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Richard Makin

St Leonards

XX

He wakes and surveys. During the night one came and broke the zinc table. There was a cracking sound as the circle split at the rim.

Twentieth situation, the key to a circuitous movement—games of misinterpretation. The dominant strategy here is craftless and lacking in direction. I play a creation myth involving an instrument for bending a crossbow. Today's numerology is peculiar (two to the third eternal). I am seven.
Scene, a kitchen cinque port. Another music. Tempest if time, pillows of mist in the cathedral, contrapuntal passageways. My future is scratched in the flagstones. Plenty of life and colour: murder weapon nailed to wall, the severed head of a bull, mediaeval panelling. The choir teeters at the edge of an abyss. Form and motion are abolished.
List everything.
This perfecting by erosion is at the same time a retreat towards an end. What's known as katabasis, an immaterial novelty without a subject—birthingsack in the form of a book. Rise up to nearby pyramid, take a few photographs, and quit. It's a romance of the middle-age, a tale of chivalry about real people under disguised names.
We're setting out to remonstrate a thesis or opposition, a series of self-contained narratives that tell the story of a family over successive generations. What's called a saga.

Valley of lees. This is coming together. Supported between her knees and leaning against her chest is a ladder with nine rungs. He clasps her legs as she holds the bulb aloft. She trembles.
I am sagaman. Crumb attached to lower lip. Remote vista of beachhead visible from caged landing. Is there a distress code. Movements extra slow, with distinctions between clean and unclean food. Echo of typewriter and trombone, an exercise in mass intimidation. I remember his first salient entry. He died on this very day during one of the earlier years. Are you ready.

The sheltered aspect of a windblown quarter. Tranquility obsolete. A measure of years. We lie opposite to windward, the weather driven underground. Coincidentally, he's an avid hunter. Seems I've missed a trick. I'm not present at the sacrifice. Emphasize the binary nature of the event beheld in the image.
He's the last of the Egyptians. He drills a tiny hole into the base of her remaining tooth. He is son, husband, father and fathered. He's the jealous constant with a spiral at the base of his back. Two more ladders are propped against the land. One is silver, the other orange. The body squirms. There's no reason to move. The head penetrates up to the rib cage.

His death is reset. The date is a Monday of the seventh November. Condensed fingers on the freezing pane—emblem and countenance. We have to leave the periphery. The son becomes an avenger. We're lost. Figures in the ice, pink morphine clouds. We're lost without the satellite. Forward displacement of eye (I'm not getting very far with this, am I). He lifts a flap of skin and enters.
A mesh of leather and wire. Redundant technologies: cathode-ray limbic. My field is time dispossessed. The inquisitor is whipped and beaten to a pulp (fictive). A broad blunt blade like a fractal spoon is used. He's polished and somehow remains placid. The musicians are forestalled. Across the wall stretches the forbidden line—family dotted and part erased. He gives up all social responsibility for his words.

My inventor creates a lifesize automaton. He conjures seeded words, dedicated lands (I am actually manipulating this). Angels and spirits everywhere. He suffocates himself. Celebratory dances follow. At last he's learnt something. All the time he exists, we're walking on glass. A package sits waiting in the metre cupboard. I learn that one particular word equals form and void: golden bridge, rays of pure light. He appears in the kitchen. Who else would be among the blackened pots and pans. Here's his successor from the last century, an earlier work.
Character: limner, a portrayer of gangsters in their milder moments. Listen, it's the rain quintet from act one—false imperatives for small orchestra. Does she know. Here's a lovely photo taken some years later.
She pats him firmly on the head and makes a complimentary remark, the way she always would. I'm reminded of the night we wrote on the walls as a dead one passed through us, unbeknownst.

I am part of the reconstruction of a mass epiphany. Eye, arm and cock are her favoured parts. I brought nothing through the portal with me. She has her needs fairly glutted, all swooshy and disoriented.
His death is set. See her letters, crammed into a box beneath the pallet.
Describe their poverty.
Heaven of noose, the god enclosure. Wife on shoot. I am concerned here with the basic emotions, the borderland and threshold. A murder takes place at a projection. Head to rib cage. The numbers are twelve and twenty-six. How did she know.
She says we are together, yet only when adopting certain parts, as if players in a role. See how it reads now.

Certain rocks are chosen and painted blue. Had I plantation of this isle, there's one more thing I would add. Dig up people from the wild and remote orders of our country. I could walk off into the sunlight, forever take my leave beyond the mound. Gollygosh, the big sallow moon in the darkblue, low over a sea. The criteria determining selection for exile remain obscure. Rosyfingered star apposite, descending to horizontal, west. I remain vigilant. Drone and worry at the foreground—a dissonance quartet. In my commonwealth of contraries, I would execute all things. Wish you were here.
Lessen by taking away, detract. A dwelling formed of skins is stretched over a frame of converging poles. We take a roundabout course, probably from an earlier form of unknown origin. I proceed to describe our illuminati, raptured in spleen (I want some souvenirs of this, mementos and keepsakes). The rules say I must venture outside. I watch them scratch and dig, build the foundations—a promised deed of place.
A knave at heart and queen of spondees, grim dissenters of love's affray. He can't walk. He has giant's wings.

Don't rush. The beauty of this medium is its mutability. It's like writing on a blackboard from a dictionary. Male voice off-screen. I prize open the territory. I execute a few plates and cups. Outside in the street a sign collapses. Regret nothing, even offence. Rain is forecast. Especially offence: I'm offended since birth and have complained little. We approach the bay. Allow yourself no distinction. The autonomous collective is replaced by an inner circle of twelve. Insurrection and public tumult follow—the first food riots for two hundred years. Looking closely, you can spot me in any scan of the mob. My tone of sedition grows—it cures daily, page by page. The battle looks like a parody of the spatial grid. A curse gathers itself up in one place. There's still a way to go, isn't there? At the end of a fortnight we're wearing out one hundred and sixty pairs of skis a day. I begin the long walk to the university on my club foot: one degree west, fifty-four degrees north. I'm possessed.
Simply pay up and leave. I know, this kind of precision is uncalled for. You still haven't ventured beyond the book. Her death is set: love's work. Our chamber is a scale replica of the auditory capsule, complete with anterior bone.

He nurses an ulcer sheathed by a dry crust—secretion and dead issue. If you can't keep up with the conversion, don't try joining in. A new technique for wreaking swift justice is introduced—meaningless and arbitrary. Observe his toothless consonants when you chance a closeup of his face. That lined face. . . . Those who glimpse me make such wonderful reports and internal debris. You can keep going back to the face in a way you can't in the theatre. These images parallel the pattern established in happier days. I still hear the clock, even though it's removed. Time is a-flying. Quick, list the flagstone, the lantern, the anteroom, the rust and the varnish. I can make a Wednesday. Time has virtually ceased. Claw earth back to earth. He conducts all this as if it were a major symphony. A full year of peaceful agriculture is foretold.
I get paid today. He still hasn't said a word to me. They interfere mind. They are the political leadership of five hundred patients, those weird folk lurching, as we speak, across the lawn toward the sanitarium. I'm reminded: the interminable festivals of dancing dead in the fifteenth. I want it in my hand.

The wrong moment is used. Division is deeply cut and divided into leaves. Terminal corymbs of rayless sallow flowers. I should say that the lawn is neatly clipped. Tantalic phantoms: the egg and bacon of later years. Japonica glistens. I do hope that you too have a happy start to the day.
We promote the fleaman to the highest rank. He is now sagaman. He is god of the deed and the afterbreath and the insurrection.

I find her holding a man over an oil stove. I can't see it taking more than two hours. She tears out his hair, bites his tongue in two (magic power), disembowels him and cuts off his arms. Pass me the spatula. Too late he dies. I'm reminded of the dead crust of her ample lip. She is discipline. None of my used histories will suffice as explanation. I am fed with skat. I want an eternity of beginnings. I owe nothing—my ancestors are frauds and tricksters to a man. Use peripheral vision. Lay the tarot on the table and leave.
Lowlife.
Collapse of left ventricle.
I reconvene.
Damn this is specific. No broad local colour. Somehow I nail myself back together—complete the forensic soleprint (nostalgie de la boue). It's the day of the dead. His logic circuit has one input and one output. This is called breaking down the bedrock. He's so oily he is dried for use as a candle. He's stretched over a frame of converging poles and left to the midday sun.

She has an abnormal desire to go back to familiar places. She's busy counting money. Are we going the right way. I catch myself knotting. I am magnetized toward success. A limb scores sharply across a window pane.
At sunrise I pass the temple wedge. I ascend the east. I'm sunk into distraction, the second layer of my anchorage. Phallic sun on water. There's safety in numbers (dreaming). It's time for the grudge. Is there a clever way of doing this, or isn't there.

Dazzling light. A health station at the top of a cliff. Good thing it's buried under the ice. He has an abnormal fear of going back to familiar places. He thinks he can fly. Return desire, return suffering. Its output signal is being.
An endless chain of buckets on a wheel.
Lustration on ascending spiral path. She's going to blow. Mythyl violence. Her output signal is one if the input signal is void. I wonder what time is. That is to say, let's creep toward something impossible. People are ready to break down the doors and burst in. An antiseptic dye is used as a stain. From the crest of the valley the trees stride out, spewing from the flank of the selfsame hill.
Same brown eyes.
Choose to refuse. Hard not to look for a pun in that mourner. This rain will divide. And there she was gone. Thanks for reminder that the sea exits.

Industry takes possession of the streetcomer. Signs are said to be marked on the four sides of each bone. Revert to seven as the ruling digit. Slow and majestic, his output signal is being at zero. White flags. His eye is shut, with spasm of lid. Are you work tomorrow. Now it's just me and the man from uncleconscious.

Westernland. Red flags above the shingle. What is that word I find my self exhaust. Unstoppable rivers run through the text. Steel cages packed with broken stones are set into the cliff—my foundations, an extended incantation, apropos of nothing.
Nothing but empty leaves, at best. I wanted to say something, but I can't remember.

Libration of the celestial sphere explains oscillation of the ecliptic. Pink cloud formations—alien countenance murmuring Shelley. He with his ailing wing, drunk in a muddy field, in the choke of a woodsmoke stack.
Is that what you call him. We make up time. Let's play. You have to be in recuperative mode to glimpse. Wrong key. Look at this devil. Wrong eye. Choir of angels in the corridor. I pad through. If I jump high enough he comes out of his hole. He binds to himself. I dream of St Augustus. That's not a tent he carries, it's a cymbal, the numerological equivalent of a name. By means of certain supernatural consecrations, he flaps his wing.
The vision. Stone anteroom to parliament. Circles, synopses and dramatis personae. The English court. The players. You must behave as though you have permission to stay. Copulation as publics walk by. We're in a corner through which others pass and dissolve. Your problem is that you ignore the detail. Everything's been arranged beforehand. I distract myself as a mode of concentration. Everything's unauthorized, permitted. She fashions a tiny vessel and slips it silently into my sack. The invention is an improved trepan. Pure, it says. I have licence. We are androgyne.
She says stop that's the rib cage. Wrong saint. Silently we transfigure.

A telesm. A soldier on a battlefield surrounded by dead comrades. Deep pressure on head within entrails. Culverts. If it comes it comes, as a consecrated objection. The system is so. At the bottom of the selfsame step is a file marked Iliac Crest.
Thunder on a fireslaught's twisted spine—fell-wit, with tinder and rain. Reason's work not in any moment. Challengers come at midsummer and question me. The fourth lot is drawn. It's a dry measure. We start any minute. Adjoining the chamber is a rectangular cloister. I have the honour of startling it all off. That and that only, without admixture of experience.
I'm at the point of the retina from which the optic nerve radiates. Sales have fallen by five. I hold an instrument for measuring the infinity of heat. At the centre is a mediaeval tomb. Reified love is the basis, a solid shock of word. Laying in the cist is the statue of a saint, hands fused. I've ventured inside a trap. His final letters spell a name or calling. Rig now to get some sleep. He has a sword. Everything is lichened.
Numbness in skull from overthecounter medicine. To her the sea is cold and mad. This is because.

A sea from a town through mist. Please don't take that next corner. A man looks up at a window. He recognizes a silhouette as himself. Everything turns white. A small aperture links two spaces. He declares his own sainthood. Capsules of dried soot and poison are strewn on the ground. In the next chapter we hear about his lucky escape to the Amerikas.
A flat surface is hinged at bedrock. The spelling comes naturally. Sweet pleasure of gentle pressure. I can still read the headwords. What a truly fabulous day, set to a mighty theme: the last judgement, with voiceflutes and harpsichord. Our pact is eyeless, facing reality with influence and morbid writing. Continue in silence.

Scenario: you can see and hear them but they can't see or hear you. The leader of the gang steals body parts from a funeral parlour and sells them to collectors. There is a bird connection. This has got me in a deliciously pessimistic mood. It's very difficult to be a beginner, midpoint through my first two thousand yearns. You can spread this analogy as far as you like.
I'm taught medicine by a centaur. That gear change can take a little time, the violins and the shadow. The required moniker is an old alchemist's name for mercury. There's a want of symmetrical sequence (consider the many things we may find in the world at any given time). The latter part of a sentence often doesn't fit the earlier.
A siege of herons.

Nonetheless a sunny headscape. A flat surface decorated with a heraldic pattern rises up in my gap. This is the signal for something uncanny to happen. One possible side effect is sudden unexplained death. The hill explodes. The statue is animated. A giant dragonfly beams into the room, crashes into the walls and windows. From a column of black smoke the body of a man is flung into the air. It falls to earth. A frantic jig draws all the players in. Things begin to take their allotted course. If ever his name were known.
You're to work your way through the arc. We're leading up to the most phantastical ending imaginable. Concealing tables of law within a closed container seems somewhat odd, doesn't it? Before he can speak he feels the pain in his body. Broken, he twitches. The lift shoots up. It climbs through him. He's alive. He rises from the stele and strides toward the gap. The statue approaches and greets me warmly. His look is Arabic. We've waited a long time for this. There's a thick cylindrical shape protruding from his anus, or between his legs. Everything happens concurrently. Nothing's clear. He holds out a hand. It's smooth. Write a book to ease transition. The stone is warm.
Just a blackbird—no time, no space.

How many words is that. We've got moths and bells to include as well. Put this away now. Worry at the edges of sleep. Go for grail, go for home base. You want the dead, we give you the dead. Oxeye daisywheels hover over the meadow. Find your perfect job. He's an ally, unrecognized in form—a hangover from darker times. Once gone I'll write him, the Augustus. The weekend is lost. I need another rung. I'll leave letters on his vault. I'm trembling out feelers into a lost weekend. She breaks the deadlock.
His approach is the ethos of the building-site, an activator of mental and material states. There's a definite ontological theme running through me. His emaciated face is partly covered by a grizzly beard. I have stop. I can't see.
Jealous blood. Silt on every window. Putrefaction by sacrifice, the insights of solitude. The vessel now is calm and steady
On deck I spot one, my first. Bioluminescent psychefly.

K330. I'll deal with you in the morning. The night things take their course. I only go away for one week, and look.
The bronze resembles the Albion dogdung harvested once by tanners. Burin old photograph, as of glass or porcelain. Image of puer aeternus. You're to cut through the portal using the oxyacetylene arc. I've got to generate some money. Fire and curve of graph: crystal violet, radical of wood or alcohol. Leap beneath your master's gasp for the last time. If ever his name were known.
Monopoly seditionnaries. We buy up the stations and utilities and run them into the ground. All that's left is a triangular bone, nucleus of the insurrected body—iron-mound commando. He has four aces and four thousand wings. She says I have a feeling. Judge now whether thee and I shall ever meet.
Just woke. All depends on gravity and grace, the assumed burdensack. Shall shave caffiend, inject head, make my own way back to the centre of the earth. I traverse the day, creeping in a crosswise direction. Meet me at the amusing curve. All my life I've sought a damned kind of perfection.

Traders' jargon. Drifting corsairs flinging fire from each arm. Clusters of candlefish glowing just beneath the surface. A still and beautiful moment. He changes venues every day. Please ignore the young lady making the announcement. Only lodge in safe-houses. She's a little confused about where we're going and where we've been. Possible side effects include sudden unexplained death. Keep them guessing. Assume no daily pattern that may be traced by your adversary. That sound is the lash across an exposed back, the disconcerted rocking of the track across a viaduct. Can you hear me. We play the game pursued through a great network of escapes.
Fading glow at centre of astral tangle. Edit. We're trapped in a steep optical decline. He is given the considerable task of uprooting the remnants of a widespread moment. I'm instituted a century earlier than expected. The platform rocks and sways. My clothes are all wrong.
Sometimes she adds a sentence of her own.

More on his experience. Sometimes I put my foot down, study the transmitter key. It's a trade-off. Using one of your assassins as a pivot, draw a large chalk circle. From all external evidence this thing is impossible. Our stem temperature indicates we're a planet close to the sun. Two black chinooks copt over the crest.
More traders' jargon. There's an ornithological theme running straight up my spine. I'm hollowed out from a petrified tree. My question would have answered itself in the course of the narrative, but I want to know at once. I'm released. The body lands at my feet—a descendant of animal signs and savage beatings. The language.
Have you finished with this. You worry the arcane from the workaday—the trick of the dead. The place where you feel most vulnerable is called dwelling, a host of queues and caesuras. He will never say what's to be demonstrated. He is a blind sac with concealing eye. Legless burrowing beneath the skin. You can see the weal in motion at his hip, raised grapes of flesh pulsing gently. They arrive. A bargeload of vicious assassins armed with metal baseball bats. His legs are broken three times in as many days. From today's perspective his death can be seen as a turning point in space.

Asked for an address, she recites a lengthy saga—a piece of type mettle lower in rank than a letter. So many events happen around the number forty-two. She's judged through a heavily silted lens, a kind of musical score. I randomly fill out the blank lines as I go along. A lot more could be said about the thickness of things. It remains a still and beautiful moment.

I invent a logic circuit that has two or more inputs and one output. That was quick. He is firmly basted in the world (hex girl). A clay mineral is shed in flakes from our exhaust.

I am a station on route, water-brash. There's no conviction. A man quenches a dog from an upturned cidercan. I'm now writing on a longshore basis.
A movable tower is used by the besiegers of the fortress. Archers crouch and aim through bisected roundels. Climate cloudy with dizzy spells. There's blood on every shirt. It's too late. You probably haven't eaten since I last saw you. I venture outside. I haemorrhage. Use this in conjunction with something else. Last time I was angry. I've moved mountains. Now I'm not. We're just past the landing pod, echoing the contours of the earthy crust. Nobody else comes through the portal, so it closes.

Her output signal is one if all the inputs are void. There's a definite stain of humour at work here. A saucer of concrete forms as a mass, unfeasibly thick. A rallying.

More about societal strictures.
Where are you staying now. He appears before the inquisitor. His whole body consists of eyes and tongues. Their number corresponds to the number of people inhabiting the earth at any given time.
That man over there painting the fence is being punished. He wears a fluorescent orange jerkin. Now he's painting bodies. I am holiday. This is the opposite of distraction. It's a long story. I think this is a warm up for the dark night. Action leads to weakness. It gets better toward the end. He fears idleness, his sole blessing. The output signal is void if any of his inputs is one. This is excellent in terms of an event, but useless when shopping.
Anima Monday. Discharge of glass. The first phase is confused speech. A root system spreads through the ground beneath our feet. It's guiding them in (this passage is quite separate from what's come before). They're among us. They course and range—a running species. We'll think of something. Ghost stories, or something.

Lambent dream. I'm too busy concentrating to breathe. A mediaeval fair in the grounds of a cathedral. Throngs of pilgrims from everywhere, bivouacking Germans. I'm here to carry out undisclosed work. I live in a large blue marquee. I'm deeply sorry about the timing. Alongside the cathedral I meet an unknowable woman. We're mutually attacked. A harmless contemporary deathlike state ensues.

Runes of an ancient building—consecrated ground. Night with darkly charged. I'm the unknowable man found in the broad thoroughfare between two walls. Every head is open to the sky. The haunt is cited. We busy ourselves with wailing apparitions. The characters are he, she, I and assorted ghosts. We're beside a narrow fissure in the earth. A wall of white tiles continues underground. The distance down is forty. I'm told I have to be. The spirits of the dead leave the underworld through this portal. A lamb ascends and tries to work its way through the gap. It's too narrow. I think of helping. I don't. Get off now or don't get off.
Move from this obviousness to something dense and complex: a piece for twenty-three solo skin players, a crowd of naked and helpless individuals. Test what should be clear. Entrenched positions are taken up. Shift and startle into final form. The build up of despair is relentless. It escapes my pen, metamorphic—a trophy.

A sinisterhood of three female ghosts. Each wears a piece of armour about the chin and throat. They surround the unknowable man. They close in.
I'm liberated by things. It's easy. Everyone else is terrified. The three are identical. They wear the same greasy air-hostess uniform. Somewhere under their scars are faces.

While sleeping he's visited by the spirits of his dead family and Jupiter hands him a tablet bearing a prophecy. It's a busy night. I'm out at the rooms. Now I'm shuttled through space in a compartment. The vehicle's an elevated. Very black outside. I share the carriage with an unknowable woman. The scene shifts I'm inside. Keep this simple. The room's similar to the compartment. It's dimlit. There are three unknowable women sitting in a row. The seat runs around the wall. They have fleeces like sheep. They are otherwordy and lawless. With great care I stitch them together.

I am taboo with recollections of arm and chest. My teeth fall out. Vivid greens and violet, white semee of sparks or stars descending. On my shoulder the word your in black. Everything's unfinished. I'm troubled. Memory fails. What did you expect. I am explicit. I am drunk. I am implicit. The woman has a grainy voice. I recall an anecdote: tattoos and people—voices who squeak. Everyone's quixotic. A threshold is crossed into someplace liminal. I'm uneasy at my permanence. I can never return. People are toxic. I'm uneasy at my penance. How can we be removed without scarring. I foresee. My process continues. I commit suicide. I commit myself to myself. I visualize my own backwardness. I am the next taboo. A black rectangle appears on my spine. Remind me to tell you about her compressed life: two weeks shut away in a padded reading. That's a symbol, the libertarian I cherish. I take my leave.

At the very edge of the facility. Be careful of food. Outside is open ground. It's like the earlier boneyard. I return. Night remains in case you're confused. This time one unknowable. I'm concerned. I may wake. I look through a doorway. She places a pillow in the adjacent room. I'm propped against the wall. She places a pillow over my face. She uses sleep in her method. It says here there's probably nothing. The pillow's a reminder. I creep toward the door (I'm a thing that creeps). I am sound. She wakes (voice). Sense of panacea. I reach for the latch. She's behind me holding a large butcher's knife. She presses the point against my neck. It has a deep blade. She's demented and volatile. I've trespassed. I try reason. I try pointless compassion. I escape. From an open space I see her shrieking from an upturned window. She flings an object. It's bright red. It has a long handle opening out to a rounded form. She signals that this thing is mine.

Recover the land. Let's agree to forget the above. This passage is for your own personal safety and security, your own personal use. How does she survive. Mozart on the wireless. . . . Does he ever. In a passing field a carecrow—myopic deconstructions, flapping arm. My first crop circle. Tonsured copse at crest of hill. I've changed. It's the day after today. Triffids everywhere. I survey the outlook and think little of it. I am randomly invited. It's an actionist boot camp (hallo England). There are people I haven't seen for twenty years. Sedition is the crime which contains all other crimes. Resolve to seek stillness, the outsights of solitude. List items in cell: rotting bedhead, heating lamp, ultraviolet strip, mattress of transparent aluminium, see-through air. Game over: you were the person who asked for the tempest. A healing plant is vaguely indicated. I am filled with compressed helium and left on my pallet to burst.

Popular occupations in the compound include vivisectionist and masterbaker. The structure I'm sealed within is so-named from its unique pentadic design. I look up and I see workless folk swooping about. Place your right hand on the exposed rib. My palms vibrate uncontrollably. We are just beyond time. One close by expires—bethankit comes as swift upon me. Leaf shadow under crane (feathered). Any remedy will do. Capital. When you've finished your shift, go back and never return. You grant me hunger, everthing regained. The audience spit or wipe with their mouths. Time is ritually stretched until it corresponds to the book. Keep him short and punchy. Fetch counsel. Slide him away offstage. It's always too late. He won't put it down in writing. It's as if I'd found a sorrowful purity. It's company policy. I may be usurped afresh—in a certain sense, flung clear of the hill. Pursued, unbearing.
Tempest isle. Elliptic for grace, for gravity. Everything's nearly ready. There are four cowboys on horseback, crystal-skulled. I've chosen this story to tell because it's a good story. People like us swarming everywhere. Peradventure he speaks against me on the adverse side. There's a sudden crash of impetus. The word charming is used a lot. These are the things you need to consider. The men are ripped back on deck.

She needs to compile another of her lists. I existed long before all of this.
She won't give up her big dream. She worries a lot about where to shit. Measure for measure, I'm unfutured, fatigued. We can't find the right platform. I walk behind me. We march, humming and whistling. One song becomes our signature. O fuck I'm not plugged in.
The one in front now walks at faster pace. He kills the king and reclaims the throne. He grabs me and drags me onto the dancefloor. He severs my right arm. Another intervenes and everything stops dead. I'm still not happy.

Respond to the following questions, and remember, there are no wrong or right answers, only answers. What's your birthright.
I'm fine when left quietly underground to my own deviance. There's nonesuch place as I am. We search for an urn in a chamber stacked high with urns. We pace to the end of each corridor, counting our steps. The world is shaken to its roots. Find the landing cage. Everything is different, almost a nothing. Turn to face magnetic north. Soundtrack of early chamfer music. I can't find her grave. Another foot is amputated. Counterpoint. Read between the line: irregular musical strictures.
She's well past her timeline. A sequence of climaxes—a mass formed by parts thickening together like obscene limbs.
He says when we encounter her we are already too far into the game to abort. My number is one hundred and sixty. I struggle till candles and starlight and moonshine are switched off. It's easy making decisions when you're exhausted.
This is the first time we can actually see her. She's almost a cipher. She wins—a very different aesthetic in a very different kitchen. I'll brighten up. Eat toast and move on.
The end of divination by right. He is baffled to death with an emerywheel. Intermittent popular rising and uproar. A very hard mineral is discovered. I said to mark my word. On each vessel is a label and a fading snapograph.

A baggy profile. We are very close to the end. Rather out of his depth, of course. He's regarded as the founder of music. Plastic film section with cowpat. Calibrations mark his achievement. Pallid countenance. Very spasm of left lid. The instrument deserves a xylophone. How much fucking more of this is there. A voice announces. If they get a certain number of points, they survive. We've got some great photos. It's scaled down. It never stops haunting when you come back through. It's scaled up. We exceed the target. They've given me one too many. There's an increased threat to my security. My railway money goes straight through the bank and out the other side.
What I saw was a girl with a broken leg encased in a metal frame. You can easily find another picture, always. She lies on a table for a day. Her hat has Mexico written on it. Almost ready for the last runthrough—spem in valium.
Torso, two men withholding. It's made of cheese. I wake up during my repetition. It was like watching.
He's not a targetholder, yet. It's like a world through reflected glass. I could see all the stitching, your leg up there with no sensation—sparefloating ghost limb. Then they say scream where it hurts. Longterm this does me a favour.
She haunts me with her confidences. I have my nose broken out the window. The men are discussing token legs. When I get home I can't.

A spreadeagle bet. They remove her spleen. She'll be the last to die. Let's get something clear, I deeply resent having to work. Only grass can feed plagues of this proportion.

Heavy internal bleed. A lagoon separated from the sea by a long wail. The family is ground-dwelling, wading—spooking the shores and river banks. Its song is a small species of manganese with a clear piping note: compacted, crumbling sound. A selection is given below. I give you the resonating chamber. Keepsake it.
Lower ribcage cracked, origin uncertain. Many are scored through—dross and slag from the smelt, pieces of lava with steam holes. This is about as scary as it comes. He's like a mentor. The scent of his bloom is Saintpaulia. I like that not-being-able-to-feel-your-face kind of thing. Loopline rail. Failing glimpses. The chains come off. Environs of nowhere. A five-rayed star is constructed. We shovel out from the tide of the head. Incoming haar and fingers of frost. More unrealized projects. The shadows of gigantic clouds rage across my surface. Now I'm back digging in the cellar. I write myself out of the world: one moment I'm here, the next I'm not. Now for a complete.
Cabaret. The cellar is broad and sharp at the apex. I taper at the base. She says we have unassumed parts. It's magic. There is little left of us. Once we were. Unabashed to unzoned are listed—continuously, in a loop. We're let out. Writing exhaust is good—sea defences down, the filter skewed. Here's more of the inimitable duo. It's magic. See foot of page, a fuse of lead and borax. The stars desert the skies. We're surrounded by zombies. I've had it for a while. Nothing works. Mystic things begin to happen. Her voice echoes the piano keys, artfully awful singing. See alien.
I'm an intermediate between sniper and rover. Universally such a person's acumen is esteemed. The scene is the one where she's holding a doll that licks like a dog. It takes real skill to gauge those intonations and that rhythm.

How did the distracted one chained to the wall voice her disapproval. Write to request. There's still a lot of horror in us. Here's our serious mode.
I pivot between star and loon. She has the right to all records, the archive. It's either very funny or abject. Gangwork replaces the tribe, the pack's approval. What are we to do today. List her remarks, an epiphany of shadows and mural scratchings.
I met a mystic he said i am burnt orange aura lots of water around me lots of past lives like bethnal green in ww2 and a dangerous lady shouldn't take drugs as they have been feasting on my open heart. Then i met an earth bound man who asked me questions and i opened my mouth further than my head could hold and romance turned from stone to sand thru fingers to a glass mirror as he stuck a pin in me and now everythings collapsing. I miss you.

Spam in aluminium. Her text with ears attached to a head.
Apply to oneself. My economy, tender, and on with its sinews. Neck slender. Gall full of glass, spleen detached.