BURNING HOUSE PRESS

“Hello I’m Anthony, I’m an artist” something broke behind his eyes and several invisible walls swung themselves up between him and everything.

Exhilirating sterility. He stared at her five whole minutes without looking at her chest. At the end of their conversation they both looked at each other in mutual tacit acknowledgment of the fact then in acknowledgment of the acknowledgment broke away. He felt so strong. He considered all the viruses he had and felt they’d raised him more than the TV. His gut was filled with fire and he went to the bathroom and hit himself in the face bleeding and staring numbly at a half angle in the edge of the cubicle considering how his vision hit it so it intersected at 3 angles, really felt all 3 dimensions operating. Numbly he probed at his teeth with a tongue and considered his haircut – it worried him. Sideburns weren’t fleshed out enough – he’d always had weak facial hair, but he wasn’t willing to just shave them off. He kicked at the side of the toilet which caved in and water spilled over his shoes, then he climbed out the window and left. It was 3 AM then and the air was abuzz with primordial loneliness like you might feel outside an industrial freezer or inside the bowels of an airliner: Somewhere manmade where man no longer was meant to be & which as a result became rarefied space, something like a temple – consecrated to what? If Anthony were capable of having God, that would be it: The God of Modernity, God of the object-besotted white man – man overwhelmed by his making which worked itself through him to crushing excess and which process itself was the worship and products the God. Work is worship. A thing became as much a part of you by your making it as vice-versa. Anthony felt looking was a making but he didn’t know where he begun or ended but despite this he felt alone, not lonely, and complete in himself which was several things. He felt an invisible planet or void around which these things orbit and which in turn orbited round each other and from which orbits things left and into which things entered, and the planet-void he only knew was moving by its deformation, by the changing of the orbits, the sensation of a deformation apart from any reference frame. Could not tell whether it caused or was caused by the orbits. Although it was the centre, and these things were not contradictory. Anthony thought dimension only made sense in terms of relation like how could you tell where a thing was except with reference to some other thing and probably that space existed so that things could find ways to relate to each other anew and he split himself into a million pieces so they all could have 999,999 friends. Continue reading “LIFE IS LIKE SOMEBODY HOLDING MY FACE TO AN ANGLE GRINDER, by spigot” →