We may need the odd interval. Whiff of mercury rising: the instrument used is like a flat box with a soundingboard. Wires are stretched taut across the bridge. The head is due off. We stand on the foreshore and say no to the question. Nothing is reliable. No physical collision on the right, to the south. What do you want tomorrow.

A slight change of velocity. Eight cylinders now in narrow monobloc, coil ignition, zenith pump-fed from tank formation, hypnoid bevel device, front independent with ruby-spinel, rear half epileptic. My dereliction is a bye, a loose bet. He's not wounded at all: the sheath of the tendon, any tissue of the body, the dried bark to scribble upon. One lies beneath a heavy pollen blanket, tanned and locked, tongue-tide. They survive dropping in that manner, bleaching bone resistant on the paving slab. They always deceive about the value of what they produce.

Lately come as evermore, sleep does not visit my eyes because you are always in my vision.

Voice is scarcely the easy option. The first thing she says to me is you're not the right person. She advocates writing. The lady's to be executed by contract. We draw lots. She's reduced to a reddy-brown soup. The apostrophe key sticks. She lists.
Jessie James.
Ned Kelly.
The Andes.
The macaque.

I'm appointed executioner. Ascending a short flight of stairs I reach the container that holds her liquid self, sunk into a conception of iron bars suspended over a fissile pool. The thing shudders and clatters, yields up the ghost. The whole lot collapses into the pit. We could go back, perhaps, she hazards: try to make a decision, mourn the lost six of your company (I'm still thinking of that unpleasant scene at the terminus). Among your crew there are some who are so full, who give themselves so completely, that each time you take leave of them you feel it's of no consequence whether parting is for one day or forever.

Gone for a wander (11.20). And then to J's café (the red one). You have the key.

My coercion to perform doesn't exempt me from vengeance. Now I must stop. Shutter across the shadow head, into a major rust area. The name is probably the breeder's name, preserved at a lucky moment and embedded in the heel. His head is off (the wire). Where is he then. The next station is battle.

The white plain catches whatever falls. Walking slowly, inland to the crest. Toothless, smell of urine (passed). Jolly wife kidnaps musical. I deflate the immediate. She has never used. She eats my cord. The day can't hold the change.

Anything you can avoid, avoid. Are you on or off the premises. I've walked, I've been cancelled. They spend the greater part of their solitary as time. The boy hurls an armful of stones. He, and I, are short of Cain. His nature is frequently exploded, like coriander in the mouth. The seed is misused. He's cased in leather armour, the true skin beneath the epidermis. I've a tendency to identify him as the son of either or. And who's that third walking beside you.

Astral, gall us. Beg old Londoner.

Rhetorically embellished speech at the regular Friday meet. I've never even heard of him. Practice as is. Japonica glistens: a can, a shattered box, a heap of stones. Green slime pouring from a creek at low river. The rusted casket sets at an angle; we are many waves from home. On the shore beside the loch is a cake of fire. You don't actually lose any of your lives in the process. Common perception—my care, my random attentions, whereby I carry myself off. I interrupt, embellish. You can see for miles—turn your head, and in the other direction you may peer through the cell wall. This is where cryogenics comes into it. It looks like you're permanently in the wind (whether imminent or awaiting). The energy appears to be a no-go area—green alfalfa, yellow infusion. This feels like a natural break. Nothing like it in the whole wide world. An easy prey to habits, one boy burns in a night-shroud for the sake. His term is elastic.

It regards as baser yet he who is quick to please. A parcel is delivered; he breaks the seal. It's a Napoleon of his own making. I move before I settle. The festive unravels. I'm jabbing at the page. Demolish obsolete: shelf of rock, a flagellum. I foresee you going in, one disaster hard on another. I wonder whether you'll last the outcome, the peace. He works at himself on the hard open ground. This seems the oldest solution on offer, to leap from the balcony, state-funded suicide. The others escort him home before there's no point to the favour. A list is found on a scrap of paper in his pocket, a muscle surrounding an opening—fruit of acid, extended to the near-allied, and the unrelated: Jessie James, Ned Kelly, The Andes, Wood, The Macaque, Cassiopeia, Witnessing. It is known that somewhere in England there is a grave, and just for you, here's a love song.


Still more acute animosities flare in his fellow principalities. Thank you kindness. It's like going home, isn't it, windows squaring up to the dark. They are fighting over the pier. One crew is on and won't get off. The others want them off to haul themselves in place. Everyone appreciates a side. In the distance, old derelict textile. Dunes. It says about earshock on the observant placard. He shakes the stove with cosmic severity.


Your generosity seems without limit. I live, as you know, by frugal means. The house is the house with seven gables and is surrounded by a hedge of hawthorn. My own enclosure is flanked by a narrow alley strewn with litter and a false wall. You can't do snake eyes at me; if I gaze at a painting, a period of time elapses. There is the memory of a sky layered gold at the horizon—strips of blue then rose above. A satellite is reflected in four windows, high. They have a time span. The anchor passes chain through a tubular casting which doubles as a mortar canister, a short piece for hurling a shell—a bombardier, a lifeline. Matter pounded. Of course, she says, if he hadn't been crooked we'd never have backed him at all. And then she says, mother of God, even here one man can make a bureaucracy of his mouth.

The rock is so hard as to strike fire. Probably elvan. A spark. Granular dyke rock: an accumulation of quartz and orthoclase. Fracture common or potash feldspar, monoclinic with cleavage at right angles. Debris formed on the spot, or moved by wind as loss. I see, it's condensing water from the warm air. I'm formed on an analogy of to wash. Often I ask myself, is this a choice or an obsession. The right hand is slightly burred, suggesting motion. Each is bound to each, is so composed. Spongy voids on the dashboard. I am not there when they wait for me. The pen moves across a surface, inking fibre. There is the sound of the sound. He deserves more, deserves better, has not prepared himself for this, imitations of mortality from recollection of earlyhood. There is nothing else to see.

If they venture in they will have to signal. No more comment, ever. She is also an engineer. There is the memory of a woman on a train, making up. There is the memory of a woman on a jetty, turning, like the in-rush of a liquid. The effect: it doesn't sound like anything. I approximate. There is the memory of a sky with a strip of gold where it hinges. Save it: the remembrance of a clocktower. I remember seeing the picture and thinking, my life's not this—this is full of dates that are out of ken. She tastes of inrush.

A maze of pores is held together by a zip. I suppose these things happen. I thought that yesteryear the garden would do it, the categories would win. He's in traction, tacit, like the death of a small science, still trying to justify himself and authenticate a single moment. They can counter here. What he can't keep up with he leaves behind. Bring them down, the stares down to earth. He wears bilateral tassels that dangle from his scalp. At base, he can seem like an actual person. Hang on, just in case we're parted (always). You're losing all connection to the local, the time that place forgot. Minimum curvature of spine permitted. I'm glad you're breathing here with me now, unwired among the strangers from heaven, the hues and the prototypes. I never want to stop. Hard seal of wax in the canal, the rudimentary valve. Very lively coda at the entrance to the inferior, and I with no ear.


I can't keep up with the action. I don't remember that nerve token. And she says, no such community as things. Later, in Geneva, he erases the guilty sentence. The ear hears me; the eye sees me. Nerves neural today, tierce-gentle as male hawk or gyrfalcon. One-third of a pipe, a cask or abandoned vessel of capacity. Is there room. Sort yourself.
A woodpigeon (sound).
A sequence of three cards of the same suit.
A third of something, anything.
A fencing piston.
A pontoon ferry (grudge).
The office of that hour, the terce, distress of stillness.
The third hour of the day (end at 9).
Of a field, divided, each of a separate tincture.
A system of betting by which they must be named in the order.
A race for which this system binds.
A subordinate rib springing from the intersection of two other ribs.

One-third smaller than the female, as supposed to hatch from the last, he makes the mariners to live. A tube leads from the middle ear to the cleft, or cave, venal in the heart.

This seem the oddest solution on offer. He falls into a series of pale, regrettable weeks. Nearby is a boundary wall, thatched with reeds from the marshes (our common crossing). Turf wars. A borderer, mad as marchmen. A recurring event—the boundary stone.


And basically this consists of three words: pig. A place is with him—a ceremony, riding round the rim of his principality. There's clearly a page missing. This is what they used to do. There are caves; there is a torch. I hope we're safe to here, or it's de profundis time. A gull crashes into the window and the temperature drops. That's the cue to walk on my hands. A cry is followed by another cry. It has some words that don't belong. We meet with unexpected resistance: the island's a centrifuge. I detect the rustle of tongue, leafy elocutions—a slow dig, domestic archaeologies, the way of old x-ray. This has just become a bowl of water. We're having a detour; it's a nice detour. I must admit, I'm not actual. They have impossible astronomical significance: no apparent conflict on the levels—monuments with a view, millions of doubters. You're not patient enough, gentle reader. He's sure the correct treatment couldn't be distraction. People have to check their own keys, their own trolleys (don't get me wrong, Wednesday is not usually a bad day). More and more he resembles. Up and down holy flood! I've nothing to say about this; it's a sensation I can't articulate. Find things, before they find you. There are plans to mix modernity with history, or at least, finish off this footfall. Yes? And you yourself could attend to such rigour? The match is a spent match, magnetic intensity and direction in a prehistoric objection. Ankle deep, not here, not now.

He's a professional chancre. Are you going to sing or talk, or is this a transcript? You miss a couple of words. The lady was here, I swear, now not. When he does deign to speak, I have the feeling he knows everything. Quick, I'm enjoying the neutral at present, the dank chalky dig. It acts out now and again, then a sudden gesture and it stops. I ignore. He's not A and he's not B; we are safe to here, I think. Coil on wood, according to a centrifugal pattern. It is the dish which makes the hat.


Ectopia. Morbid naming of parts, the wandering womb. Calm yourself, calm yourself upon a grassy rind of land, the gently sloping outburst. Wrap legs around her legs, sliding across toward the lower edge. There is an absence of anecdote, an absence of parable. This was initially intended for the apology at the end. I try to break into a house in the dark; I lose the compass that's fastened to my belt. Finding a place to pass the night will be difficult. On the final stretch, a few furlongs out, a buzzing on the high grove, at elevated ground. You've been up there every day since it happened—it's a question of teasing something out. I've been attached ever since the desert. The nearest person to the pin has to do it. There is a series of touches. She emerges from the game with her identity unhinged. You can't hear anything when there's a higher class of question being asked. It hath a long bony tail, this primitive reptile-bird and its kin. Same day afterglow.

Antinomy, the gloomy archaeology of a tryst. We agree to meet and an appointment is made at an appointed spot; I wait in person at a peculiar bend in place and time. I'm awarded the hunter's instinct and station. Say nothing: perfect radio. I notice that no one notices, the most supple compliment one could hope for. By this I mean folk did see, and they did not. It's here and it's affective, but not as a remembered event: oblivious apprehension rather than comprehension (the will interpret, to convert to interference). I get to wear a badge and a cap, to whose authority the whole province is subject. This is contrary to the usual custom. Actives have to be busy and concerned about a whole variety of matters simply to provide for their own needs, putting away all that is not.


She's credited with inventing the nocturne. Your hands are cold. You hang your head. She shakes her child. Both of us are cities of the mind (I say this, just in case we're parted). Her friendship is hydraulic, but it doesn't have my compass yet. If I place myself in front of her my limbs and arteries spread. I've been attached to her ever since the desert. The backwish of meaning never stops. I was the last person chosen.

You're being really brave. Whisper two, sedatives of Yes. Taste of another's breath, another on the tongue, piercing the mouth-piece. I should do something about it. I can no longer tell what is needed; all the life long, my orders have been wrong. We have to hold on to the unsustainable for twelve weeks—after that, it's promised we fade. I simply use as an excuse the first object that presents itself to me: a tiny organism composed of two genetically distinct tissues. My parts are made up of various animals. I can't tell you why I whisper out to them, murmuring my treatise—bad company, language, and the like. Crumbs of bread. The Greeks call it another hand, so as to stoop to speak. Outside once more, beside a watercourse, any channel for fluid—a stream, the sluice. I'm often ranked with the rays.

Note to self: restore angelic upcry.