Preface/Emplotment/Porn // Tony Burgess
As part of our guest edited month exploring publishing and the emotionality of sharing writing, Tony Burgess shares an excerpt from his as-yet-untitled upcoming novel.
It’s the digger come by with a chained noose of athletes, come for sudden moves and the bearing of skulls, this matter rolled on the celibates bridge to a series of lawn-like steps into cleaning staff nightmares. Hold on if you can, the newly minted weather front, the cage snaps closed on the barren stipend, moving for the countdown of a garroted sidewalk flea whereupon comes the judgment of soft-handed liminal edits, since that, with its gullible margin and enforced radar footing, will fester with umbrella out as gal ligatures, so we get targets even on days when the drab horizon borrows the keep from his good eye. There’s two sides to plenty and one is the deserted rasp, and the other will be here before calls go out for best practices while the bonfires show action its own second nature and willow trees blink out lined coffin heads dead in the soup of the dead. Should be called after this, sort of any time, with thought bubbles in lakes meant for ammonia and pine tar. It can be this way, as now we see it, there in a stand of markets under those garish threads tickling land flesh with warnings of this morning's peer review. You are up for the moment, as a deal with the choir we let go, so now asking a hundred or so to be captured by media ripped out of the wall. Please dream of the lizard's desk, a wood conch for spying, your self-wounding hubris, and dismiss some past feeling as time wanting out through the hole left by sayings. Of arid sound porch hammers, there are no unwatched mercies that don’t measure bread by its weight. You can’t inhale spite while the river is wearing all fail-safe balloons made of origin murder, but you can wince with pole driven make goods that perch on the you spoke here at least as a burn victim to the many practiced fingers with lightning that ground down fields of racial fury. This member probe left over from courting those bit players and diamonds just appeared so the entire sentence pimpled downward as drunks to a heaven in a good famine outing. This gets motioned to bearing east with all the flatlining hoodoo cabins part in ballet and the other of a dollar, so it lets and doesn’t police the airdrop. At the door is the state and off the map comes a corridor not seen since the tempting book caught us all cheating on the entrails made of tongs from our mothers. This is making this hissing parliament announcing that we carry an envelope largely more full on the outside than in those maroon lampshades you saw at the autumn. One could symphony old mannequins to re-tribute signals the one, mostly antique, true alphabet of livid pectorals, if you can send iron up the body with cats call down fishhooks that clatter on guardrails in our sleep. Could be a neon or two that froze Italy’s clothes to a million flags risen with heads. These are taped fast behind them, and the news gets there early so penitent back stair recidivists get orchestrated over the pendulous key. Pop flocks that win hand rat calling shots form a boardroom of exhaust fumes and house poor careering. Please don’t enter that last, in all pictures you see it, the fur chamber lit with half people, or you’ll be cooled by a hazardous comet let speak once and you’ll drown in the weaponized dovetail. Eagle low but ranch wrapped, is with child spoon emancipation, finding scars in the ruts leading off to that thin black outbuilding that if you ever you’d break more silence than they came here before.
Tony Burgess lives in Stayner, Ontario and writes fiction and writes for film.
