Richard Makin

St Leonards

II


His cut is deep like one mouth. He sits alongside. We take offence where the name is misspelled. Does it have to make contact. I am nerves. I store up, lose nothing. All my systems function and contradict. Often angular lineaments. He goes hogwire at the outcome. The listener sometimes lacks the motivation to protest, to tell tongue—to reset the tale in constructionist fashion. We are going to need shinpads. This starving and freezing won't work with me either; I've reread the tale, the nights. Use your head when you are. I dream he is standing in the rocky outscarp—arid terrain (the guidebook says overhanging limestone feature). He initiates the tradition: evacuate, repatriate. Slate pencils, some peripherals, a few sheets of remaindered paper. What if one day I can no longer. It's an uncertain age. Silence is my prerogative. As long as he keeps at it things are held at bay. Change tack: two men, one cage, a flight to the death. The decays. A series of attacks and parries. A dead ball situation. Just take one step back from meaning. I courage myself by remembering what indifference I've made. I don't provoke. I won't provoke by letters with my knowledge. No punchlines. Lots of silences. The parry combines with the riposte.

We initially believed the thing was for striking sparks. Now there simply isn't enough data to go on. We stop. So far, all we recollect is intricate street canals navigated by brightly-coloured boats. Clumps of seaweed. A museum dedicated to those no longer here—a familiar theme. Images that will one day help you forget: a warm face caught in the glow of a nearby sun and printed on to a piece of paper. A rust chute emptying into the sea. Now, ladies and gentlemen, with the able assistance of the waves, and hummed to the tune of forty thousand horses, I give you the past. I declare with a plainer dumpshow than does the mute common, but with the same odour and humidity. You can probably see the lights of the chemical plant from where we sit, across the estuary, across the dark. Limbs link and wish for something. We are panopticon. They believe his motive was revenge for something that happened twenty ago. He refuses to collaborate. There's a time, and we can wait. The stripping work is done with the aid of a steamblower and an axe. There's lots of white flowers pouring out of his head. The doctrine is the doctrine of the impossibility. No number satisfies the diction or has the property. This is where I put things I reject but wish to keep. I don't think this is savage territory. The square of opposition dictates itself, swaying to and fro from end to end. The melodies of different composers can be approached by adding the principle. Consider his erection range, his neutron thing. We are modelling his magic on unspecified rites: pirate jenny, the albumen song. None of us can cope with the biting and the scratching. That said, the fights are much like fights: inconsequential. He reuses everything, that's his pulse, but I'm the one who's trembling anticipation. He's asked questions to which he must provide the right answers. That old trick. He's older than he appears. The delivery is certain to be good: pushing and shoving, boring and biting. Enclosed are the power toys you ordered. Consider his relentless nihil, totemic pleasure without principle. Playtime is over. Nothing hinders. He was so young. Diametrically opposite sits the foundation of a social, of obligate and restrict. And I saw it for the first time with my naked eye. I think I imagined. Diametrically apposite, Alecto is one of the furies, firm to the tooth and unceasing, after a literal fashion. One member of a crew whose language moves at the pace of spearing fish. Fancy dribbles. Ring bring! Bring ring! Radiotelephony, in so many words. They depend less and less on a cynicism of their own invention. Obsessive fear of pain spooks out over a widening terrain. The whistle's gone out in the bank. It carries the wavy-watered appearance of steel. My obsolete form, the figure woven not printed, nurse responding to the urgings of the rider. Inside, liquid flame. He concords weight all round in the rain. Thank you for thinking for me: Damascus wire, its surface appearance. The red colour of the damask rose to flower. Forget or variegate, clothe oneself. Mute starling places. Damascene red like a red rose with following patterns. And though the original has gone, I think, Yes. When do we start. Happenstance is a full box. Don't ring me. I think yes. Hexagonal socket in the head. I am mentally ill in several parcs all the weekend, a series of remarkable independence. I've seen the trawler and there's no going back. There's lots of litter—children sold as slaves. Infinite descent has connections with the least number principle, the idea working its way back towards the light. And my adversary is going for the full roast.

You forget your own name in a drama of seemingly disconnected tableaux. Snowscape with sun. Skitracks. Beating dots on a white endless. Somewhere high. A recent illness leaves him impartially blind, with cataracts of the mind. Monkey skins, duck feathers, palm leaves, pebbles and artificial flowers stolen from graveyards—pan scrubs, typewriter ribbons and advent decorations are distinguished features of our uniform. Yes, I wrote them, fused into all forms of separation. The air is thin, no need to chew like in the old home. We are in a drama of seemingly disconnected tableaux (I say as much above). A rather eyecatching map is unfurled. If you had any sense, saphead, you'd leave before it's too late. He meanwhile pines for his departed. They operate pretty much autonomously now, in a poignant verse repeated throughout: the stones are in me, the stones are in the gut. . . . He (guiser) pleads for her return. He's like a kind of lace having no mesh or ground, the pattern sections fixed by interweaving threads: a species of gimp. Today's sound is cult percussion—the pressure flaking, pecking—indirect strikes sawing, drilling, grinding. This can't be without limit of time. Working with spartan resources and an undercast, I start to take pictures for the record: strike textures with bleached palette, virtual to white and black. Nobody pays any attention. I am the very image of a terse concentrate, punctuated by repetition, etched on the screed in charcoal, stump oil and chalk. You yourself will be more than satisfied with these endless lists. That word again: fissionary maker, the I as inrush, the I as inland, I as pivot in turn like a spindle or torting nail. I don't say that I mean. The others meet on their own in a dark-cobbled alley. I'm taking this up a stage at a time. They could have talked to us about it.
She is brave, no doubt about that. He's become immaculate since my arrival. The question also rises: was it him or her? He goes up in my estimation. I catch him above the waves with that gentle book. A thumb rises, but the way this has been constructed doesn't commit memory to linger in the present.

His work on memory is buried in an unmarked plot, reading between the poles. We're paid off. I need an imperfect now future, something dissembling. My life empties out. Do I mean disassembling. Bits of history that signify nothing—mean nothing—and are likewise at void. Have you spotted the help stone in the bottom right-hand corner? Now I find him sitting in a ditch reading elegies. I don't know if I've seen his blood, but I've seen some dark viscid stuff spreading across the ground, oozing and bubbling within the after-image. Salt silhouette of the dead. Last page. The solid world itself. Ingenerate tears fill the eye. I am return, return (page). His art harbours no hostility, and no responsibility. I think this is a murder mystery. The chief problem he's going to have is that the waters are gathering behind. This is like improvised sound. The real curse is that I'm here with you. It's a question of jaw extension, to my mind. We're all dependent on his manner of delivery, his etiquette. The sun comes out. I recall a cherished trip to a flat land, a country house the sea a sky a big sky a peacock bird and other wildfowl the type of sea we argue spontaneous things all being equal.

Now, the first letter can only be A.
              Aftermage. Clustering pronouns (you sort it out). Spontaneous things burn up in glass bottles, a dimlit exterior. A touch of gravy. Flare of flame, the heat. A touch of grainy. Another country. None of this seems now like a crime. If you forget me you die—I die—crashing into the final pleasant moments, like the asymmetry of an unsettled film score. I leave in my mistake. What started as a border incident turns nasty. I'm the same man but sometimes they call me. It's all over. I live in my mistake. A touch of gravity. They're always making discoveries of things they are not in quest of. Time is high. Time is like a tumour in his abdomen, or beneath the armpit, ten by four imperial. He tries to explain how it was only possible because we were in the right formation at the right time. He once fell off the oil rig. He is one luckless player. Nonetheless his hand is good, quite cooked, as folk say. The chosen implement is an implement for shocking hay. And look, over there, a flying noose. String it together: a stack yard with incendiaries, one who fires and sacks. Time and again the pneumatic chisel slips and cuts into the flesh of the corpse. This means pressure off the coast road, recoiling off a sixty-year-old wall of sound. He knew that deep inside he was intact. Come with your own gel and a distaff, the stick that holds the bunch, the female part of a descent. From the root found in the flax, from my usual zeros, I promise myself—far apart and widely spaced—pertaining to or situated at the outer end, farthest from my point of attachment. Opposite to proximal, clusters of my usual nothings, formed from distaste on the analogy of central: fast ashes in a lost box. Don't stop talking. Decide. It's possible I've forgotten some details. Footfall on a laminate ceiling. Are you astride a sire horse? Hooves grafted to the soles of your feet? He then resumes his letter and the physical world is given the role of an avenging deity, an error cherished, the afterexposure. An inclination away from the level base: river's brink against the edge. A toss or jerk (divination). A sloping or tilted position of the face. Adding an extra E in wake of the letter O, and the name gives out, becomes a distorted spring. Meaning undermines it, yet the image persists like misremembered super eight: the twist in the tramway, the smooth grind of the curving track and sparks from the elevated. Bombardier aerospace. Earth traversed at crosswise pace. What with all its members, organizing and hanging will be a complex—an ignorant blunder in an old story we received in the mass. One of the segments forms a side-piece in his head. A ship's timber is lying obliquely to the line of the keel. Turn on the edge or the corner. Tilt or toss suddenly. Bring about a decision in this contest. In his interferences he never goes beyond the boundaries of space and experience. Yet, there are points of reference. Yet, people have afterwards at all times devoted themselves. Yet, a man who still preserves must come to the verdict, to the intervention of one mad undergod.
Folk are less troubled by their conscience than we supposed.
A strolling singer is attached to a metal hook on a long handle and swung round. Beneath him a wheel with bevelled cogs serves to to the earth. There are at least a dozen ways a first eleven can kill. Reverend rotating in chilled air. . . . He swoops at the edge of the crowd, darting about on flayed legs. He is working with his charts, with his indeterminacy. I start making notes. These are distraught. The hand makes several short twisting movements from side to side at the wrist. I give up. Sometimes the tune is right there in your face, the compartments of the head at the very beginning. With his invisibility croak he moves like someone who doesn't have to think (while reading this, you really sound like someone why doesn't have to think). You know the punishment for losing silverware, as worthy an object as you are. Lots of words made of black letters, and you'll have noticed there are points of silence. Siren and birdsong on the wireless. Pleading monarchs. Somebody's argument and somebody else's. Why are we underground, buried beneath ice two miles thick?
Long time with owner in the offing. It behooves me. . . . I give up the trace. Anaphase is the most obvious event. The madness in my area. Distal. The English people are more demonstrative now. Daughter chromosomes crawl toward the poles of the spindle. I am exquisite tired. I have not been back for an age. I have not been back for an angle. I loathe all ritual. The feeling's reciprocated. I didn't order a revolver. Elegies in a cunty churchyard: solitary beast, I say break for me. She comes with a dog. There is moon. I caress she says is that what you call it. Withdraw back inward. This piece of dialogue—call collect. Due to a short landfall, the past is cancelled. Sometimes he finds money in his boot. I'm working through a few errors here.

It is true that in some cases the fugue was bearing a flag, and in some cases not. Of attaining certainty in knowledge: he only does at once what the rest of us do over time—cutting, shifting, building and breaking. Her final breath. The one she wanted to keep. I feel like an invalid (stress where you will), exempt from any test of reality. The Exterior, the estate—white house—the embankment in motion with its foilage and discarded parts: the top of a stocking, a rusting fender, polyethylene possessed, all strewn under a pyramid with the slits. Lamped shades hired of moleskein, and thus by fained deaths do dye. Spend some quality time with your utensils, visible statements of separateness. A muscle extends and straightens. Check signal aspect. We'll have a vote on ghosts tomorrow. I think it's slightly more noble than that, the old alliance, which I'm sure he would mention if he were here—a quiet deal with the quiet dead. They are an intrusion into what he is doing, that and the hidden dangers of aluminium. The present tense is irresistible. He sings. It's a song about cannibalism. It ends in a curving staircase. Medical history is discarded too. What's a coda. An ambitious madame keeps a protective eye in her pocket. Soft stones. On the selfsame page there's an envelope and in the envelope there's a letter. In the absence of any other term, there still exists a distinct compass. One should be brief, if nothing else. The mysterious agency now has the account. You are lost if saints don't disgust you. Bring on the anchorite. Dissemination is written on his back. A wider compass is needed. There's brevity at his core; a system, and incorporating the modern form of patriotism. This is more a well of retreat, a notorious transgression of commonplace representation. There's no sign of the presence of anyone in the house. There is nowhere I want to be. Just as the public harbours a fascination with the forger, you can't master these things—the volt, the voltingmeter. I don't recognize you either. Thick haze from bush fires, heart condensate, the great arterial trunk that carries blood from the pump, the cord which secures the hawk.
Haze in the cockpit and the cabin. Return to earth. It's very much like pre-season. Everyone applauds. You can have the full body treatment or just the partial head. Now it's the memoryman. Whatever next. The difference here is that I'm apprehending the thing, whereas he merely interprets, turns the original into something it never was. I have the same kind of feeling: smokemachine, fire eater, juggler and slow thinker—that which escapes observation by dint of being excessively oblivious. Now they say a liqueur is to be made from shoes. Something desired yet lacking. It is probable, from the way in which the flags are distributed, that they are used to break the sentence into words. Note to self. Criticism of the new format.

They've changed all the seating round and they're talking to themselves again (criticism of the new format). They think we can hear. A list of numbers as murders is presented. Lips are read through a two-way mirror. A row of numbered tracks is laid to take up and taste. A row of squares with words on is made up by an able signifier. An outrigger. Today's favoured organ is the monyplies or omasum, the psalterium—the overstuffed fardelbag. The game is the game of chance played by betting on the appearance of certainty, perhaps from reason unknown. Who could bear to. After he hurts his leg he performs in pain, the collapse of possibility. He stands on stage without moving, leaning forward with his bad limb half-bent under him or swung behind his head. False snow at the panes. Return again and again with your characteristic insistence: grey impalpable last page. He steps through the window, then repeats the action to infinity. People start to leave. Sometimes he seems desperate. He shudders and strains and shakes himself like maimed leather. I am captive in a world where I could not lose you. I often reproach myself by thinking Over little, it descends. She leaves for camp. Dad won't let me. I'll coin a new verb: to emotionally compromise by the bestowing of generous gifts. I get canned for my gas. Oil on my shoe. There's no cover at all. Tonight I come down with nothing—there's no cover at all—nothing and nowhere to go. I buy myself off. Three hours I sit there thinking, sipping and watching. Note the nothing. All I can do is gaze. Everything is sort of staggered. I've been appointed overdog for the day. Someone asks if I want to make a family. What now. I just escaped from one. It took me half a lifetime of effort. Why would I volunteer for another stretch, throw myself back in? Also, there can be no proof of the consistency of such a system from without itself. The Golgi apparatus produces a pure line of vesicles, an organelle of folding membranes, the famed cleavage furrow. Easily stained bodies queue up around the centrosome, the slanting line, like an old form of comma. A small body formed by division. Inanimate cells. Strinking dropples, he ejaculates. The penultimate chisel. His fibres are arranged in definite figures. Pressure under grace, tension between the two poles of the spindle. All the lights are coming on. Also, there can be no proof of the consistency of such a system from within itself. All the lights are on across the gulf and it is raining. I am going back. Do not wait for me. Stop. You are the stormy petrel of crime. Stop. Form comes and goes, the defunct form of our coma. The specialized part serves as an organ. Lead astray by light. To mislight.

Golgi bodies. A beast decays in the furrow beside the dwelling. This only takes place in the sex cell. Just a little left now, she says, a few clean bones and the head part. Nothing we can do you don't say. And the whiff of its decay sits at our interior, the emblem of our drive. What else did she tell me that day? Just for you, here's a love song—from its seeming to walk on the water, its beaconing authority.

I am an open field, reinforced by the whiteness. I have no ancestry. I do not butter my hair etcetera. I begin that patient waiting game in an unusually large section of the margin. I can't begin at the end: robber in act one, monk in act five. The lackadaisical house in its orbit, the point of greatest (or least) distance from the central body. It's like a lapse. You felt it too: felly, wheel, arch and loop—a fit, a connection. If it's not there you can't take it away. How he manages to characterize all the outlaws is quite brilliant. Know what he reminds me of? He is like a curved piece in the circumference of a heel, the circular rim. See.
Stop complaining. This is what you wanted: evening primrose, photographed using visible humans. I sat there for some time. It's of the utmost importance that you should notice this point and all the other points. They play. Someone whispers sadly. They play the whole time, even when they cull. I am so grateful to listen in on all sorts of people thinking aloud. Sayit.          Are to meet thy go.