Richard Makin

St Leonards

I


Exit one London. Into the root of to place. I won't provoke. Let us. The first big test is to dig a ditch. In wayfare you use your weaknesses as strengths. Everything's declared. He likes to solve the puzzles that appear in the almanacs. He sits at his table doused in bird-lime and lighter fuel. This strange master, he bears all the hallmarks of a killer getting organized. Time moves too fast for him. Come home. At the closure of a perfect sentence he practises himself to sleep. His first love is the workaday. He approaches the window to see what's really going on. The apt word is heroic. This man leaves a pyramid much smaller than his fathers. He makes a note in his journal: have started anathema, reverse power. It's no longer alike all over. How long has he been down in that box? His mood swings become intuitive; every plop in the water is a meal. We are dealing with impersonal, collective forces. We're electrocuted while fleeing. Let's start with some basics: blazing light balanced by stunning shadows. I can't read that bit. People say he's fond of whistling sad ballads, like the one about a crow who watches as night thickens into a volley of snow. I find revenant memories in the conclaves of the horizon. They've let me inherit myself. The next dump on looks like the entrance to hell. Drumming fills the ear, bells, visionary musics and a solid body. Each face is a parallelogram: cuboid bone in the rawky morn. A small disc is hung by a thread above his forehead. It's set at an angle to the soundwave; flexion is used to measure his intent. He can never fully return. Allow me to introduce some new manners: at the first opportunity you're invited to throw open the gates into an identical park. He collects fragments and makes them into wholes. What was that word. There's no story although a great many things happen. It comes out of nothing and returns. Perfect grace. There's disbelief that it works, the old magic: paradise lost, apocalypse won. My journey upends very bad indeed, as dactyl, spondee, anapaest—unceasing, auto-creative. We wonder whether you might be persuaded to say a few words, what with your persistent bladdery. Some people would just cave in. This is an underthread. Its separate leaves are termed sepals. The art of writing books is about to be discovered, mark my words. In the same horizon the stadium is lit up, very beauty. Quick, wind in her winding-sheet. In his own rude way he's the perfect lime-burner. His key ingredient is adipocere, the waxy substance that oozes from an animal familiar. Never expose to air, a soft and waxy fat for a soft and waxy people. That suite's the diva suite. Devaginate. The leading party is the Hat Party. He has to be kept cool in the fridge; she deliberately leaves him out overnight on the kitchen table. In the morning there's telltale moisture on the yellow formica. Place five asterisks at his cardinal points and centre of gravity. To fill up any blanks use my harbouring arms. After years addicted the human accordion arrives apt with the tang of a blade. There's a warlike patch at the base of his beak. I'm still looking forward to tomorrow—we're heading off to the opening sea. You can ride with us if you want. Make conversation: there's hardly a limit to words with prefix un. A selection is given. First, a cloth is dipped in wax to wrap a dead in. Words from unabashed to unzoned are listed, either in or at the feet. Do you recall the three of us sitting inside that tin sledge? The third would never talk, when under the shade of her incandescence. They favour the apparition or phantasm theory. I've never known such a run of bad luck. They repeat some pictures over and over. He adds every letter to his memory bone. The original drawing doesn't survive; charred leaves go up the flume over a five-barred gate. No question about that: I hear nothing and see nothing, but we might as well press on to the end. We didn't need you, you were just a typing error: the lines I am. These are the benefits of inexact interpretation, the big steam treatment. His sister slumps dead by the remote. He's reduced to justification. Sudden death puts a stop. I hope that thing's not here when we get back.