The sniper on acid lines up his shot:

The thin radium thread running the length of the telescope formed the beating heart of a shimmering horizon, that soon lost its likeness to the ground and sky and its borders, like how the borders of all nations (they supposed) flutter into a vapour of indistinguishable and indiscrete moments in time and a unit of matter could not be said to be in a place without being misplaced by the end of an addressing statement. It was a bad time to recall fragments of Bergson. It was the Kaleidoscope of the crosshairs, a little down barrel window into Dante’s Empyrean, and the light bubbles trapped between the lenses in a diagonal row, those blotted brightnesses in the machine, and the fragile olive bodies made our hero realise the ontological role of their one un-gloved finger in all this. Like a viewfinder offers a sensitive flaneur’s window onto the decisive moment and the shutter jumps, and they weren’t so much finding and making still decisive targets as they were opening up the possibility of punctuating an image. Making still and capturing that which is (was) dynamic via puncture. The punctum of a bullet. The salty onomatopoeia of punk. The bright cracking geezer of fracturing breezeblock blooming one foot ahead in the bombed out factory perch in a returning gesture, now that the party knows.

writing by Genie Dallaway
works printed through Goldsmiths University and included in a zine for Art in Perpetuity Trust, London

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