patrick lionnet


Abrupt joys

Introspection taking liberties; my sole true language. Moments captured, that were first arrested, modelled small, in spontaneous form.

Sensual form, caressed or broken. Rounded mass awaiting kneading. Boundary lines stretched taut and bent. I stress matter.

These lines burst from my aura, illusory images of an untamable, materialized ethics.

Offspring of my failures, seeded in apprehended but unknown depths, they are my "able to communicate", my interactions, my body’s offering. As food to tear apart, perpetually to reconstitute in opaque, fleshy layers. Ramparts to your assaults.

Yet these failures I cannot leave unsaid. These petrified desires. Erective totems, wanting to pierce and become.

My hand traces these protuberances which have some taste of breasts. Each object becomes a moment, my mental disorder, orgasm of fused neurons, votive offerings of my quest.

I must display them, number them—scenes and acts of my theatre. At each performance, they transform me unawares.

They owe me ! Let them be the witnesses of your introspections ! Let them be the caressing snarls issuing from your libidos ! The materialization of our diverted origins. I will them heirs of our genes.

Authentic language, ripped from forced servitudes, coded and enforced, freely they project. Residue of my self, trace of my passage, they justify my waiting.