Glitch
After Francis Bacon I am stuck at the screaming edge of visible, a spacial uncertainty, in a place made mostly of time, where a see-through self tries to imagine what it is to exist. Without coherent shape, colour, shoe or collar size, my blurred and shifting body is made from inconsistencies of the mind. Flickers between states like an electrical fault. Part of a notional arm or foot dissolves into air, vanishes through earth. Nothing is entirely solid, and I am neither missing nor found, only about to become, or not, I mustn't stay too long like this. It's ghostly here and, see, it's already dark, of which I am a part. Published in: collection: Seasons of Damage and Beauty |