FIN SORREL

Searc.h.ing ey.e

( i. )

An oak stained cranium and shoes on the door, the screwdriver inserts the logic into the logic of the rooms. Little, bleached stain inside the shadows merging to the hairy lines of the carpet. A folded sheet of residue that the modern culture left behind, rosemary bent a shadow on the road the paint drips.

The pavement is a monster. Concrete wears a mask and has eyes, nose and lips seeping from a tattering of brain patterns chiseled everywhere are the worlds that build up the room.

The fan distributes to the unknown, fifty assorted needles. A plastic lens, black tubes shoved through a narrow thought/ 19.5 v of ringing in my ears and yellow flowers that are windows to my eyes, all windows and seeds.

( ii. )

The platonic circular marsh that the roof becomes. Pulled string curtain, (red wire) a maudlin hut upside down crossing white silk. A rose shimmer that reverses pattern, letting light through crumpled hands and in the corner, wooden window letting in white with clouded mountains. Solar flares and print jobs in the cut. A warm river under the bed brings a little light to the musculature- and positioning the red afghan high, there is a mountain –

Loop Shows

Those are soft windows that keep these four eyed rooms in our pretty cat yarns. Asleep under the mouth of a friend, or a spiral love contained in each small hair. What formula the birds make at our wandering language– researched for eighteen years before we meet in the flesh beneath a flickering halogen. Arms we attach, the extra wings that we have set upon one another’s broken shoulders– the ones to repair the loss and pay for damages inside our breath. Souls wiggling next to each other from the radio waves inside us. To the licking skin, a night(s) alone (weave) person to long (anchored) person– build the secret machine in us. Tuned at that night watch as the snow passes down our loving loop story– It’s mist of our devises we must someday submerge, alone one another to final transmitter tower, a dark left turn upon the electric, we gotta go down that channel, the open sign where an electric daisy rises.

Sand Library

Saturday night sky was a bloom with rose kites of place. Walking into a green book cover stitched together out of soft thread, a micro-tape silhouette beneath the moment, sound pours within, a little river carved from the roof top into a silver horse shoe pond running through the attic (Molecule)

A series of hands run along the tapestries beneath the mountain, a capturing of sleep from under the rust oxide fabrics of time. The loosening purpose, [eyes,] ripe with reflection and studying instructor lines of Delta patterns; only so much picture can be made of, since a room is golden marble, stacked in geometry. Five little rooms (inside each other) for lives to grow source, flat in moss, grown in mushrooms. A weaving world of challenges and insects. Windows form in windows again, once the walls disrobe those deep wood lines –

They’ve got to have membranes in walls or stuff gets broken, they’ve got to move, bend and be broken over and then grow again just like before – otherwise the house dries up and crumbles. The house (five times) crumbles and falls through mountain, and through tapestries. Alone. One clock swinging open.

FIN SORREL IS THE AUTHOR OF caramel floods (Pskiporch,2017) & SAND LIBRARY (ABP, 2018) He is the founding editor of MANNEQUIN HAUS