That which has been smoked: Templeworks, June, 2011.

…Held high I stuttered by. It wasn’t in the picture it had just stained the glass above, tracing the glass above; apparent but not involved. How would that black satin finger joint feel down that white velvet torso? The feel of the end of that finger? That long, long finger? The door is prodded, pressed and pushed through to that small yellow, murky yellow box occupied by snake. Snake passing by. Though… never looks down…always ahead always to the side of the wall. It is frightening in its concentration. And on this carefully placed white table there is a sentence waiting to be finished…to be aware but helpless for it.

…On it’s arrival the picture is easy to me. The outward familiarity. The outstretch of the bones to pinch…pinch…grasp and pull in, pull through with it, through…with it. Up on their ends. In this instance it is the sound that is the graphic of the body. It holds hugs, maneuvers and pulls up, pulls up, up on their ends. I can’t live, work, beyond this line, this bright white line you have drawn. And though, drifting by, finds a way unplanned, unpredicted, pure ease intuition and it talks its way in, in it’s own way, through over and out. I am invaluable in this. This place, in this back ground of yellow.

…Limbs immobile but you’re able to hear malignant mutterings from behind a peep-hole, a curious sensation, that. To be aware but helpless…

…A cancerous kind of terror, starting in the gut and then spreading like a dangerous fire. I detest enclosed spaces as much as I hate control. So maybe you’ve asked the wrong bloke.

Photos by Liliy Bob Cat

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