Blood seeping through water. The canal bleeds onto the mud. Reaching for the piano, tilted on the wet earth, I stretch my fingers onto as many keys as I can and slam down a chord. The echo ripples the water scattering red to the banks. I repeat this again and again – the air's teeth bite hard on my fingers. Blue like Cecil Taylor, they ache in the spread and I realise I can't stand in the mud. Looking up I see sound push through a needle's eye. A gun dance sonic mouth of music threads across the canal and the tall building in the distance explodes and falls. After cease-to-exist, there's zero and blackness. Saturated earth sinks in the resounding smash. I try to laugh but my bones are caught in my skin. I dream of unqualified people set free from volunteered slavery as they cascade down through time to the unguarded moment. Mother shark eyeless.
Chopping encyclopaedias from suburban bookcases, knowledge flew to the corners of the skeleton. Raining down my uselessness onto parched memories of Full Fathom Five, I saw traffic in the stillness, murder in the abstract, eyes in the heat. Dropping the canvas to the floor, the music, like thorns on glass, roughed-up the sleep of the lost. In relief's bones, the expression of the mountain guide. All the way to the top, that's the end game but the sides define the top and it's there that everything grows. Can't open the window now, monks provide the soundtrack, red celibacy sits on the sun in my eyes under circular breathing – begin again – begin and gain – begging for gin – big in Japan – breaking the ice.
I stood beside the rotting sepulchre listening to decayed music inching through the stone of my regrets. Despair arced, dived into the dead sea. Rubbish piled up in mounds swallowing the peace and tranquillity of dead souls. Ashes to ashen faces. The containers were too small to hold the musical scream of release. Nerves itch and ripple, shrieking for deliverance from the calculus of agony. A crow sat on the tallest monolith streaking stone with its waste. I was barely on the lip when I kissed the coldness of the corpse. I could recall nothing. I was in the music cemetery, overgrown paths and erased memories.
The distrust of colour, in monochrome rooms of negative revolution, dancing to the beat and not the rhythm. Considering various echoes – as acoustic reverberations or electronically as a single decay, I set fire to the box of rain. The flames slapped marble walls. Dance. Desperate steps on measured ruins – skipping boulders, burning coals, breathing nails. Abandon pure throat.
Glowing under expectation, love steps on a burning building. Not walls but bricks. Slow. Quick. Quick Slow. Worm virus degenerates crack open the box to find a smouldering canal. Only the banks were saved in a Sahara of options. Under the warmth of the sun fires grow healthy. Sand in grease, rough affectation. Everything is experiment, loyal to forgery. The focus of attention is on the listener. Devices snap onward and upscale. Interchangeability of materials. So noisy in the bar I couldn't hear the murder alongside me. Passive smokers looked on in horror as the magnetic dwarf reptile artist haemorrhaged a new knife. He began to split and define, to chop and quench, to have and to hold, for better and forearmed. Too late, the innocent's mouth banged open in commotion. The blade slipped between his infinitives like a cliché through the dinner. Baked in the ovens of the strapless – nothing holds up anymore. Sinner territory – overgrown memories and erased paths.