Show statement, Burris: semaphore and torment, 2008 everything is mental illness covered in paradox, tragic, and nice blood deafening flagellate machine What strange games we might have finished,   what foreign plays, under show for children, Victorian, of feint and against – feint; rare semaphore by the windows of torment, insect beings enclosed in more perfect pictures, atrocities reproduced with contempt returned to their place with scorn a reaction-less, carefully fixed look The internal echo, buzz of parasites the drone of decline,   Your truth, their truth, His truth, I buried deeply shocked into the resignation of the ashamed ones wailing for lack of lamenting the shell chthonic, this phantom mind-- the rind that remains, and promenades this foreign earth, this foreign ground