For the happy man! - Collected writings DEPRESSION: Ed Atkins

O let me
from the kitchen
and when you suspect that the fire raging throughout
the house is now raging in the living room
– blocking the exit –
(gorging on synthetic fabric, cheap entertainment system,
plan chest)
and you gingerly touch the adjoining door with the
back of your hand to see if the thing is piping by the heat of
the hell on the other side and you use the back of your hand in
case you need to remove your hand as quickly as possible. Away
from the weltering gloss white paint, I should imagine.
And leaning slightly back, I should think; adopting the cautionary
pose as for approaching a vertiginous drop while remaining
vigilant to pangs
of suicide and
spring-locked.
––
I mean that the hinge
of your wrist working in cowardly bent for inward
motion. Folding and backing into corners, etc. Safety, etc.
That if you were to test the flat door with your flat, sorning palm
and
were to find it scalding to THE touch, you’d inadvertently
– through some throe – thrust your hand forward and
harder against and into the door and sustain a more or less
TRAGIC burn.