would be painted a bright reddish-orange, which would stain the collar. My head would be somehow elongated, perhaps with a cardboard tube, with gold glitter flying out from the top!
Or, actually, I'd fart it out. I'd fart out the glitter. Fart out a cloud of pollen. That feels much more apt.
So, the lily would actually be centred around my crotch.

No... I'd bleed it out.
It would be a completely blue costume, in fact, like Viktor&Rolf's Fall 2002 collection, you know the one with all the green screen clothing?
I'd be all in blue and it would blank everything out, a lily on the screen behind me, my perfect bisexual flower, and I'd have one thigh on show, with a thin, sticky drip of red blood down the inside of it.

During the performance, I would behave like my thyroid:
Sluggish, bored and uninspired.
But I'd do it with flair.
I'd dramatically slump in front of the television (a prop)
And nonchalantly look at the dirt under my fingernails.
Little compressed beaches under each one.

"Dirty beaches", I'd purr.

I'd tell you a story about honey sandwiches on the beach. Sand in the tea flask. Grit in our teeth.
A long scar down my inner thigh from a jellyfish.
Watching you pull the wings off a cinnabar moth.

The narrative would be somewhat confusing, not completely linear, but you'd trust that there was a point to it:

I am removing ivy from the garden.
I am pulling the roots up from the centre.
The length is unknown.
They spread out so far underneath the earth.
The roots claw themselves in, you see,
All along the line.
Horizontally, and then down.
They're not deep but they cling on.
Ripping in resistance.
It's satisfying, but my heart breaks a little.



PDF available to download: HERE

Physical copies are available from @lichencamp (on Instagram)