It's in the minutiae of the view, the dissenting details: four asphodel rooted to a green slope, a white house at the crest (the heron has gone and the anticipated scaffold). Continue: a bleached pallet at rest, a brittle cylinder, oil drum at four or more degrees of angle, the crazy prehistoric fence, the girls tonguing, part skeleton of a cycle, dark blue and light greys—a smear of crushed light (hallo hallo let me embrace you), the iron rampart that held back the land, a neglected stone pyramid. His arthritic wrists rest upon the desk; convalescing is the only alternative, and he opts. Two attend to something unseen upon the ground. It really is a concession to mine own eyes. The source says bigger inks, a sustained arc of tension and release, the inevitable span of gull counterpoised to a satellite curve—akathist of thanksgift, visions of concrete and liquid rust. Triptych yellow iris, flame planted yellow, drawn blind across space a distant room with ziggurat of books, the mirror image. Keep your head down in the passage of fire. There is only one obstacle. There is of course the eye, filling the whole field. His company is concerned with memory, and summons a solitary figure, lying on his back in the dark rumination with the roar.
Gilt anthem. Go back and find out. Notes rise and fall in a simple, moving progression, the affecting minor modes and shiftless harmonies. A tower looms, inverted in my upward sweep toward the horizon line. Gradually, things begin to break down: spy-way into a supplementary furnace, athanor-eyed—a hiding place, an excavation. He is barely audible. Make a fresh assumption, into the well-defined sense of the book, into the congealing air, repeated rhythms composed of small cells of music—a language isolate, a lament for something that was never here in the first place. Ghost of self. Cries from the softening air: I was this thing I wanted to be. Growth behind the glass, never harrowed from the senses, inasmuch as nothing congruent is ever found in experience. A man reading from Luke is plucked up and planted into the sea. Any more requests from the other side of the moon? Paint a finger. A millstone is hanged about his neck and he's cast into the sea. This is a song about used steam, a no-man's-land—the neutral. The crown at night. A.
And he comes the third time and says to them: sleep, sleep and take your ease, it's enough—the need to orient, gradually easing to earth in a sequence of tiny clicks.
All time riots
all time riots
all time riots.
Surgical removal of the tongue.
How do you suppress. Whatever isn't superseded, decays. I'm an unworthy member of that indefinite body, partly from having no visible calling.
A millstone is hanged about his neck and he is cast into the sea.
A curious one comes, high-collared. Dead air space. Empirics may ease and sometimes help but not thoroughly root out. They deliver his cut and grant him the day. He's famously blessed. I think I'm coming over to your idea of the compact. He assumes compassion, the failure and the wrong-doing. Ruinous interior with blue gothic and horse, crumbling industry with rolling white fists of chalk.
Something careers into the family house. Then the days are cool and the leaves turn and we know the summer has been. Sound of fighting at the front beyond the pine forest. He reads the same books over and over until they dissolve in his hands.
Fire comes. The element declares itself, soot-ghost stain on a whitewash wall. Overhung, he can barely move the fingers for the pen. Below, a man beats time with a lanky broom head. He fails to achieve his aim but gains insight. Fuse all the graphs, now.
A whorl suspending an inflorescence, whispered hoarsely. When I leave, the air is close-packed. He's positioned on one side, interesting-futile, fixed in counterpoint. His chosen animal is the lemur. He flows in and fills, gains the advantage. Lichen and moss press behind the glass. People mill to scrape samples from a concrete groyne.
Haul him over into the malignity of labour, cursecraft. Let's devote time. He tones down his state in order to immerse himself in the obscurity of others. Take precautions—the blue strobe. Look after your teeth.
Not I, not I shall meet with him, not in time, the clot, the stone-crop, buff-flowered and well-remembered, risen burr of this precise moment. Shadow earth in lee of an umber-bird, dining on iron and manganese. He has not since spread; revolution withdraws itself and hides. A pile of pallets is stacked upon a barrow. He's hauled across on a Polish merchantman, a small two-masted vessel (fear of flight). He's been through so much these months. I run into him as by chance, and he tells me his father dies yesterday. Did you find any semblances? Yes, the refusal of time straitened. I know you are. Capitalize the uncanny.
We go a long way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather. We wait and watch for the slack; they're still building the stage at the bridge. Above all, things startle and awe me. If only he will give me the shelter I ask, the uncountable wilderness, respite from the rend that won't heal. Turning away from the present moment, let me be able to say I see you here, I see you here as base-mattered memory, a glimpse of the soon. Imagine, you're given your own cell but there's no number on the door.
Her distinction no longer binds.
The unthinkable clash has still to come. I follow the numbers horizontally, according to the dictates of reading: woman with flower, a rusting pyx, scattered tail feathers, and here's one tiny bit of bone that needs a helping hand. There's reason for these things found striding out of my territory. It opens well but not the way she, at her oculus, gazes out with such attention. She carries a grammarian's tome for calling down and a universal seal. With maximum effect her force acts on a cylinder rotating in a stream of perpendicular fluid—force thrusting axis and flow. I move through the cartoon, these mad ideas, recording language. Only now am I alone and not yet young.
The body lies full electric. An incision is made in the back, the dorsal cut. She taught me this and I value. You may tell by my cylinder it is prime of day. The world was once her will, but what good would it become one, suffering from a fit of the cycles? It's rumoured something not seen before has broken out in the market place. A groatsworth of music, please, a very small sum, proverbially. Plumb-lines suspended from the arms of a cruciform frame are used to construct right angles. I once slid as golem into the pit.
I will surely find. I will not pass this over to you, he says, slipping into his wallet in that familiar tintinnabuli style. Recordings are transmitted over the public loud-hailers in the town square; it would be wonderful to hear from excavations, or whatever feels needed on the day. I don't depend on my sources anymore. In those days small maps of Europe were tightly folded and stuffed into fruit. Now we're no longer here to make it worth the while.
We always have to be ready for the night, when darkness falls there's no light at all. The sheet is flat and shallow to the depth of a shin-bone. Thirteen years later and he's still preoccupied. He laughs, observes his own flexion. He bends himself into a causal fold. Voice in the night, hacking into dank chalk, the cradling blade self-answering yet brittle—unassailable. He opens himself, he shows it to me. It's copious and thoroughly documented. What is there to say? You forgot telepathy, or the transference of thought. We'll act first, then take it from there, see where we find ourselves. The approach is into the valley. The graft is taken. His gaze drops to plump feet crammed into patent black. One extremity bears a scar, another a bluegreen tattoo, flesh semiotics. I was going to live in a hotel. I was going to live in a cave at the foot of a cliff. I leave without telling anyone. Come low ebb, stiltering wood emerges. It's already a compromise, what with that lackadaisical rhythm section (see train). Maybe I could never. Record: viola, cello. Double base.
Glass company. Four years later we're still sacking shelves and waggling our heads about it (the be scene, the Songs, say of this). I'm denied by the elongating arm. Maybe this one's the last. We dig in, trenchlike—cut off and held in a sort of vestibule, diligently unravelling the structure of the race. I feel he's someone I will one day need to confront, someone with whom I must do business. The music stops, its various formats and folds. Let some chapter in, lattermath horsemen. They sleep their sleep. Now do your impression of someone else, one not thee, one who has the writing teeth.
Blunted, purling autumn, his people meeklings to a man. The tool is used to run old oakum out of his seams before inserting new, to render watertight by pressing matter into his gaps. I'm making up your young mind, aren't I? I doubt this survives you—screams in the street, screams in the sky. There's no time for quotation but it's your right to concrew. Tradition grows in the rigours of the ritual. Two opposing tendencies conflate, variant readings; historically, it has no need to hover in time. Please me, or I die before I make it home. The crew is a crew of brass. They make action because it kindles memory.
He has no choice left but to overthrow. Messages sit on the cones, notes he's made to remind himself how to proceed. Did you ever know something and not know why. He sees people as molecules of capital, knelling.
Engaged in gathering simples. Propose something—eavesdroppage. There's a zone set up between the dugouts down there. A pair of betweens. Tread the heel. Corn feverfew, senseless mayweed.
You need to spend an hour a day writing numbers. You need to spend an hour a day writing alphabets. I should too but there's no longer any point. My worse has stiffened. He's engaged in gathering samples, for instance, in Mexico City he's struck by an image of a deity made out of twenty-five pieces of jade. On the eastern tip some isolated mounds prove to be stuccoed pyramids with sand cores. Several small plazas. Platforms on the low hills. An outward journey may not be in the past.
He considers all this as an attack on his fiefdom. You are suffering and have been ongoing for hours. Groom of the stole, origin obscure: small fry, off-spring encroaching into the father. Dying in the numbers, the war is a civil war. He clutches an old instrument with a slide and dial. He takes measure and says grow less, subside; he is the act itself, not the outcome. He is stillborn. If all fails, list: a basket of mustard, an unquiet grave, a digger on the dismantling horizon. As much as I loathe preamble, I feel compelled to say there is little room here for jokes. I'm sure you can accommodate. Rationalize: workman with wireless.
To the fastness, the safe and the reliable. It's all he knows and values (one in fact remains unused). Hope we can stop here soon and rest, but there are numbers to look up. He's not bereft: he has his kodak head, his pick of the angel cards, the teeth—and a lot of names, names of dead and names of gone, names of forgotten, names of familiars, and names of the distorting sound. The door clatters shut. A lock clicks. The central movement is no more than a set of variations on a descending bass line. The solo part soars.
It's about a girl who murders her husband and this agent is after them. They are honeymooners. Doesn't the man who makes the games watch them for a year (yes). He sees the word security and immediately feels insecure. He'll be back in time. He passes a windowless afternoon, a fortress of unnamed brick. It's nice to feel vindicated—just for you, I'll change everything. More and more, I misremember: the speaking drive, the stoppage time.
She is the lexicon of her profession, snuck between undercliff and sea. The horse looks very calm as all this unfolds about it.
What do you mean by he. Don't resist writing the terror—that's a truly unfortunate spot, handsome. He lifts up his eyes to the window as he passes, and seeing a red or green light, he hastens.
Now, the promise-crammed moment which is never delivered. Look at my marble eye. The body is smashed, the spine severed. Indifferent bearers cart him off without ceremony on a make-shift. He is irreparability personified. Face the sun—glad to have you back, however ragged. For him, money's a liquid, such as will not divide without residue.
Recover, turn head to nearest star. Why equate the din of remembering with excellence, neglecting to forget? She comes out into the hall as I enter the house, cheap and loud and incomplete. She says she resources humans, resources being. She faces the music. It reciprocates. Every player is laid out for coin. Factor in some coastal blight, blue smoke shaping air in a suncut room. Gainsay me: I contradict, I deny. I'll be sure by morning. There's no failure of frankness, but on every side there are fears; ever since he came, death has haunted the profession. The thing curls up into a wrong shape. I'm about to fuse myself. Dull crumps at the built distance, red-tiled rooftops stacked above a bitter sea, the sick child. Yours is a great art; like ice that is about to melt, the historic stem passes without much protest. Ten days left to die—now where are the names he left.
Thin copper tracks link the concepts together. I think she stations herself lower than required. She plays grace; bloodstem, grief and mucus flux from the mouthpiece. A stunt is played with the remaining head. Laughter. I should have forgotten, gathered up and out, bitter and grey, presenting in unfinished form a book I never wrote. Beside my bed is a water-clock. Keep your head below the radar. I've painted two giant webs on the asphalt roof, so he may step down in the night and shelter us, a brace of giant soles.