Show statement, Burris: semaphore and torment, 2008

everything is mental illness
covered in paradox, tragic, and nice blood
deafening flagellate machine
What strange games we might have finished,  
what foreign plays,
under show for children, Victorian, of feint and against – feint;
rare semaphore by the windows of torment,
insect beings enclosed in more perfect pictures,
atrocities reproduced with contempt
returned to their place with scorn
a reaction-less, carefully fixed look
The internal echo, buzz of parasites
the drone of decline,  
Your truth,
their truth,
His truth, I buried deeply
shocked into the resignation of the ashamed ones
wailing for lack
of lamenting
the shell chthonic,
this phantom mind--
the rind that remains,
and promenades this foreign earth, this foreign ground