7/2/2022
The views and opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author. They do not reflect the opinions or views of Bunker Projects or its members.
Symmetry of Standing in a Kitchen in relation to a Witch in the 13th Century (Camp Songs) is a collection of three photographic images, one scan of a drawing and seven poems.
I value intimacy, which means, I’m not trying to trick you. Staring at the wall is my fuckstyle. My love language is I’m in my thirties. I’m suspicious that part of me is attempting to form a religion. I may be a witch. I am alive and so are you, may we sit around the fire? Will you sing with me? Every processed and unprocessed moment. What is the experience of a crocodile’s breath? Because of multiple dimensions I’ve been run over by every car that I’ve ever seen. They say this is friendship anyway.
Clearing for the manticore
labyrinthian mountain
wooden meadow bridge
white hot thorn
to see the morning star
seer of sheathen hair
breather of bathroom tile tears
enveloper of busybody and
workshop designer
let me be the conclusion
to your corporate daydream
while worshiping through a
pane of titanium or
huffing the gas off
crocathemum
scaparium
let me be
underwater castrator
floundering
slipping heat from burning fish
row and row
force jowel
watch face
force stone
while upperclass children
bare this house
empty of its instruments
ripping the ground
for fading light
Two sons and a sister
waking to noticewhere my eye is pokedby a blonde soft growththe left sideof my soft,soft face
Falling into
A bed of my own apologies
How are you
Now tell me
I see you twice a week now
And I’m really interested in
Knowing the ways you hate me
The big waysss
The small wayssssI’ve avoided going to the doctor for years(This is really going well)
Fidgetor inquisitor
You were meant to be my hero
Was I meant
To be young and ingested by you
The answer is no
But maybe
How could it be
That responsibility
Could bleed into everyday
Brick and cola
Jets lits liquid rope
I’ll save a seat for you
Taking my shirt off/at the swim meetNo worries
It’s better not to be friends
Down a gravel path
Down the side of our house
My brother and I
Push a ladder over
Long blonde hair
On smoking
Man
Car threat
For imbecilic delight
It’s always the right time now
tinted sand
They know how to be us better
We are pests and it makes the blood go
but our betters don’t hear
it pumping-out onto the-ground
Nylon under jeans
Surely a male says
Surprisingly exhausting
Fire escape fantasy
There they are
Everyday
I have the will to live
and to call us by a name
The average way I speak is in averagesIn accordance with the camps thatpitchTheir tents at least
10 feet out in front of me
Keeping my mediocrity
On a belt
Pulling the thorning of
invaders
Out at bay
Try Shouting
said the passerby
Toxoplasma gondiiThenext
Morningshe dips her nose
into an empty container
the froster plastic one kept by the stairs
She hears a wave
Of crickets
Storming their way up a brick wall
She hears the jogger’s spit as thunder
I couldn’t hear the ocean through speaker-
phone
The basket’s shadow
Is smaller than it could be
Inferring that the past is one quick nap away
Then,
The showered has exploded
Somewhere between a tap and pop
In my vent
My face to be
An infant in an aphid nest
Man-sized poster to
Remind us of the infinite
This corner
Six muscles bulge
As do cut green hoses
In big blue houses
Just as the basement chill
That breaks me
By a windowed night
One day you will forget to be miserable
The busy of performing for a
Family of vampires
In soaking
For love
I am much younger than
I should
The father fears children
More than his thoughts
on empathy
What I do
What will gifted want
When abundnace falls
Like broken name
Or shadowed haunt
All bash
All save
All full of grace
Bearing down on
An approximate face
Object/ look at me
I remember catching
My ankle hairs
In your trampoline
You regarded this as comedy
As I broke out and bled
I-eyed-your-mother-for-a-glass-
of-water
Let’s go back for a moment
Let’s go back for a moment
Let’s go back for a moment
Let’s go back for a moment
Please look at me
Sincerely
In the shits,
~The Porch Pillow
Of Boston Massachusetts
Andrew W. Allison is an American multidisciplinary artist, poet and experimental musician, born in Wichita, Kansas and raised in Pittsburgh. Through intuitive sculptural installations, handmade mixed media objects, paintings, poetry, drawing and sound, Allison considers to what extent our obligation is to connect, not only with ourselves but with all entities around us. He examines how our environments, traumas, and objects shape our understanding and need for symbolic forms and spirituality. Allison began making things early on in order to engage with his experiences with night terrors. He graduated with an MFA from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design in 2013 and has shown nationally throughout the United States, in places and events such as: The Pittsburgh Biennial (PA), Field Project (NYC), Bunker Projects (PA), Wallplay (NYC), Space Gallery (PA) and The Carnegie Museum of Art (PA).
