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*

A hill where grain is exposed to the wind: you and the rebellion. Better to stagger this, I have blind spots with music. I separate by moving air. Since he left, I've been in continual practice here about the heart. What do you remember of that time.

A vortex of litter ascending a built niche. Corroding brick. Fleed from the harrowing hem, in need of nothing, if you.

I am trying to get pictures to move, to appear in sequence. Relax, it isn't us. We disappear by movement during the long exposure, using the muscle of workmen and a mechanical device unchanged since the middle ages. I'm at the foreshore, and I need to stand up for this bit. I undertake various trials before I arrive at a texture that matches anticipations. Only he can see them. Look deeper: fortress mystics, a broken-down horse box, a piece of smooth marble with a perfect hole at its centre. You're sure to lose this wager.

*

I am trying to put myself back together. Notes are repeated; I don't enjoy the conflagration. The places you're drawn to are never. Myself, I can't face the journey. In his archives and literature he begins a racial brain; we're a family of linguists, tongue merchants. We're going to have to bend the rules a little, stage an audible post-mortem. She says the word chair when she means the object. This does not bode well.

If you fall you break us. I'm to answer to you, so strictly alive. This is what's called a desiccation.

What else can you suggest. Men-at-arms, raiment: fields choked with harness in the territory. Some appear with totems, they insinuate, make hints. A point of agreement is reached between the clans and the plants and the animate objects. I have no comment. We've done the European, now it's smelting time. When you recognize your third chemical plate, scream loudly. I can't concentrate on this alone. Unless I show myself, why should they want to come back.

Blind spot, or maybe stray, into the box on the opposing flank. There's a way of tracing back to another level using starlight carbon. Punctuate a burn. The feat used is Event W. Take care how you commune, those sirens can trigger. Sure enough, an absence is reported. He has four models scheduled for show; only one turns up. It's getting late. I can understand water, I can understand tension, but it seems our antagonist has composed a specious plot of influence. He fits, back heel to no body. Savage in the air, shadow of the Darwin end.

Wherever it is, it won't mind. She writes with air, passing her palm between the fluid and the grain of the wood. See, each of the girls has a different job. The situation is hard to analyze when everyone seems to be cancelling each other out. Oozehead, most murderous, cast a new law over thyself. And then, I suppose, walk all the way back on your own.

Unsettled scores telegraph: try to pass go, to cast roil, to miss the target. He chooses to go through the gap twice, first headfast, and once again feet. He turns into work for the parable. Before the door stands a lawkeeper.

*

One. The control genes. Two. Chief messengers. Locate by exorcism, locate by excision, the perfect ambiguity. He's thickset and suicidal. I'm subjected myself these days, a wit marked by ear decay—caries and rickets, the perfect strike partnership. He tires of consulting his timetables, the freight charges and ports of the Atlantic mailboats. There's such a strong feeling. Down on his lap they rock back and forth. The Sicilians are due to start their walk on Monday; we'll be glad to see the back of them. A slit across the throat right now is out of the question, out of all season. Some say the feudal circuit has become unpredictable. Think of something else.

It's possible, but not at the moment. She comes to collect, to escort him home. They're late for the London. You're not on my list any longer. She is evidently over her head a little, while he has moved on (rockets in the fridge).

Another bungled tracheo: recollect visit to cancer ward, face bandaged, on a raw, raw day like this, like any other. He stands to wave reluctant as I pad upward the hill and turn the only time. I've kept the used carbon in the hope of making something of it, a classic study of a fading life.

*

You were supposed to make more time, a painstaking process of reconstruction. Another breaks the surface. Two more days in the sun. Some orifice that, it bears the anteriority of a trace, towards the bract or away from the axis. The beast has endless skins, a mouth to no next. You decide at the crest, a summit grown above ground. They continually find new ways of keeping themselves interested—without perpetual distraction, they expire. A pile of combustibles for burning a dead body is gathered. The crown of the head is set opposite the base, the meeting-point of lines that bind the angle. Books are damaged. You learn to nod at intervals, perpendicular to the plane of the horizon. This makes the transition to marching in line very easy. He is greatly mired by historians and the public treasury.

I'll now make use of something so far unmentioned: a power of turning, a great circle passing through zenith and nadir. Her edges are indistinct. Is it alive. I notice that which is missing.

Isolate that, a growing whorl, inflorescence so condensed.

*

He's investigated—chance hurls back into him. He reels. He trips back over the lip of the gullet. Do you know what triggers. He glues his muzzle to the lips and draws out all the air. There isn't time to quit the compound. Her surviving sigh lungs flat like a spent bladder. I do not want to play that part today. She bears a strange celebrity, broadcast near death. Don't isolate, then it might work. Sleep, with activity of the nervous element, with big drops of rain, everything levelled. No lights because no darks. In the strata of the mechanism, in which one part is above another, a vertical line or position is achieved. He rubs gently thumb and index, upper lip adjacent, hence.

*

It looks as though they're composed of nothing, the discomposing light. She suggests a plaster cast and callipers. Bring copies of yourself. The whole process isn't much. Make a decision. Shape into tremor, speak now on everything. This one's almost run dry; its engine passes, intermittent with cordite (a straplike implosive). What about the cells: the shriek of warm breath in the playground, the terrace lament. I'm still on my second chance, making progress. I'm cleared with security, I'm cleared with sovereignty. That's everyone. Now they have to sing for the rest of us. He bores into the head. He writes on our wall, something about the depravity of an unregenerate nature. He's a combat rouser, child insistent. I do a lot of disappearing, I'm authorized to preach without a fixed charge. Woof's the word, or he doesn't break. Maybe yes, to race the nerves. Break. What about the cells.

Picture appears with blue cast.

What does it mean, a sort of rise to a heavier time than finally used. I miss, I don't feel the hunger. I'm wearily disappointed with the activity. They don't know what's coming: a massive conglomerate of pebbles like nail heads. I have to leave, this treats of too much. His head resembles, in composition largely muscle. They won't be here tomorrow. I'm sure he's writing this down. The contract is the biological contract, quite free of interest. It defeats. There's noise growing beyond the perimeter (some call it boundary, or limit). I'm reluctant to place the head upon the scarp. I once was right and am now no longer, a diminution of bend sinister, full half its width.

Straight off he leaks into a subject. I want his ear: we're in awful danger, every moment a principality. We talk about an earlier language. See that simian face, it's over there. They're building on places that are liable; two-thirds of it shouldn't be here. He's not coming back, is he.

She draws blind. Persistent notes jangle, neither accident nor elsewhere. We no longer know what belongs to whom or what. She traces a house with a roof, bindweed, three candles ruminant, a face in profile and same frontwards, eyes in directions variform, lines signifying motion against a scaffold, tiny hearts in creep to the door stop. There's nobody around, just she and I. We're joined by a cord that circuits the waist. We've got that beyond-the-pale feeling. I find one in the corridor. Shafts of light are bolted through a hung mist. The bearers all look alike, set at mourning in the face. I might have to do the same; we are still in the gulley.

Your little town is never on the map. He almost has his gun on our knee. What's false in declaring is this: I launch against myself, I once caved in during the same operation. I fashion an example.

It lasts a hundred years if you can prize it open carefully. The gesture is inevitable. There's rotation at the end of fugitive breath. I fashion an example: dark subsoil beneath a crust formed by the leaching of salt. Dust forms. Singers troop on and start to sing. I reproach them for doing. Tumbleweed rolls toward us from the stage. This is all created (they've solved that problem). The gesture is irreducible, every move immediate. You can't know what the cause of the fear is. This time he picks the ghost wing. This is magnificent, like a sheet of rain cascading through a slit in a ceiling. Let me stop you a moment, before you go too far.

Now, do you want to tell me about those sounds.

*

Traces so mute as to be legible. I'm going to give you one minute more. A train flies above the marsh; I'm with it. He went logic. He's made official tent-shaker for the day, an envoy. A notice comes, a warning: don't forget the altar, don't forget the return. You are right nearby. A proof needs to be found—release me from these vows. We can still see them from beyond our vantage. They think they're safe. Resume from here.

I'm not sure how specific the link is. People feel guilty—it's a cheap way of doing things. They won't suffer any halt. I am again overload. She doesn't need to rehearse, she just steps out and does it. Try to use a simple constant. The complexity comes when you actually receive a practicing offer. The others are more perverse about their work. I stencil Do Not Use on the base. They lead appalling lives. I'm held back in restraints. We're making this up, tunnelling deep into her torso. Messengers arrive, simple, and not. Everything depends on the condition of the weather. We're down to the last page. She saws him up into one of us. What is my eye missing.

The supply ships's not due for seven months. I'm on in three minutes. Is everybody happy. A true Doppler man, he remembers, and makes certain. We're going to hear about it; they sneak it into my fodder. It takes six weeks to complete an excursion. The men are. Its other nose has to be resurfaced. Use the big turbine chair. He is stopped in his tracks; armed surgeons close in. How does it feel to have to. There's a tattoo on his prosthesis, his wooden third. It lights up using a cold cathode. Everything depends on the purity of the white highlight. Is anybody else here finding it difficult to breathe.

*

It's all about being hapless, extremely bad timing. Don't make me look back, I'm really scared of turning off someone who's on the list. She might be on the same tram, the same team, or she might not. A greasy orange orb bobbles and skates across a frozen span. Touchlines shovel out the snow. She's one of the tramway people. What does that stand for. Do montage: crisp shadow of a hanging roof. I don't think we can go back to that moment. A change in the signs would be relatively small and cheap, quite straightforward, a junction of intuitions. Break the back of it. Can we spare, can we depart. The tram is a runaway tram. She's hit by shrapnel, in white spring coat and sunlight.

Have you ever worked him. She turns her head to address the dreamer. Dazzle behind the eye: powder flash, waggling neural root. There's a flapping banner. We hang from a concrete precipice. Everything is unfinished. A network of needless roots swings high above the earth. She's coffined and smeared in filth. Somehow it's all my fault. I bear a head of nails, one-and-a-quarter-inch, hence memory loss, recall drilled out by fluked halo. He chooses five books then leaps from the cobb. The tide is out. He lies broken on the ooze among grounded vessels. At the threshold he can't see for the dazzling light behind the other. He says it's me, don't you recognize the spleen in your illuminati. Extraction is foreseen as painful, and always ruins the edifice. Fortune reaches down from the empty stand.

*

Found pages, the embankment, on route to the bridge, the long walk to a new adversary. Perhaps it's the mechanism whereby they see. I want the line legible, though elsewhere might suit more of a whisper. Fourth day: am I the only one who turns the question over. The answer's no. A moist blank. Is she there. No, but there are some wonderful cross-sections.

The box sits on the shelf, occasionally contemplated as an object, enjoying its status as redundant technology. I can't believe my time has come. They're here, fortress mystics, complete with tailored limb brackets. We're putting them back together as best we can. We don't get far. Good lot could once befall me. She moans and shrinks. He's got less than four weeks to live, he feels like Cezanne with that mountain: leaning fasci of upright corn, with or without axe, and borne before an ancient grade. They are equidistant in time. A thin sheath of fibrous tissue lends the appearance of a hand or stripe—the belt of a planet. I did but not enough it seems.

It gives object to the life. It makes their extremes in time palpable, systematic, and plastic. No one can believe an object ends when another begins, and that our body is surrounded. Reject anything that doesn't cut through, then section.

There have been no attempts at renewal, no attempts at punishment, no attempts at unravelling. I leave the remembering to you. Columbines flap and trill. Anathematize, if you ever loved. All this doesn't mean I'm not listening. Did you two see anything. Such as I have never seen: an arabesque of multidirectional curves. But fare well for now.

*

If he's not in here with me I'm not going to do it, but it turns out he is. Did you two see anything. We see the great wordgame, to which has been added fits and starts. She's got her look sorted. Produce the goods: her middle name.

*

A quarry-face of spines, somewhat attacked. He climbs before perilous. In a time of innovation, all that's not new is malevolent or pious. The only way to do this without being killed is not to think. At ground level he crams the volumes into a sack. He's shown the shelf, particular with worn spines, each with surface mottle of bird or snake. The event takes over. Whatever comes through, you'll be unable to reproach. One draws attention to his method (the semicircular flight of the swing). The picture makes us expect a different use, connect what's experienced with what's experienced. The level is reached. The hazard is no.

From the opening words: bitter roadkill, composite with small tubular heads of yellow steel. You were always a disappointment to me, seaward and misnamed from a planet. Strike him out. Extend to others, exactly right. Include some of the most imposing, tapered from stiffening form. I was discovered at the same time. I don't know how far I'll get. That's the strategy some use, gliding out across his gentle paper.