Once, I smelled a room.
Half filled with crude oil that mirrored in it’s stillness.
The ornate ceiling became the glossy ground
where a metal walkway invited me to access the centre.
Pungent sour,_ the slick odure of something rotten, yet familiar, tipped me towards the viscous verge that stained the cornices, the paneling – and the accepted norms.
Crashing through the smooth illusion, flailing in the goop of ancient trees and insects,
I fell in and floundered – sucked by millions of years of sediment that had been pumped into a government building to make a point.
The sliding tide rising –
all orifices, now crude – turned black and, bogged from the inside out.
I am peat.
Once, I smelled a room and became petrified.
After the show, the artist found me, lumpen and I was burned ceremoniously as a warning to over reliance on the oil industry.
I don’t know how they cleaned the room.
Ink and acrylic on paper.