A Bare Monochrome Terrain With Two Distant Block Houses

Dust on his fingers. Hubris, such as invites disaster. Overuse of the whip leads to nemesis; horse moving in slow circles in the water. Things start to get confusing. The house creaks it's the wind; moving air, moving through the head the house through the head the fingers. Must write back. It's always so hot down here, but he can't be bothered to slip out of his pelt. I could see a faint tinge of colour steal back in. Change one thing, change the electricity.

Some remarks on your disequilibriums: the isoclast, it's here for sure, along with its viewer. One hundred and eighty were arranged upon the floor under harshstrip light. Flat and shadowless, some face down, some face up eyelids sewn back. Sun's up. He had no shadow either. I think I've passed him by. I recall his waxcloth vestment, casing severe, cerement a pupa. Across its surface warmth and redness steal back in. Spice up your life. Touch the dust, the mote stream, the eye. Faint parallel grooves trace diagonals across each plane of his body—the signal tracks of a cutting process. One moment slows down all. At your approach the pallid reeds, slime. Each is discrete yet connected, clusters packed to build nine distinct, hair still clinging to the blackened bones. Close by is the neck and skull of a bison, vertebrae glued together. I don't think that stigma has helped overmuch. Dust for prints—ink the builders, scaffold awry. Moon's full. Red everywhere. Spats on the floorboards. At new moon they break out:
The Younger Man.
The Man.
The Others.
They knew too much damned what they missed was the fact. He'd had muscle, energy, heart. He's made of stuff, carbon brittle beyond touch. A larva forms. Our atom in the eye, the indestructible almost: that eye was made of blocks, tiny cubes. They're machined. Ugly grey moth pinned out to dry in the sun. Confused and dazzled, it lives five days. You have to learn. Look, read this . . . A train shunters and clocks on a nearby track . . . Nock nock nock . . . Come: the old half-emptied tins. Petrol on the table—Saturday night in. The forward upper end sets with a boom. The episode is lost. These machined blocks accentuate the quiddity, it's worthwhile interrupting to say. Stalks all over the page. I had such fire in me that day. The dejections cast a no; I can't stay a second longer. At least it's been identified—our desiderium—that griefshot thing and doublet of desire. Anybody would try on what the other person had that he didn't have. It was heartbreaking. Take me. The result is elongate lines and squat boxes. Rest them on their three distinct planes. We now have nine choices in all. An enn-e-ad.

A rigorous trial of operability has been carried through to a logical outcome. Mathematics takes over. Our maker switches to automatic having established an initial seemingly arbitrary starting point.

Why not, I suppose. Triangulation's implied, vectors in an abecedary. Its interweaving purpose hints at purpose. It composes a bitmap of indeterminacy, territory unnameable—a collision mentality. Perhaps deposition is random, happenstance endorsed by a vague sense of fitness. There's process at play but it's not explicit. This is how engagement lies, musing at the interface of a syllabic machine, wherein strict method conjures with figures empty laden. Trust yourself. It's like living with a No machine. Every day is No Day. These people are too close.


It's difficult because he has to try and to not try at the same moment. I have not seen it, thus far. He wants to do and he does not want to do. He's guilty if he does and he is guilty if he does not. We cannot win; winning's not in the rule book. The rules bend. The air bends. The others make something in a hole they've dug in the ground. It's alive. It crawls out and squirms on the path. They ate from a bag with their fingers and went on. Alone again naturally.

Erstwhile. Wile away, a book of ours. Embers: and all else you still can become. Two men meet after a gap of forty-one years . . . You are the changeful fate that out of shape . . . All the boys begin chanting in unison. There's a deep deep well, dry for storage. They really did put us through our paces. Challenge Number One: The Death Dive . . . I forget the rest. I wasn't truly there, not truly present at the time. I had taken myself off. Elsewhere but.
She'd been seen with the plough in her hands.
She's a species of amnesia. Every day I feel as the saying goes less than adequate. But I'll turn up at some point. Everything else is an indecision. She is very love. It's a dilemma, a sort of cold war; yes, I'm a cold warrior. It's my dilemma. Those were the days. Eyes left handsome sinister, golden days, golden years. My glory years—I had such fire in me then. Now, I've only a rough idea where things are in space. At first, there'll be no capitulation to kidnapper demands; the prisoners are completely isolated from each other—their lawyers, everybody. And we have to survive a full five minutes with corporal twiggs. One's buried to his neck in the sand and fed through a tube. Full fathom. His eyelids are sewn back. The sun also rises. I simply don't have anything now. I've forgotten the money I sent myself. It's an experiment: can a man in such condition be sexually aroused. Electrodes are attached and a porcupine is released into the compound. Fair trial . . . It fails. Null hypothesis wins out. Random coordinates leech out. No one thought to set up a control. Move on. Move in and up and in and up, my telegraphic one. There's no control.
Draws free strand frontward. Rushes headlong.
Now you're talking.
Sir, I don't think you were listening.
Now he says so what a time what a time of it when it's too too late.


I can remember standing by a wall through a film of rain. I'm recognized and released from the lineup. Well of course, then it was all over the papers about the antichrist. Hipshot hydrocephalic, RX12 his code. It was mine it was gold. He was a man who had travelled. He had even worked the Siberia. Try now silver—or some tree, or some stone, or some place: themed pictures. The boy suddenly grins. He's at the races, as folk say, epilapse quite. Make him for a day, racing headlong for a more convenient vision. He withdraws, feeds on tree bark, flings himself into water and fire, wounds himself with knives; form in the burr of the voice, form in the burr of the eye, form in the burr of the ear. Spontaneous contraction—now the one and now the other. The readiness is all, the bringing into cultivation of wastelands. Now, there you feel free.

I read much of that night, together, to gather, to draw us inward and upward. It's all in the burr of the voice. White salts slat in the tray. He shall recover his wits there, or if not, it's no great matter. Why. Outface me. It had looked like an aubergine with legs trapped in a transparent piston, a kind of blender. Eggplant to boy, thy ghost I invocate, timely-parted . . . Who stands before him beyond the rack, calling him by a name. And then again they used to ease out so gently from sea to sea. Regardless, I'm turning in. Where are we going. They dug him forth and wrapped him in cerecloth.

I can see paradise by the dashboard light, hallelujah therefore. These are big strands but there's other jetsam strewn across this beach, disjecta membra. Save yourselves.
Muster quark, I hunged the uranium on my desk and gaze it now and then, then and now. When you stop eyeing it eyes back, opens itself to the cortex, as one perplexed—perplexed of beams from the eye: one must eye and one must not eye. And so it lets us in, o psychopop—some lucid dream: The Capstone.

Forty jars are carefully sealed with wax and clay. He offers up neatfolded paper with scattered crystals. The dollar bill. Mercury rising. Angel blue, angel white; the lip dissolves, the head. But I don't remember coming here. It would be good to meet somewhen—anywhen—fingers dusty, finger visual, an axis to orbit about. Axis of eye furnished with bark, thick and muscular. Visual purple to stand before. I think; I'll remember.

(He seems to disengage himself from the creepycrawly familist. It'll not be seen in him. Virtual work to be done, built on a nostalgia, one of mud.)
He locks himself up inside a case of meat about to leave. Seems there's to be a spy competition. Book me a book room if it's free.

RV 12
(The life and adventures of an atom)

I felt hunger. Below, sink port washed away. A sunken haven. Gelatinous colonies on damp earth derived from stars. Now for the improvement of the soil in accordance with a commotional plan: teeth poised in neat rows, beaded filaments, a connivance of backstammerers, of brief mineral thought. Signs of experience—mistyped experience. I hear you shrieking, proposing a new metabolism, one we've never heard, conjuring numbers at the rim of an insular life. He's a rebutted witness of the assault, a division of the prey. Scant meaning is scribbled in a little talking book: a discarded flask, a bottle, a failure in a musical performance, a complete failure of any kind, a closed sea within the jurisdiction of one state. A tall figure hovers to the left of the window.
Very likely.
Now I feel a little too far to the right. Moves chair slightly. Lying stuck together, love and sleep are his masters: a man writing a book about a man who wrote a book about a man who wrote books (i.e. something of a crisis). No one's going into the kitchen till I know what's happening.

The apprentice: mush get mysel ready. There is much humour. But there is nonesuch number, nonesuch house charged with misdeed, the sought-for thing. Its northwest transept fell down in a storm. You, you enter the nave, in its leanness, floating above one of the few remaining areas of undrained fen. A manner of sand temple. Do something; silent nightly, with disabusing eavesdroppage. We can no longer avoid considering the case of the iron plate. I really don't need this right now; apparently it's an unexplained idiosyncrasy of the iris: iris powder, iris root. Iris in, into the cataract and across the eye—of one who watches, one who delivers. He has all the books in the world at his fingertips, and yet.
Loss of breath. For some reason it had descended slowly after entering him. It turned the flood or the ebb as the case may be. It was the sun done it. The upturned eyeball melted.

Few reach me. I them. The air seems in dread. Dead air—cells within cells, expanding to approach a body whose tissues decompose. Back to his epistle: The people are divided into opinion . . . I resume my journey into the Iberian peninsula . . . Salute the love what laboured much, dubbed nights worshipped to win . . . He needs to make his mind up when it's daylight and when it's dark. He repeats a single word across a field to build a chunky oblong of fourteen lines containing six words each, a cell of eighty-four to each lyric. We've been here before: critical censorship and output of force. A restriction is made to break the edge or side . . . the monkey has a turn for satire too, it seems. It's how the people around here speak.
Location: Mummerset, county of.
Time: wayward any.
Thing: epistle of apostle.

The thing is. She's so sleep deprived. Biff, baff, banter. Homunculus: a manikin, an hommelette, one dark and full of days. He cuts his sac. Another spills out. A familiar rhythm beats the heart (reciprocal influence). There's no choice left living. Chimes at midnight: I use them as seeds from hereon in, being daily swallowed by men's eyes, this twofold force.

Hypergraphia in Randomain

He grew a companion to the common streets, every atom of him doomed to incessant differentiation. Probably by now he's death itself, brought on they say by too much rehearsal. Each of the gathering lines breaks. Weak putsch. Stray punch. If nothing else, nowhere, if not elsewhere, nothing. Whats in a name.
That was some punch.
Aware of my lack of rule he climbs up on the table (squats) shits on table, shits on floor from table height. Hurls faeces at assailants. He has no friends. These are not reasonable things, but then, our subject never had much truck with reason. Besides, these are unreasonable times. That's the trouble, we're all so damned original. Never touch your own eyes, or anyone else's for that matter.
Flipside of Ferrymason: the first page is left blank, yet she hopes one day it will come and deliver her. You have earned it. As I am as I am. All or not all, it forms part of a vast corpus. What had he writ so long ago, on grim pillage, on horseback.

martyrago long sweet spores seeking
bye millennia of them beyond
the barque and limb of the structure

Nine without outline. He wants something they cannot deliver. And besides, there's a big thick needle all the way up and out the other side of him. Up your finger—finger justice, finger visual. Try it.

A court of law. They exchange inscribed copies of each other—perfect, magnificent twins. But only one extends to the region of pure line. Dust on the plate, the miniature platform. Gentle dust, gentle lust. He has a good eye for it, the apprentice, the untried lad: hand over him. There is much humour. There is nonesuch number. Goodbye. His significance is a matter of shape. And once again we touch upon the story of Ambassador C: a roll of the drums followed by brasses. In the palm of the hand a fissure. An overabundance of signs is admitted within the gates.
O cruel April! It seemed to him that he was carrying the burden for all of them. Ssssssssss . . ! The double s of the ambassadors haunts an amorphous cull, so narrow it is entirely in the shade. Straitgated polity. Capital one mill. In the midst of their flourish we are silent.
Gare de Lyon: back come wife ascend we.
She answers.
Ascend we.
They exchange word three times. A murder of crows.
Who knows.
Who knows, who knows, a murder of crows. Thus along with the lack I didn't want to find her. But o yes she's here. And her body was thrown into the sea. But I can still smell her.

His relationship to physics perplexed me.

Much of this is ruined cladding. Remember this and do something about it. See to it and don't forget.

Synaesthesia for all—Register now.
(General considerations. Recruiting methods.)

His lead rises. He's harmoniously closed. His model is intricate and not altogether clear between the starry forces. After learning to become invisible the effects now migrate and become manifest in the product. Everything's named: my name is Ram and I come from far away. See. A system of names now considered loose. Colours break down: the blue waterlilies of old Egypt, now rare, real rare. Is there anything to be said against doing this. Does the analogy with glass break down at any point. It's hard to tell from here. I showed him that you could beat that stuff with a hammer. He gets the wrong idea and strikes out at random. A disconcerting condition of things. It's all about placement, not grammar.

It looks like someone using a telegraph wire. The shape: natural dug. Tintapping newsboys . . . Taptaptippitytaptaptap . . . C - E - R - E - M - E - N - T . . . It's a long long way, the concrete juggle, or does it also require an ontical foundation?

Impromptu From My Fathers

Cardinal shadows. He scans the deck (any deck, it matters not in this scheme of things). Maker and reader are as alike in appearance as possible, given the money available.
West roads. North sanctum. Afraid of his own. Now I feel a little too far to the left myself. Moves chair slightly.

Where it fell open it war revealed to me, and very suitable also to the time, that I had gone astray like a lost sheep. She too went away then, reeds and lyre together. Once you've got that mentality to protect what we've got, that's when things start to go badly wrong. It's all about history today. He had to somehow exercise the injured leg or he would lose it.

Limbo Lost

There, he's lost it. I told you so. Someone did. Words: the gallop and the dizzying speed. His first disobedience is their station.


After so long a lapse we are each of us today attending some interment. Thank you. How grand we are this morning! We are only thinking about it. Someone talks of another lore, another love, a real and a void boy—the vocal muse. Pall bearers slide his sheathed body into the embracing bog. He's been stuffed full of seeds and garrotted. A circuit board sticks out of one pocket—he's been weighted with stones and stale bread. Say it's not so. All he'd had to do was add the words SWEEPING AWAY, and he'd have been spared. He'd sheltered in a Clerkenwell poorhouse, up to his shins in excrement, weltering in his own blood. So what of it. He wanted once to touch this new instrument, to break between shifts. He'd no interest in the future—he'd no interest in fame (who'd want to be visible in such a world?) He had little use for money. Totally disengaged he was visibly obscure, or if you prefer, obscurely familiar. He moves as if in a frame, shutter by shutter. Against his forehead dangles a three-inch nerve, raw and desirous.