Richard Makin, Work in Process

He reaches the window and closes it.

My acquaintance with sheets of water being small, we drown. His arrangements of clauses and propositions come without connectives, a one-button recovery system. Go to doors One, Three, or Five. A reconstituted maker, sere-wise with scraped knowledge, metal of other tongue, his notes are traced from star maps. Now he's round the back, or over here with the unveiling lot. If you find a better property, take it—fifty tracks in counterposture, in a quasi list, a loose concavity. I'm despised by all the falconers, that much I know, local blundering insects in their graceless, such that I is one to vie with them.

Gyratory, they stretch in an ever-ending line. Fourteen bandit boys are among the valley kinder depicted. A thing not said against sight unseen, its engines stoked. A man is appointed to ascertain a boundary. He uses words like multitude, runaway, circumlocution, and a mineral of doubtful character. He moulds an ampule figure, a two-handled flask like a pilgrim's bottle, a small membranous vesicle containing a turgid dose of his own bombast. Clasping the stem by its dilated base, sour doesn't seem to improve his temper. The next time I need his help I'll use a battery, warping the amplitude of the carrier wave. I could find no system to his reading and his making; mute to a man points our mesmerite.
A sequence of green flashes and on scratch orchestra. Misery of the isolated thing, in sight of the burning fuse. That means there are three of them, means a test life rigged up as cutter, smack, sloop or yawl. The thing speaks itself at double epiphany, where flares burst upon the promised foil of the workaday. Always the first person is speaking, ill-seen, and later by clusters. By and by, prizing adrift of the uncanny.

But to make haste to my own experiment: some say that he's sleeping right now.

Non-food and night operational backgrounds. We skirt the issue. I remember one saying at the time, you ended up there by accident, becalmed until someone else's history caught up with you. Those good times were not so good as the good times, considered from the current eyrie. I could give you a list that would outspan ten of your earth years. As said, my acquaintance with sheets of water is small. Note the smooth surface in the old flat-bottomed boat moored here for our labour. I was raised and sustained on someone else's brass, beneath the shelter of an indivisible Yes. He truly brothers me, pacing in wait for receipt of a letter he hopes to embrace. I don't like using the water battery for divinations and researches myself. His theory is the last man standing theory.

He also works on his brother's noise machines, at the margin's comedy, he in pyjamas for the heat. We take no hungry stray from beyond the stake. Go on without. I've felt compelled to give him over to you for a long long time. Strip off his bark, the outgrowth of refuse matter and spore debris.
This table of events wasn't here before.

Eyes unweld facing down the sun itself. She steps along the rim of the studio tank, her shoes in shreds. She throws them away and walks discalced, would rather go bareshod in front of these fools than limp her leg. Her limbs are bleeding. She takes a key of her pocket. The sky is completely black all flesh of lightning. The weight breaks away and the earth upon it, back to the surface of the dead unendly day. A succession of crimes are spread out over a whole year, enclosed in capsules set adrift into sea-water. You must leave now in dwelling with its derivation hidden, and the upshot history.

That's the false envelope of sound I've been searching for, and the nous trick with a rope. Many gloat effective beam, that is, a ray, a lightshaft. Escape room activity.

She gives birth to the sky under an abandoned.
His retrospection is free, comes without charge. She's going through the motion, so anything transpires. And it was indeed essential for us to ration ourselves: torrential rain, a morass, a tenement to waiting. Their wretched little party goes by. They sink up to the mud in their knees. Announcing a discovery, with music for magnetic pole, I have found, I have rededicated, and my cloister now is half submerged. She quickly recalculates the circumference of the earth correctly—we're saved by mathematical arcana. A dead or dying form has crept into her lifecycle. She announces a discovery, another brilliant discovery: I shall Journey to the centre of thee . . .

No, I think that's you, not me. On a rolling bed of old tickets.

A shadow moves across, now to now from the day to the day, at innermost wintertime in these fallen latitudes. You return, renamed from namelessness. Through to the chapter-room door, with gothic valve and spleen, detail rushing upward to a ruinous apex. Faint consolations are delivered in E flat major: an unforeseen curse of events, a chapter of accidents. Call her forth as her name comes nowhere near her name. Four and a half and a keystone, a manifestly ritual object, stone of divisions after memory at risk (the body fire). The problem is the distraction. May I come round and help.
He refuses to take food.
He is one bloody plague.
Stone of divisions. Sea-heath genus, as tamarisk. Tube monkeys, verbatim witless of sundry events.

A fissionary and he with his trumpet bone. Star-compelled, another feels moved to actually carry out the idea. I'm following a direct imaginary line. There's sufficient quantity of plunder yet they refuse to divide it into equal shares. He had always been forensically aware (that business of the head in the drain, you may recall). Just a moment of your time, please, and your fingernails.
Adios, swift messenger.

I'm standing at the station beside a steaming locomotive, battered suitcase in my hand. Join us now. Cut off the feet. Gut strings quaver. I'm fully actual. But this is the worst-organized fight I have ever seen. Through the descending cadence of his blood voice the old energy's flooding back to the disfiguring head. Enormous panes of ice are stacked beside the field of play. He presses a five pound bribe against my palm lines, those disquieting fractures. I'm bought up and out. By now he speaks twenty-six languages, including some other people know, one for every day of the alphabet.

At sea, a crew of smelters mallemaroking, and I myself am hanged in the night. A little pop at that. Things are getting too haary. A little above the hinge-line sits a merestone. I don't think I can let it go right now, trapped as I am in this congealing. Hang on to your nerves, you'll be needing them later.

I feel completely polaroid today. Another shut snapped shot in the heroic portal of a saga. An epic moment's abandoned. As much as any people of any time, unfearing, he totally loses control. The music ceases, he connotes the silence, something more than the detonation of an object, the aggregation of atrophy. He's turned round by the first violin to face the auditorium. I conduct a defence of intimacy: so that is not her game.
Wedged between is a covenant: reverie of lost car journals, cashback pledges—a sealed furnace, salt scattered on the floor—a dead simple crystal of two molecules, piteously aware of the rest of its life.

They carry him off and administer ornamental beatings, uncertain cold comfort, little realizing he'd die for a punishment like that. Sweat shining in the folds of the throat, precisely what he wishes.
His tormentors start murdering each other. He turns toward them and speaks bold, but not without respect.
Now, one, three, or five changes, sirs?

A heavy rolling-in-a-sack sort of word. This must be the bit where the monster turns up.

We meet. I give him her key. He looks quite modal, despite everything that has happened. Link to, and he says, it's usually transmitted under an oath sealed by rain; the place which another had, or might have had. I find a stroke in his stead, without strife bent—something to seize, to carry away. Perhaps a misconception, an intention, perhaps an opportunity driving towards the harbour, trading to arc a circle. He's dubious about sending such a letter through official channels—it's a confidential memorandum—radio hegemony, analogue nostalgia. He's leading each new perception to its own premature conclusion, liberating convicts from the gaols, the dead yield of London clay, weaving through the front lines, charged with blazons up to our necks, and sometimes higher.
Gules, two chevrons or on a canton argent a cross crosslet fitchy sable all within a border semy of gunstones.
Bend sinister, echo disjunct.

They're switching off the old signal. Once it's all made of the same stuff, the more brittle it becomes, less pliable in the face of the influence. Movable effects consumed by use, estimated by weight, number, and measure—by law—old word, long taboo: all words, meanings, stilled. Peopled vulgus. Funest, and deadly lamentable.

I'm trying to think of an unsuitable mentor: you've got great ideas, but at the end of the day you want to be making. Or, the head of imagination.

Widespread within ice. The next who comes through bears a shield. I'm not short of moments myself, roots at membrane, red weal on the ball of the thumb and palm bearing a paper scar. The pression behind drives her face, drives her on to a simple, irrefutable and guiltless biological fact. And an oblong of light is a sash window, a light box. Just something in her expression. Someone should do me an immense. It might be better to look at things logically: it came out of a silence and it'll go back into a silence. And I too brought you back to you, so much dull restoration work on an untimely remnant. At the arrival of the track of snowfall, and low, I'm touched by mutual memory. Now we must hold our nerve, slowly, eye upon eye.
A hunter's moon, he says, beneath a scopeful sky, the cloudwarping, moonconcealing sky. We're limited to doing spectaculars and stuff, sometimes convincing people, slowly, eye upon eye. He catches fleet a shadow.

A woman's hand is badly injured in one attack. With another he has to repair; he's robotic, but no surgeon. He worries he'll overlook. If we insist on verisimilitude the whole would collapse under its own scrutiny. Dance on the bottom shelf. They're switching off the old signal. This is actually like a person, and I think, hang on a minute. You see, I my very self was strung up last night, for no perceivable reason. It hurt but a little, that crushing of the voice-pipe by a tight noose of rope. A band of vengers is trawling the land swinging folk up hither and thither—unfortunately, not fast enough.

He is now going to be more difficult to interview. It'll have to be done in a single weekend. Know that invisible outside experiment?
Call for a medium, a war-flat journeyman.

It's not so safe as they say, the way the lie of this land lies, not so safe as they say, this wavering way. Slab on metal chamfer, like a criminal assault course. It was as if she had been left suspended for years in one segment of a film tank. An old locomotive sounds off on its fruitless track of the distant, recoiling back to burst the limits of the present pale. The first song heard is always the most memorable.

We pass villages, annexed, and dug ditches, armies on either side, addressing the terrain from the east to the former border. Within this territory a census is dealt out in blows. It's a pity he couldn't stay here for the rest of his days. Chance is very hard to find. Chance would be a fine thing, ever-outed.

A dazzling of white light circling on a zinc table top, with detail of the spinal nerve chute.

Have you got beast neighbour. One lovely lonely day, and everyone's ancestors are dying off, splitting away from the long-term. Something overheard had crawled among them and was exerting.

A rapidly moving sky. That's how it works, the nightinggaggle.

Moving under alea, his dada filament, bundled together in a worn battery. His meticulously detailed drawings of the injured are crushed into a leather portfolio. He walks on until he too is felled by a mighty blow. A one-way song, his self-styled enemy, pursuant to sound. My hands too have just fallen out.

A man on a ship who looks after everyone's money. His heavy bursa splits open. An obvious mutiny. Obvious the piratical hawk.
They are allocated a space to court. I don't want to do body—I'd rather set out alone, a brief, abroad with letters.

A heavy rolling-in-a-sack sort of day. London and back. That's the thing about water. A lost page of the score is set to work filling in the gaps with matter. The outcome is a list of lists—and if so granted: huckaback, frieze, ninon, mull, cambric, fustian, sailcloth. Cancellations arrive, giving themselves up to out-chance the changes, to place, simple, within a dark urn.
They're diverting a museum—maybe to try and sell a brief.

He out-chances himself. But it'll still be there, pilot. I've flown for five days now.
Nightfishing off antibe

The message cuts itself out. My own library project is a pile of plates on spinning sticks. Heavy-faced, these medium people should be fun. I sit myself down somewhere and write it all up. It comes to life, reconciled at last.

Runtbill.
A commoner starting point for ritual itself. Everything touched infects. The heart's broken by exile.
Here.
Nervously, seriously, is this a place.
Yes. How did you find.
She goes. A curious call voices out to pierce.
He's listening to her and pretty much behaving like her, mimicking the indifferent positions and inversions of a single chord. I think she's having one of her episodes. Reading postures are soon forgotten. That book needs to maintain a mystery; this character of mine is opposed to the natural credo, with his puma face, his tusks, his serrated horns, the crisp body of an envelope. Sharpening bristles define his spine. This is like gambling. He sheds his antlers, one upon one to the gentle snowcrust. Quietly, the other gives witness.
And you too will have no trust. Roll the human form beneath thick clouds, where dreadful lightnings burst.

This cries out for quarantine. He bears a sign to avoid congress with the zoological beast. A hoof of one of the runes still lies on the table, along with the gentle claw of a bird and the yellow eye of a crane. His lamenting's far off target today, a keen unkenned.
In the first place lies a hook, then the shaft and rim of a whorl, the chequer pattern of canals—volving stades reaching to the outer ring, where a vast shadow moves. It leaches something which is only now a name, but was then somewhat more. The temperature drops and the ice advances. But, die away the dead, amid general laughter. Maybe it all leads to this point, where we go back to look at the beginning. It's difficult to move without borrowing. I've analogued my mentor, my geistful in the muddle of a flesh life, confirmed by the shadow cast of a coffee pot.

He says you can't buy film in Alaska for love nor money. I'll settle for a glass-coloured alloy of orichalc, brass of mountain copper, all sense by association, a goldenly and domesticated variety of id, the great sea, drum banging at his heads. There's enough here to make a revolutionary cockade, an improvised tricolour arranged on the deadbox. The only way forward is to try it: he foretells and repeats himself in the great open seen, hid as he is behind a malignant foreflank. Ever since I met you you've been constantly in my mind, like the still spent waves of a forgotten summer riot.