Hers is autographic. Mob battery, internal cut with organ lift to switch room. Straight lines meeting and crossing at the edge of a stone. Apparently this denotes surprise. There is the memory of a woman in a blue dress at the crest of a hill—no cloud, another country. Isolate and quarantine. I sit for a while watching the cracks in the night open up. The area is a self-consuming area. She once had, she says.
It's rumoured he's a bad keeper of time and a compulsive list-maker: the chapter of accidents, the head not transferring. But who should we see coming into the room, where to if anywhere next? The project collapses. It recedes. Footpads on the cellar wall, the starwell. To brighten the party and properly round off the comedy, I continue to write standing up.
This is what he always wanted, an emptied room with the solitary divide. Distant thunder. The vessel is a vessel in which all the substance has been pulverized.
They are only in memory because they are not present, thistle spirits crackling on a wire, the underknife with nothing too soon. This is how he likes it—potentially fabulous games. I meditate on my state of mind in all the various circumstances. I'm thrown out for using language. He suggests a fee of 2000 crowns.
The date of the corresponding intensity and direction in the magnetic field is also the date of the object. This can be upside down, the reflected door, its panels. Sky flakes. Throw the thing out the window.
You are sorrow and I have been very cruel—my wide thought when I think you would less me, a different evidence burden. I have the mourning too, pounding into face, smashed casing and unsuperfluous drift. We found bits of old porcelain stones and layers of glued wallpaper, two elm clubs, a guitar, a tin pipe with six holes, a toy ocarina, ten masks and a packet of wormwood buds. An unknown country, flutytoned terracotta. The principle in operation is that entities are not to be multiplied beyond necessity; love and hatred ride hand in hand. I am full of optimism, with my telegraph ease. There is a system. She tastes of outrush, a major third closing a piece otherwise in minor key. Here comes the ticket. With this unusual work a bitter remark is needed, an occasion for extravagant gift-giving and destructive property. Initiate: anoint the face, anoint the remaining limb.
He anoints his own face.
There's a written record of what happened. A beating has been suggested, a cudgelling in the course of the game, a thorough defeat. Exit by a head. Change everything at the last minute. So you too refuse to accept any statement. Tell me about rainstorm, tell me about the fork of lightning at the rim of things. His look is unsane (the stray eye). Go. Cut your hand, compose your own lifelines.
An i is missing from his name. I reckon him in from outside. The wound suppurates after a day or so, a weeping fiction burn. What's the name. An i is missing. We don't hesitate to claim as the origin certain fundamental intuitions. First we do the Anglosaxons; there will be pavements and lampposts and children with scooters and radios. There will even, he heaves a forlorn sign, be.
He dreams he's drawn backwards through a dazzling white passage, surface spiralling like a gigantic drill. He dreams he's an engineer trapped in an eggtimer, surrounded by unbreakable glass. A beak splits, feathers fly and it's one hundred years later. I could not distinguish what he said. Something about the extinction of bacteria and fungi, capriccio salad, a plastic astronaut tipping over the edge. Extreme slowness at work again despite all its treasures. He thinks I'm someone else I'm not. Such opulent possibilities, but justice is real enough in the hearts of men. He wins sympathy by his capacity for sympathy. He needs detail. He needs policy. The bear meat tastes good.
A man with rotary teeth. Yellow sparks pour beads of gold from the ship's tympanum, a big triangle balanced on a rung above a row of columns, blazing brightly as we peer out from the vacuum in the cupboard. These five point the way to victory. I'm reminded of Trieste, years back in that obscure film, the star-studied Istrian sky. For a moment, this consumes me. It's in these wavering grounds I wait for her. Don't misunderstand me, I did not lightly jump, singing shall I, shan't I. She always champions dexter to avoid ambiguity, adroit and subtle, lying right-side-up. If she were a spiral shell she'd turn in the normal manner, planetwise from the top down.
A system of classification based on division into numbered classes is invented, with further subdivision shown by numbers pursuing a feudal point. This is the death suction of an unattainable evening. The noise with which they have been trying to wake me only feeds the flood. Flood and fluke. Knife grinder with oil on canvas. The small circle reads. Do you ever have the feeling of having gone too far. Three things are necessary to make his anatomy unacceptable; a moment is to be performed—a somewhat slow moment. Stay away a few days more. Somewhat slow, but not so slow as largo—as I. Occasional whiff of used faces. They are the subject here.
Blood plasma in transfusion. Piss Rorschach. Britannia tiles. A crude metal with sediment of liquor-lees, a thin mortar course. The filled and finished sac—thick, muddy and sulky. Gobbets of clot on the pavement, the page. Still none more less than thee. And the elder says of the younger, forgive him, he's a budding mechanic of the unsaid. A man is lowered to the stage by a mechanical device made from the worm-string of a dog's tongue and a toy astronaut. I can hardly breathe, which explains why I've no hunger.
I've got places to go,
I've made up my mind,
and I've got to let you know.
Go. Mind. Know. The window caves in, crushing his legs. Lying on two lines, broken. A possession is here. Price of chassis: a condition in which the heart lies to the right of the chest. In the next half hour, should you need any new buds, speak to him, he's your man. Click of squashed can in the below. A voice comes to question: is there a girl named and sequestered. I suggest you were in there a couple of hours, contriving an inartistic solution to a difficulty in the plot. Do I make myself clear, the comedy of happenstance? This man has no trouble keeping his mouth. He stands for questioning. Behind him flashes the legend, No Signal. That's two less to account for. It's only a matter of time before someone complains about the bodies. It is night and they wait in silence for the attack that does not come. It is too quiet, I do not like it etcetera.
Enclosed space; it's like this corner or something.
Superheroes become more troubled and human. He's grown accustomed to monads that are ever at home elsewhere. I can't recall a single stretch of time like this single stretch of time. You said you wanted to stay another night. The others have fallen out here by chance. He's suddenly tied up with the elevated cord. Folk become petrified: I belong to you and you belong to me. He drags himself along like some polyamorous corpse.
Nexus—a binding, a linked group: naevus hub. This fever of activity consumes him, the heavy yoke chafe which drives on until all the letters are arranged in sequence. Nothing specific regarding background noise suggests itself, though I have the notion of a something subtle and persistent, repetitive and barely audible, the hum of machine or body—some hybrid, like a fridge, a freezer crammed full of demon macaques with bloodpecked muzzles. Interesting the moribund white nights, struggling northbound, all britsafe and shapeshift. This needs more work: his heart's in the wrong place. He recovers. It's a question of remembering—dextrocardia, the stony turn. There are a few spare things ricocheting around the room. If we all stick together it gets cheaper. The sequence runs: A and (B or C).
Idea for a novel: search for a painting.
Thanks for the message. Delete by preference from its pallid colour. I sense some antagonism. I sense some obligation. Run what exactly. We should have our land elsewhere; there comes a time, lovers, when you've had your fill of memory. What we see as luminous we do not see as grey—certain laboratories, submarines and other feuding vessels. Someone should be in a position to produce a colour series, a transition between the two: ash genius—litany, from its ember-days.
He's still not trusting the glimpse. The number is eleven or twelve. It's a terribly long way back. The list is a catalogue that boasts two abducted muscles. We haven't seen a quit place yet. There has to be a resit. Secreting today much volatile oil. Fix the following fragments, I want to stop here—I rarely overreach. I'm on route, decaying at the tongue. I've got to figure this out. You know the rules: we make it happen, you watch it come down. I can only get voice. It's an emergency situation. Isn't there an easier way of doing this. Why can't we take the flanks, with sound and music and that sort of thing. Are there any new, or unchecked. It's deflected. I play it again. We're thirsting (think flask). Today's special; I gather up and discompose. We're getting close: vertigo, the numbness at the back of the legs. He hurriedly gets dressed. At the outskirts of town his likeness is painted on a board raised in the air before them. He thinks up one of his lists: the liver of a calf, kidneys skating in butter, a slab of split cow opened on a slaver like a head of John. You've had your eyes sharpened, haven't you (them sparky new knives). It's a group of three, something which resists in a community of other species. Conversion into the substance of a tooth. Ripcurl.
His likeness is painted on a board, spittle running from the mouth: word for name, whichever sound is the first to come out. At about this time he succeeds the apostolic see, withering in loose flux: imprint of offal, viscera, the interior lying tripe side up. Errors unavoidable in the exceptional. All affected beasts are destroyed, consistent with cleanliness. I put you in possession of all I know. Before his departure he receives a letter: we are busy founding an academy of letters. We are nominating. What a shame. If I stay who goes, if I go who stays? I'm really flagging. It is an empty sack indeed. It happened so because of the light. Quick, one who has this condition has arrived. He has one year to live. He looks grotesquely reassuring. This is the number four. Dewy is the title of the movement's magazine. It accompanies the first rain after a long arid period in the certain region. Only twenty-five of our days can be accounted for. A smell concentrates itself, an oily perfume absorbed into the ground from the air. I know you're close. The mineral division discovers it's not fungi or dead vegetation which produce the odour, but mysterious yellow-golden globules. Every three months about my eyes, I am disturbed by anythink talk.
The island falls. As he believes, they have perished in the storm. Have the air at fiefdom for a little. The family moves to the north; I am going back. Smell of rainfall on dry ground. Gifted fasces of coloured paper at the wooden half-gate.
I can't see four, only five. Still, I work on as best I can.
Look around. The one that had the greatest intensity before the word is now forgotten.
Exegesis in your head (let's assume this is your head). The punishment is death by sewing into a sack and ignoring. His story is contradicted by my own testimony. The point is this: a game of chance played by betting on the uncertain order of appearances. Get yourself a stapler and just do it. Expect more, pay less. The ink fades. Here and there she is, the little beauty. They are now just blank sheets of paper. He deselects in memory rather than in forms. He never writes anything down. He instructs his letterman to make the image of the head by marshalling thousands of minute glyphs—memory pins: the big oven, the ribbon round the tree at the top of the lane, a leafy creosote alley baking in the heat. Ghost of thousand. Rising canine in the nostril, whiff of darkening piss, a downdrawn constellation, bare legs thrashed by indifferent grasses. A crude passageway, planked conduit set between paired routes. I'm not sure how (brilliance doesn't come into it). The head is dispossessed. The head is crammed and renamed the seventh circle—the violent, the monitor, the first and last round, the unself censored. The head is condemned. My centre is pounded out. He alludes to you as one would some risky feat. See what happens. Perhaps from pharaoh. Reason is unknown.
The place where we come for the descent is supine, a place every eye would shun. We slide down on borrowed trays. It's a hobby. This one's going to be mobile, undulant. If it fractures let it fracture, a fissure against which the bud aloud. Outwide, the liver is, the lung drifts. We are none of us hang-on specialists. It could open up for him here. I imagine something might happen. He waits for something to break the silence.
The aorta, great arterial trunk bearing blood from the heart, a tense expressing the simple past, with no guarantee of continuance. Piper in the street, aeolian, insisting upon the moment. A moaning sound dwells here—repetition, or the like. The sound of a woman's voice rapidly yes yes yessing leads down and out from the body, feeding blood to the limbs and so forth. To get across, a passage is to be cut, a slice of a tissue of shares. There's one who speaks with me when I express, when I fall, silent.
Form bending over him. That's enough. He throws his arms. This goal will surely come. We see movement beneath the surface of the ice. I want to go to the place where they got shot of possession. He sketches two divining rods, one with the collar lower than the last. His window disconnects at the top. Two sheets of space collide at the gentle curse of a line. Perfect basal cleavage, laminae flexible and elastic. There's no substitute for glass, perfectly terminated crystals. Local name of granite. The corridors suddenly age when someone pounds the ivory. All the seats have restricted sensibility. Turn to the revision of what came earlier—I thought it would be nice for us to be on the same level. Prototype: the famous mixed terrace. He says, there's something here that wasn't here before. The market has improved.
This must be one of those sites she keeps talking about, the tray on which everything is present: raving madness and melancholy madness—Bishopsgate, Moorfields, Lambeth war—underground ghosts of refracted light, beauty in the eye. She has a long tube with limbs spread out, flat and salverform. We're next to a building trench. Why does she persist. I notice what's missing at the rim of the land. We arrive in bitter shapes. If there's no alternative, drive her out of office.