The building sits atop a hill overlooking the coast.
Sitting in decay, dust, plants grow out of cracks, dirt has overwhelmed the site. Consisting exclusively of cement, much of it cracked, opening out to the sun that shines a reminder of collapse.
To go inside one must find an opening where space allows entrance. Light filters in through cracks & holes, illuminating absence like light though thinning ice of glaciers. This is no ice palace though, and the only thought one can have of coldness is dependent upon the cement’s relationship with the ground.
there are holes which site the sun & there are spaces of sight to the sea beyond where inside; yes ; our experiment can be introduced.
A circulation of plastic tubing runs from a hidden chamber of the structure’s upper levels to the spaces below. A drip of something (but what) comes through this tube. A pile of mess on the floor. Off-color sunlight has faded the dry into a brown like rust. But cement cannot rust.
A body is laid on the ground, mouth beneath the tube, arms and legs strapped static upon a cement slab the only furniture of the space. These straps confine the body in leather, tightened to the point of being inescapable in most cases, torture perhaps has occurred or is occuring, but no, this space is not a space for torture it is space for poison. The diagram posits another man standing in the corner staring out of a window. He laughs at images imagined, soundtracked by the screams of the victim.
; the victim male, of course ; for sexual satisfaction the leading man in our macabre play is an icon of a specific desire, attuned to our host's taste, (of course) ;
The drip is colored yellow, a pale jaundiced sun where if colors could articulate sound one could hear only laughter. This is the night’s laughter at the day. This is our victim’s present experience—the man nothing but exhausted and desperate, for it is starvation and dehydration that prime the body for external substance. even in this condition the man strikes an appeal of desire As the audience is nowhere to be found other than outside of the text-as-structure, this place, let us reconsider a topos of our cement bunker:
geometric perfection ; smooth walls interrupted by the
entropic intent of the earth ; moss and grass overtaking
any moist or any dirt blown through holes through wind
, the sand of the beach ; wind howls like echoes ; a cube
upon another cube ; like a rectangle expanded into the
space of a holding cell ; the isolation is implicit but
refused ; we can look through and see all of the sec-
rets ; spatial cubes cut out or filled in at bizarre points
like in and out ; like the fuck-act in space ; like the sigh
-t of what it is we have come to expect at this point ;
wait ; wait ; wait ; the discussion of a layout is at hand
here not the desire ; the floor holds a slab like funerary
preparation ; looped cleats on two sides placed evenly ;
an intentional window cut into the cemented side across
from the slab ; protruding cement cubes blocking the
view of the window from the slab ; holes from above ;
holes from above ; holes from above ; holes.
and the tubing spirals from above to below, jaundiced yellow cry of god's sun sigh. return to the body of desire like a way to the next juncture ; this yellow bleat of a man's sadistic pleasure the man up above watching through a hole in the ground. The man of desire will become stilled with this fluid. The float of the fluid from an upper floor (of which our text-body knows naught) to the below. Embalmed to feel flesh like alive but frozen. To fuck without the rigor mortis of a body's decay. the man of erotic gaze wants to laugh but already can no longer move his mouth, numbed like the dentist office fantasy he once recorded on now-lost super8 film, black and white but intended to be projected onto a wall coated in red like blood, a duo-toned excursion into sexual phantasia elaborated upon by a boy poet who told him all of his dreams would have to come true “as a man like you who looks like THIS.” Where we stare, as audience, through port hole, cut through cement at one time for guns and now another phallic insistence but no not glory holes for a dick can never fill that far, the eye protruding like an awful sign of the request for release, this process.
; this process one of excitement for all involved ; ; tell me more about the super8 film one man calls ; ; the man of desire would love to speak but cannot ; ; I want to know all about the way you spill come ; ; the man of desire focuses on this thought, as if he could will himself out of the constraint his phantasy has lead him to, in his mind he curses the boy poet, he uses his eyes which can scream wide open into the night through the cement, all the way to the top, because as the sun has set candles have been lit and still he wants to continue in the head, this idea ; ; the man responsible for all this, looking down ; ; his own sex rising like the moon into the night ; ; penetrating his hand as he continues his god-laugh ; ; I AM THE SIGH, I AM THE NIGHT, I AM GOD ;
The architecture of poison can be presented here only as a process. A narrative refusing all good themes and ideas. The background information is mentioned but refused development. There is only the present in the text, no future, no past. The jaundiced yellow sun’s piss drips and, now, strips the man of any movement, but still his eyes penetrate the skynight.
; the sadist has come ;
; the audience cries ;
; and we face refusal ;
; and we face sight ;
there is no need for guilt here.
the icon of desire signed up with no regrets.
the sea calls in the distance.
the dead are returned to the diurnal womb.
the laughing man lets a melancholic sigh.
we shout like fire.
The Institute for Erotic Vertigo is a collective formed in secret during 2013, breaking their silence now in 2015. Founding members include Pierre Abidi, M Kitchell & Emmanuelle X, though activity and involvement is not inherently limited to those named. Announcements & missives are occasionally made @eroticvertigo. Navigate their http://labyrinthine.space/