PETER ROBERTSON
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Soon I won't even need a name.
The street has no beginning nor end: it is a detached segment swimming in a fuzzy aura and complete in itself.
Hence-forward we will walk split into myriad fragments.
Low visibility accompanied by gales of laughter. No new stars on the horizon.
I touch the wall beside me, tear a little strip from the poster that is pasted to the wall. I hold the strip of paper in my hand a moment, then crumple it into a tiny pill and flip it in the gutter.
I wore a velvet suit because velvet was the order of the day.
From now on, ladies and gentlemen, you are entering Mexico.
The fever in our bones at the soft, burning touch of a hand. Here there is buried legend after legend of youth and melancholy.
The theatre burns and the actors go on mouthing their lines.
One can feel his way about, take bearings, observe passing phenomena; one can even feel at home. But there is no taking root.
To go mad you must have a terrific accumulation of sanities.
The night too grows like an electric plant, shooting white-hot buds into velvet black space.
I move in a golden hum through a syrup of warm lazy bodies.
This is the moment when the deserted street on which I have chosen to sit is throbbing with people and all the crowded streets are empty.
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