BURNING HOUSE PRESS

As the room done deep.

Told to, by, and, so, that it cold is a truth.

throne stretches mark, maid, bare muscle

A chair fixed to concrete middle. Later, on, the chair in the corner overlaps a sill of gouged glassine; through the missing a blue mist seeps to touch the seat which is back at a middle. Know no anatomy but know that of legs, back left is slender. Thicker, still, foot right front; a hymn of thin scrapes to, by, that this has had an awkward utility, never soft; wobble, widow of comfort; unease; despite a stretch of two wood twists who connect front, back, right, left. A dirty pull of gauze beneath and holds a nest of crushed jelly that leaks a baby lake, always small, perfect edges that cream, fold, over, look, about to roll out, more, and more a drip-slime smear that meets with chair in corner by closet with no knob, warped enough to not be one those secret doors told about. Kick dents and a brief seam give it up. When this secret gapes, veil ritual; an orange line curses concrete to cut that blue mist touching that red tear; when the secret sucks in goes with it.

wet is not the answer, but it is soaked after all

poured, once the cold room, putrid, locked in lapse, to dance, here

walk in, walk out, walk in with clear garbage bag prison, some fuck inside

wall goes inches, expanse no restrict; body breath with ansel stench, rot flower, and skin raises not with air but a real looseness not from time passing but from holocaust tombs at night, at cannibal terror spins where did go grows from mist

Nude only, pool cover off.

Later, still, mist thick and oily remains, an ocean in place, but an easy swim one and can do it with clothes hugging and folding and unrestricted.

Membrane neatly folded.

A bucket of wet just in case the through got done lost in fragment ticking.

“ …  put an ear deep against this is what it said … ”

A bucket of wet just in case the through got done lost in fragment ticking.

Membrane neatly folded.

Later, still, mist thick and oily remains, an ocean in place, but an easy swim one and can do it with clothes hugging and folding and unrestricted.

Nude only, pool cover off.

wall goes inches, expanse no restrict; body breath with ansel stench, rot flower, and skin raises not with air but a real looseness not from time passing but from holocaust tombs at night, at cannibal terror spins where did go grows from mist

walk in, walk out, walk in with clear garbage bag prison, some fuck inside

poured, once the cold room, putrid, locked in lapse, to dance, here

wet is not the answer, but it is soaked after all

When this secret gapes, veil ritual; an orange line curses concrete to cut that blue mist touching that red tear; when the secret sucks in goes with it. Kick dents and a brief seam give it up. A dirty pull of gauze beneath and holds a nest of crushed jelly that leaks a baby lake, always small, perfect edges that cream, fold, over, look, about to roll out, more, and more a drip-slime smear that meets with chair in corner by closet with no knob, warped enough to not be one those secret doors told about. Thicker, still, foot right front; a hymn of thin scrapes to, by, that this has had an awkward utility, never soft; wobble, widow of comfort; unease; despite a stretch of two wood twists who connect front, back, right, left. Know no anatomy but know that of legs, back left is slender. Later, on, chair in the corner overlaps a sill of gouged glassine; through the missing a blue mist seeps to touch the seat which is back at a middle. A chair fixed to concrete middle.

throne stretches mark, maid, bare muscle

Told to, by, and, so, that it cold is a truth.

As the room done deep.

Christopher Norris: corpse.us

About the banner image: It is fireproof. C. H. Twinn was in charge.