Home Out - prose by Ariel Riveros

I've wanted to burn brick, glass and aluminium. See my apartment melt in the blue heat. Someone's place caught fire a week ago.

I want to go on strike against laminated fauna of my belongings. The unopened bought, from planned out warehousing parks. There's no-one to arbitrate with in my place.

The apartment also holds a bay's water and snowline. A cinema of windows. No genre showing.

A graveyard to background. I want to destroy the stone, epitaph and documented forgetting s. The walls that produce a new painting and light display - they fill up with signatures and ink stampings. Deadlines forewarned.

"Pulverise the crypt with your hectoring line by Tuesday 15th. Please ensure you're home"

The apartment block is a theatre. All the actors we trust are alive. Life is guaranteed if putrefaction remains locked outside.

Everything looks like the baselines are set. Stuck with stability signal analyses and processing. My feet are grey like the hard floor. I'm filling up with marbling. My surface is stitched with mineral and metal checkpoints for how deep the dwelling keeps. When I leave for the street I can always say I'm on the second floor to all interpellations and to other people's mail.