Tread me into a bare language. I accept the work, bring it back to the present. Behind the image a sunlit imminence. Sign something, it's hard for us to see and hear with the light in front of us. Why don't they call out to each other. Are you still interrupting. The process is predictive, a sleight-of-hand. Wasn't she constantly threatened and dominated. I forfeit myself. They give up their offal, emanating from the body of my medium. I connect, as if I were two coins. I forgive myself. Notwithstanding, I'm removed and delivered. The popular cosmology runs three games and you're out. You speak your own tongue, the minder language. How can this be sustained across a field of all possibilities. What we saw didn't correspond to anything, it was something coloured and transparent. We could draw some triangles into it, scratch out a crude design. I want something that has a slight and worthless look about it. These are incorruptible times, punctuated by irreplaceable names (spoken in his demented voice). Under the word, common talk and hoax. I counterfeit myself, mark myself out as bay or creek. Find a wafer situation before it destroys you. Things are listed: narrations, family torts, candle readings, the random flutter of psyche. Why is she sitting there instead of outside. A rapping noise rises from the parched ground. Everything tremors. She hides her face in her hands. This happens as I'm writing. He goes into the yellow house, left. The subject is two aimless young women. Soft rumours reach from beyond the stockade. I counterfeit myself. He has a couple of spent lives languishing in his pocket and under his hat. Anything left over is relegated. This one's set up perfectly, it's like gently spearing fish on the great razor reef—a sort of magical attachment. Sign me those pleasures. He says he won't, they look unused. I say they are; I read with a subtle eye. He never comes back after that. He sees clearly what it is he ought to do. It's said he's good with money, good with memory, good with the placement of things. I talk a little in the passage of time. Near right a glass shatters (the snails). See sheaf of notes, the enviable work of forgetting. Don't lose your nerve, they don't need to be here to be felt, to be perceived. I think a better translation would be a yearning to dwell again where one has always dwelt.


The old watch-house or cage. I think I'll buy that cowl, after all. By craft and insidious purpose events work themselves through to an end. Footfalls above the inside head. Names are spelled out across the ceiling. Note the aforementioned sword, the aforementioned spear. According to oral tradition, hiding in the back seat lurks the murderous hookman. Take accident versus substance: I feel very calm on the English stage, without alteration. My accidents are those of a child. My own substance, as with the wine, is translation.

She delivers him to the station, relinquishes their position. His circumference is closed and his centre begins to darken. Into the night, into the eighteenth. The trick is to believe there'll be another. In front of him is a luminous screen. Nervous tic below left eye worsens. We're building something. A pistol fires in the mist and contours are roped off. His cries reduce to groans, and because the stone is dark, the police. The bullet version enjoys a very successful tour of here and there. In every corner used clothes and shoes, sand trays, condolences, a severed head, the lamentations of a Jerome. The details remain obscure. He enters and affords the other a glance. Incisions depict a murder committed under the influence of frenzy. Duplicate any information you've carried for some time, and then dispose of the copy. He's like some newfangled Diderot, all homemade pies and violins in the park. See how little control he has. Say it, with followers: jeremiad.

The nineteenth. The aim is to bring on lucid dispatches, disassociation. His roll is a cameo roll. He can't believe. In the version she murders her sons under pressure. She's a priceless lacklustre, worked out in the process. He refuses to take fodder for a season. He wastes away. The well is poisoned. A pusyellow fluid trickles across each face (if only I were thee). Such moves are made by mutual agreement. All the hats are old hats, but we're allowed to use the same word twice. To nurture growth in a secluded enclosure, a fragile memory is built into his eyes: a squat obelisk rising from blue mud. It's left to rot. It sinks into the earth. Its decent is halted by the remains of an animal. An assemblage of beasts from the region must be composed, an urgent list and account thereof. Tattler deities murmur, give warning of gunners. Attend well to taxis. The whole organism moves in response to a stimulus. In his book a line is scored, a thin stain of letters, enclosing carbon. A decade-long debate around abandoning kicks off. She is burinist from root of bore, with chisel of tempered steel. She becomes a ubiquitous figure on the London. They all have the same red shirt on.

A tongue-like structure. A tooth surface, facing towards the tongue. Sudden thrust, a forward plunge, black popular with erect branches—profile cutters, industrious fleas and spotted boys, blind paper cutters, writers without hands and readers without eyes, pig-faced ladies and striking machines. See, the time is just before the outbreak. The time is just before the time. Using a cocoon and hydraulic press he manages to derail the whole train. Yes we say. Don't think about me when I'm not here. These are the sorts of deductions we should be making. It doesn't take much preparation. He would have appreciated the significance, but he was not. He marks his mark on a sheet of notepaper and then slathers it with glue. It's all over in the instant. I'm sure none has ever recorded anything of the kind, voices in the voice, a melancholy rush. I rework the letters, that's how I survive at the front. At its base sits a haven.

It falls and severs an artery. Face up into a sun. Wings shutter across the lowered lid. Something breaks the surface tension. This is not at all like getting to know you, to know the shape of things to come. The wind hurls me into collision. We stand clinging. He screams into my ear. I scream into his ear. He doesn't hear me. His three attendants perish in the whirlwind.

The question of the furnaces: I think they're holding you back. His heart jubilates, then comes the hideous meant, before day dawns to part the body out of each. A pittance for the recollection, please, summoning to mind the evening speakeasy.

I enter. She's busy. Tread lightly, go well. His mesmerizing tread steps into actuality. Step free, temp loony—a bar to all, and farewell awful.
About the mid of night come to my tent.
That's it. My signal's come. I'm disappeared. My signal's come, through an unbound medium.


Yes we should, supporters still have modern usage. I'm ill. It's my remember, my luckless lack, my appointed guide. There's a watch on my back. The ground moves and heaves up noise. It's built of wood. They talk physic, they talk paralysis, but I don't have a place to think through the rejected items. More and more, I resemble.

I refuse to arrive early for the occupation. This may sound a facile defiance, but it's the simple truth, spelled out in neat rows. Recall the runners. Welcome to the pearly. Conscience here is a calling, slumped among split sacks of flour and spat polish. Cross out to rewrite or anything. A well-bolstered space is carried up by what vapour leaves behind. His agon is with himself. And I have one of those very loud and stupid laughs, if ever I sit behind myself, what then. I've seen all the film I ever want to see. It had to happen some time: its engine falls out and it crashes into a sagebrush plain. I doubt this will.

I'm not a pleasure that can be got from the exercise of virtue. They hand in their true identities: a set of strawboard heroes with gauze wings, who claim to have actually sprung from the soil. I'm allied to this idea, but lack their foresight. They wrap around, draw sharply across the snow, forcing onward by waves of contraction. There's much to be said for staying put, standing still—in these corridors lies the foregoing near. Intervention comes in one broad scoop. How much you have in common, the same isolation. I don't have time for this, their disjunctive tissues and their underlearning. There was a man came once was very disrespectful. That wasn't you was it.

On to the canal, to my chosen trolley.

I didn't know there was a side of you that said that. Certain groups are in special need of private defences. They bolster fear by adopting power, and in the most unrewarding circumstances. But I was there, and I saw it all.

There is where the match comes. I slice it open. A name is published without description, the nomenclature of gens or clan, recited to the low hum of harmony. She's an impartial sitter, unable to sleep and watching the sky.

The relic is preserved as a fragment in a later deposit. The remaining mediaeval families retain their traditional beast badges—it's a spectral sort of race they run. I pulp in at the cavity, a sad and pathetic declaration of authenticity. We have to make countermarch, on to the big sleep (and the probably stolen sedan). Ours is a sticky art. The dry carcass of a slug rolls across the tiles. On this memorable day of riot we're in a safe place, though well inside the scope of their range. I can see teeth biting back on either side. It's a time racket. A solution: stir up the mob in some suitable public place and set it loose. In the interests of justice, grant a head start. How can you concentrate with all this noise. Now abnegate. Business is apt to be extremely short-tempered and abruptly terminated. Don't let go of it, the vomitings and blue wine, grounded on the threshold.

He's like a virus, only less humane. He bears a scale. There are fundamental disagreements about the past. We'll teach him all he needs to know about the distribution of punishment, bits of awkwardness rooted out. Our intentions are wrongly understood as a curse. They dazzle to generate. I never identify. I have the odd feeling that this is my best chance. Mash my eyes. I listen out for the rumble beneath the underpinnings. Sooner or later, a counterstatement, like lawyer to penitent, physician to client, confessor to patient. I feel a strong temptation to conduct you through all the exactions of comeuppance myself.

The light, by turns uncanny and morbid, is damning everything. Sometimes we'd embower each other, grant shelter, as with trees. They'll find you as soon as you report. The medical investigation drives on to its conclusion: they're declared dilettantes of the wondrous. A box is born between poles balanced on shoulder blades. It's empty, like my material past.


She comes. She has the statement. I am growing in years. I understand deceased. Her adversaries are rounded up and allowed to complain a punishment. It registers as one word (I've addressed that already). Running nimbly up the stairs, the feeling of inhibition is discussed at length. The present is analysed and delayed. We're not in a position to interrupt. Upstairs she has a writing machine, translucency stretched over a slab of dark brown resin. Moving bodies of air retain the juvenile form of ancestors. It's on the other side of its side, through the medium of the covering sheet. I can't imagine. I inconsistently apply the rule: paradox and dissonance, the dull work of metaphor. She darts under the table. She says she doesn't understand a word, but has to acknowledge that something is happening. Do you need me or not. Remember that proofreader? We had to send someone round to break his fingers.


A severed room with décor roundabouts 1960. The buried axe moves every year closer to the earth's surface. Polystyrene pellets are strewn across the rubber. Are we any nearer to the figure needed? Her black wagon sits behind the lines. Which of the convulsors do we choose (this is a case without a body). All background noises cease. Might she remember.
She is heavily sedated.

He has a lot of double standards and things, removed as he is. Discs spin like turning plates on smashing sticks—that is, until they strike the surface. We recruit some volunteers. The last is still missing in the cabinet, presumed lost. Over him bends the tall form. Take heart, quantum objects can be in two places at once. I have today a fair body of air to play upon. I'm controlled by the movement of his hand towards and away from the circuit. I write of his aeolian lung, a taut bell of tauter silence. It turns out to be defective. Adapt and rule.

There's nothing to be gained from looking at that, plenty of families don't bother with each other at all. I begin to feel my every movement and gesture has value. It happens like this. Now he can. He's free to set about punishing his head. I'm thirsty but I don't want to stop. It slowly opens again. He pushes it shut. Could you be as you have been, light-bled, blue to the rim with compulsive love?

There's no permanence in the arrangement. His old nickname slips out like a fog. He's enclosed. It's base magic, a black watch over language. In two weeks our cabaret will be bankrupt. We've no choice but to hire a real performer, one who can sing. He goes in to speak with them, to parley, and finds there's nothing to say. He leaves. The hour of parleying is dangerous. The story's about to be concluded. They slip into the city and behave as though they were the victors. During the bargaining the town is taken. He's made me what I am today. The ordeal is the ordeal of swallowing, taken to prove guilt if it sticks in the throat. It is anciently supposed to prevent.

Experience is valued, but amounts to little more than a collection of habits. Here's what happened (I sometimes feel I'm translating). I don't think she's going to survive. Call out to the keeper. His hands are fine and narrow. My gaze can't pierce the drop for the dark, but looking up you can study the stars, if you're so minded, through holes left by slates. The cylinder rotates slowly about her on its axis. Seek out some derelict landfill.

I make it to the junction. In your incidental coming and going, in your aspect, you are spent. A free lunch would've been appreciated. I seek an indistinct voice.


I don't like these syllables anymore. I've brought things for people to see. The episode involves a cello and a cowheaded personage with gills. Her prerequisites are a funnel, a toy, a train with open trucks, balls (to be placed in the funnel), and a fingerprint. Lights go on, distant now at the foot of a steepening hill. The foundry lies in the immediate vicinity. Backs straighten and bend above the waves; glistening nets are hauled up from the sea. In the darkness men shout instructions from boat to boat. Conversion is the only practical way out. They are not restored. How is it, one is entitled to ask. Close the second thing, with regard to the light. I'm unevenly anonymous, of that much you're aware. I don't know where all this is going to star, a workaday revolution, with insensate reminiscence.


A blind person comes, one lens clouded as if by steam from the nourishing air. Hand with banded structure, a blank underlined. His life has led a life in film. I compare, clutching my ghost photograph. He wants to talk about a future. For some reason 62 is like the magic number. I have to get a sense of how close we are.