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Richard Makin

St Leonards

XXI

More on my situations. This will involve more joining of dots and handclapping. An image emerges (he's an eidetic). When you say I'm not scared, whom or what do you mean.
I've been made to feel like an idiot with no ears. I am not matter. In a dream she hands me the book. I might lose you. The word theatre is repeated. These are complex indices. The adults should have reached the peninsula by now, a wilderness with a vast plain stretching out to the south—a kind of anteroom to sleep. Strange fire is stored there: jacaranda and flame trees. I can hear a night vigil—lilac-coloured flowers with fernlike leaves, beetles crackling in the eaves. A watchfulness that keeps dead beside the wake. In his eyes and in the impartial darkness he imagines he sees the form of a young man dripping beneath a split tree. We're going to wait until the morning comes.

So, I am a triangular peninsula bordered on the north by a sea. I am flanked to my west by a canal and on the east by a vast gulf. List flora and fauna: ice gold and copper mines—scarlet bellshaped blooms—the flamboyant-tree, yellow-petalled. Add deepblue gentians, asters white to violet, knots of forget-me-aloft on late summer air. In the three thousand pages of his travels there is not a single clue.
I pitch into wilderness. I receive a thrust to my side. Work yourself through the method. I reach my humble in a dark wood. Am now moving south toward equator, counterpoised to ghostland. Increasingly I write of myself.
He had a quiet and colourful life.
The map represents his exploration of the ship of the world. It's the basis of a grand interlude. I write of writing. Using a tiny spatula he harvests a sample. The terrain rises to a plateau at my centre. He dips beneath a swaying tree (date fronds), an oasis with uncommon rain. All the windows bleach and turn opaque. Nearby dervishes—stench of human dung in the wasteland, Flemish wheat, English cotton. I feel affinities here, unelected as I am. We're lifted as far as possible beyond what is. The numbered bones of his face appear to be glowing. His containment is sterile. And then away our hasty life doth post.

The outside wall of a wattle and daub hut. A framed prospectus. Hovering above the dwelling is a starlike figure. His head is one gigantic bobbing eye. I too extend to no kin. The terrain descends to a narrow littoral between mountain and gulf. Our hut is circular. A perfect. No kind if not any.

He writes mostly during summer, and always beside water. Consider now the role of the cellist in this tale. Dark times battered under summer rain, ozone and electric dust. He petitions himself: I am that I am. The mountain is mined for copper. Something neural in the electric here. He must be on a thermostat. The editorial strategy is complex, with shoddy pipework. I think we can hear plates of water sliding across the lake—the tiering waves, mysterious illuminations in the midst. I belong to an image. The image belongs to a form.
Item. One or more coastal cartilages without evident cause.
Crabwise, take one step back, three forward. Uncommitted notions have a position in the word. A pistol crack. You translate, something like showy radiant with head. I think there's more of them outside in the street. Is it cold or is it just. A skein of spittle stretches from the tip of the head to the rim of her lip.
A murder of crows. I'm invisible against the shadow of the yew. I am a foretaste of things to come. Leave detailed comparisons till later. The trunk is full of notes. I am the state. My title means caught by names. I am perhaps days old. Fires burst out from their anchorage. We suspend him in the fluid of a glass amnion. We're now interpreting through form, metaphorical translation—social onrust, psychic onrust. The intermost membrane, keep of flesh—torso severed mid-thorax. This record of death and transfiguration dates from 1960. Outceasing polyphonies—
hummingbirds, kingfishers and brightblue starlings descended from ghosts,
a pier at night and a beach with cigarettes and the smoke of charcoal fires.

One of the constellations in the northern sky.
On wings that spit blood I soar above the earth. You can hear my pulse from this very spot. He's an intellectual sort of chemist. He is superficial, sea-hoarse at the giant coast, Phrygian cap pulled down over remaining eye. He drags himself about the earth with ballast of scales, an apparition with sharpened pectoral fin. Heart-beatific.
Alkaline lake shores. Sleeping gecko under pallet bed. Yawn. Closer to the book the flame is damaged. Ten fifteen: finish yesterday's wiring. My leather shoe splits along its length. A whole millennium is exported. The anteroom we're looking for no longer exists. They have had our well-travelled route fortified. We're pilgrims, undwelt and meandering backwards. Every indulgence of theatre has to be cross-referenced. It's said he doesn't compose, he reverses.
It's a nonsense song. Your domain no longer exists. He refuses to compromise. The losers get nothing. He fights the law. A new cult spreads in the warm dry wind that blows down the eastern side of the mountain. It carries airborne grit, ultramontane spores. A bone is removed in the final ritual—the quadrate, which suspends the lower jaw. I am nerved. I learnt the cello in those four years of incarceration. Here, take one of these.
A submarine manned by aliens made of white ash.
A world whose entire surface is bolted sheets of black metal.

Do what I do. I'm going into battle. I've not yet finished with this Osiris. The region south of the plateau is becoming.
Hi, I'm the wasteland—waste-on-wings that split the air. The one who stores the cable in the tier. The one who arranges. A tiersman. —I—

Complex is the belly she says, the solar perplexus.
I'm abandoned on the island. He takes the chessboard and the chess pieces and leaves. What year did you get your volunteer—it's a shame we can't see him anymore. A gland below the deer's eye secretes a waxy substance.
I am the lynchpin of an orchestra. There are people downstairs. The noise level rises as the pace drops. I sparkle on her wasted finger. I call and find she's thinking of me—psychic to bittersweet end. I am rounded on top and flatpacked, sans facet. Turn to face true north. No one comes.
And his executioner asks, why have you expelled these.
An excess of love, the other replies. Nowness unhinged and broken, the law is set gently in the recovery position.
How did I find myself down here, with random quotes on dying well, festive underglass?

The one who keeps nightwatch loses ears, nose and lips. Makers of division are found roaming in the neighbourhood. My hand is set to deal fierce havoc. I hold back. Scarce indeed does he know thy quivering form.
Do you want to keep your pretty face.

That's a piece of date he says. There's a cluster of them in the inverted triangle at the base of my spine. I derail my own composition: greening colour, parallel lines sloping diagonally from dexter chief to base sinister (her). Parts of the face are bitten from the corpse as the vigil sleeps.
Read loud. Read aloud and quit.
Give ear. A world in which the pivots of existence are moments of innocuous detail. You shouldn't be adding. I've gone off the grails. List items on table: the carving platter, the two knives, the tusker, the templar cross. The infrastructure is down (only joking). The table is among the remarkable objects. It presents an interpolation. All the rooms are bare. There is a compressed genealogy of therapy, three degrees of separation—a trinity of idle talk, much costing of lives. There are roads in all the potholes. He is the field of the star. I reject. Cross last plane of asphodel, and quit. A church is built over my bones. I betray. A vessel is crafted to hold being. Noise clusters my head. With well-founded meaning, I expire on buried ground. My, a genius with ears.
We're in process, a pilgrimage. On route she's crowned with feathers. We're not out of the woods yet. A sheaf of corn is placed under her arm. It's still the middle of the life. I must be nothing-matter. In her hand rests a scycle. This must be an account of the collaboration. Unnatural phenomena achieve harvest within the resident body. I'm arrested. The charge is witchcraft and hearsay. It's so easy to delete yourself in so many ways. A glass grail is used to contain. Erase self at rim of fissure: asterism and countertorture. Erase self. The two worlds have evidently been confused. I follow a zigzag path across the transfiguring ice.
He says, I once fought a law. He is a group of stars with cell division, showy radiant heads. Two pairs of elliptical incisions are cut into his back. Too late we realize the keep has not been built to keep someone out, but to keep something in.

An obvious symmetry, the etymology of a sound. Check date and quit. Plane trail to heart of drone, spittle in navel hollow—crude tattoo cross at muscle of calf. Occasionally we go right to the wire. I need to work out how much of this is me, and how much them, before I can talk coherently. All that invisible duplication, trajectories of silence.
She is talked about in the same birth. This is one of our miraculous in sync mementos. Sudden switch to different tone. Beating of distant wing, eurhythmy of the flock. At half past seven I check my phone.
We are struck down by plague. Mass Arab infinite. I promise not to listen again. Talus lamentations. Daily pieces of bread and investigation of the discipline. He sits watching the ants build a net. Their seeds grow into desired planets. Elders cease from the gate, men from music. I can see the light pouring out of me. My own condition is not at all gruesome at present. They're massing. Make thyself naked. My points touch the outer circle. No more carrying me away into captivity. I'm too external. I am the remaining picture. The house is dead—seven of all numbers. Remember if you must. He's an important fugue, sociopolitically. I am I. O, and you. I am the one who arranges everything in tiers. Remember. Symbinfinite me.
All these letters of the alphabet are like so many names on a map. The style is native symphonic. He traverses the thickness of the world. No more false lemmas. It's our first opportunity to enter a plea: there are the two doctrines of the external, and the copy theory. He beats one patient to death and smothers a second. Night's grammar is so much shrapnel, they say—his misremembered splinterecho. Jarred rhythm of old then—old next, old afterword, old later—so much ago since being time streamed out of me.
I suppose there'll be security on the island. The monad, which we'll discuss later, is nothing. We declare this day the day of his exhumation. It turns out he's simple—without parts. He is Now-Magnetic. When I write I suspend writing. For you it's the agony of Athens. Very British. Consist solely of heart and helping hand. Donate an afternoon of your time. Consider the following intimacy: being is either a good or a bad. Donate a brick of dried blood. Exit via navel, exit via mouth—exit sphincter. The blaze of the footlights scorches his feet.
The identity of indiscernibles. The killers be: try choking yourself, see how it feels.
Name infinity symbol. Resist. Reset self to famous night journey.

Vignette from root of to take. Lesser harvest hills, smoothrolling to horizontal. In the control room the band apart are feeling rather good (those showy radiated heads). It's too early to despair of change. I'm a reason in hell—unhomely with mourning fog tropes, great bollocks of ice. Playbacks of the seven deadly.
Look, lesser harvest hills, she says, pointing.
I know what I am but I have forgot the name. My disc is held in place by a vacuum. These are striking doctrines, if true. My fact is now. I rise up to promised work. I live with consequence. My rubber is number eleven. I rise to duty. Why do we need so many rooms for so many people. I am snared in unciphered sense. I am hyperbarbed. I no longer need. I don't know how to fit the structured hour. Your family pantheon is a defeatist strategy. Today's new world is hydrabad. Masons work at the pyramid, hammering at the cornerstone, scraping at the mortar. Families are piled up for fuel. It's said some of our species are pathogenic. We're a race of burrowers. Begin with the mouth—the hand, the voicewriting. Use a mood processing agent, huge glacial erratics. Guth-strength.Depending on who you talk to there's a different version. Being-for-self falls to the brain. I feel I've been neglecting. Shirts, for instance, are a necessary means of subsistence. The same old even vibration, hard text of stones uncovered. Glistening aeroliths. Diameter: as time allows. And here, as always, a passage is marked out. White lines zigzag across the tarmac. We're fatalists. It should be all right on the night.
We conduct an interview using hieroglyphs. We photograph. Winter grazing is impossible at this altitude. Flesh once covered these bones of sandstone. We're well above the tree line. From the darkness a cube emerges, a free-roving cell. I invoke the square but no higher power. A solitary winter ray strikes my forehead. I meet another romantic on the wandering mountain path. When in the dark I awaken, a handing over takes place.
My assistants beat the soles of my feet with batons. It seems the two games are identical.
He is pampered underwater. He confesses. I conflux. I need hot coffee before any literary activity can start. He switches on the tape recorder. There are no spatially extended substances any longer. Commodity enters into the reproduction of labour-power. This huge fourteen movement work is set between the rivers at the first and second cataracts.

An assumed or demonstrated proposition is used in my argument as proof. I am a false variant of dictionary. A heading indicates the subject of my argument (freefall). A motto is screwed to the base of the big picture. Nothing assumed, to the root of take.
Life-pivot. We declare this day the day.

I hand my father a tiny claim. I freeze the air. He is dead this day. Playback speed is adjusted for correct pitch and kin. A bridge spans an arc across a river chasm, a trust of mortar—egg and straw. The orchestra masses: one hundred and forty-two of us. The noise is like big white volumes. The chorus numbers two hundred and fifty. Cue unique harmonic language. I need a bed for the night. There's no respite. A ritual marking off of time takes place (tempest full of magic). Then there's birdsong from a distant continent. A bitter cold steals into the cottage. A woman with feathers woven into her hair appears. We are east of sterling, the great stars tiered in one place like the harrowing sea. Matter-in-motion is a function of something. East is based on the cry of a bird.
These are striking doctrines, if fake. A few inches from my nose hovers a circular disc with branching rays. At last, someone who associates with real greatness.
Compulsory improvement of local morals is reset according to my own standards. I suppose there'll be security on the day.

His famous night journey.
Three stars are placed to direct attention to the burial ground. I secrete myself deep in my mineral. I reveal by refracted light. I transmit into my cavity, the luminous figure within.
Press. Vain offering mercyseat in hopes to cure. There is one part missing, a design of vine leaves and tendrils. A promise is taken for granted—the head word.
Éclat. They press. Sixty-four different playback curves are used to promote the original. I am a small embellishment without a border, in what should have been a bank space. The first sound is the shriek of a blackbird. The others mostly don't. I behave as though money is no aim. Choke of woodsmoke on return to base camp. If I said I were following every whim, would you think any less of me. There are bears. He says you crashed my stag. We lack inter. There's a face-off, then the guest sleeps. This process can only occur when the animal is quite aged.

Tent of presence. Illuminated simple past. A veil is drawn back. His face is burnt. No parabreaks here. This represents a turning point in the life of the animal. No one can look at him. I am not. Drift into seepless night. This deserves a question mark. I am the insurrection and the luz. The pressure drops. Now put this away.

Blinding sunlight reflected from sheet-metal 2 (see be). Both headpiece and tailpiece, I go back a long long way. I go back for the first time. I see my beloved city completely destroyed. Such an imagine as you have is inadequate, shading off around the head.
It's the mystical himself. He is a giant egg, nothing more. His nose comes off in my hand. An arrow circumvents him.
I am that I am that ash I disperse within. Image of family members during a bleak in the seven daedals. The copy we have is based on the first copy which became the first property—a type of street-corner covenant store.

Concerning the well what they dug.
They say to him we've found water. The name is the same name to this day.

A character piece, a wordsketch—another vignette. He ravins as the wolf. These are my first operatic breakthroughs. At night he divines the spoils. Material stretches away to the horizon in the north. Unforeseen meetings. A transfiguration takes place—from decent to maelstrom. He finds himself an outsider. Driving spray. We have often tried to climb these rapids. His organs lie in bohemia. Some words have been better recorded elsewhere, e.g. the famous chest of viols. I am laid in earth. My crate is lowered into the hold. It becomes dark so suddenly we can't see each other on the smack. So far everything is perfect and good and straightforward. If you want help, notes or translations, look elsewhere.
Tomorrow she gets to find out the hard way just what her duties are (six to five thousand, approximately). It's not cricket. You glow inside my head. I don't mind so much the hum of the generator now. It's the state were in, not the being-as-world outlook we'd hoped for. Stick her in the corner and give her a colouring book. All this makes me mindful of the light and of the dark. Warning, do not soul—action to battle station. It was like watching Joan of Arc burn. Yes I know, and I love her very too. Its valleys rest upon our inner axle, a watchwing over one deceased. The form is the larval form, incapable of bleeding. This chapter is any word which comes over me.
Scratching still, shimmy of beetles in my cavity. Always pursue first thought. She's transfixed by the intimacies of my design. Mistress is overdone, warm and moist—fluxed out from pacific, with yoke-grievous father. She is transfixed by the frontward swing of the wall-mounted handwash.
A curved figure is squared and given the cult name of blackness. Stubbornly, her remains remain unresponsive: she is that she is. And these here spiders. I can count on one hand such individuals. And these here pincer-nip pismires. I mount as skilful an attack as you'll ever see. I jump from one state to another. I am Aztec. None go out and none come in. I will mention later the rhapsodies of the unknown. I will mention the lovingkindnesses of the law. I will utterly consume all things. A series of spokes emanate outwards from a discshaped centre. Gather yourselves together. My little chickadees carry on, carry on.
What can be known about him is plain enough to see.

O to find myself in a horizontal posture once more. To lean, to press—to be a situation. To have position or extent to remain. I am in your midst, a pregnant reference with crest of nerves. I have the keys to all that, Hebrew unpacked. It's funny you know, as I reminisce of when I first ate him.
Stroking loins of shaved female. Let's agree to forget. Pubis cropped to neat circle of light. Such cases have been known. There is no one like her. Such persons are usually more lucrative. It's to her that the lungs sacrifice their first victim. She's an original. She's betrothed to angels, as quadratrix. I can count on one hand. Her idol is backed with blackbrooding blood. Samples are taken from the seafloor. Such individuals. List below where she has appeared etcetera. Embedded, one has seven legs, intestine smooth. She carries a lockknife.

Shoreleave. Among the crew of a small two-masted kvetch. Flying beetles the size of flying beetles. Still chasing the coda, strange fields of misassociation and breakdown, into which I administer memory. A new spirit can occasionally be heard buffeting about in these ancient containers. Next the string is lengthened and an outer circle drawn. The object is the composition of a universal catalyst faced with stone, architectural embers of commerce—too much detail. Something encircles me. In its final form it includes the seven recessed tiers (I have to work with something). In characteristic fashion I build a new staircase for each template. There are people standing all the way along the corridors. A mould is shaped to the required outline. The platform above our heads expands. The overall impression is one of superimposed limits cut by steps. At the end of days they total fourteen. The volunteer is led forward. An antler is attached the whole length of his back, deep to his filament. Our subclass are thickbodied and dullcoloured, with adhesive toes and vertebrae concave at both ends. Down-loosen him. A fit of perversity, mimetic of his cry. Dorsiflex. What when you are usually bolt upright.
Sometime saltplain, somewhere. Move.

Some notes on his student days in bohemia.
He takes the book of incantations in one claw. Area: use newspaper of foot and hand. He rips open the seal. Head: the peril. She feels a threatening. Deduce surface area of ligament. Walk now on back of toes. Form dull compressions. How many of me to cover the floor, every storey? Mass infinite. Medicament liquid: resin of storax. Solve this by resembling self into workable shape (rectangle). Scatter tissue of every second. What shapes will fit together. Skip to solitary. Within me I feel the chemical influence of a substance not itself permanently changed. Skip to obituary. One bone is supposed to be indestructible, probably the scream. To the top of the lungs, we know we are speaking.
List ghosts of the future. Any models from which others form.
She has red eyes. Sudden blow to seam at midrib of carpel.
She has four arms that widen out from a centrepoint. Tattoo at crook.
She has matted hair (his ears slip through his fingers onto the ground).
She has huge tusk-like teeth.
She has nipples pierced with bolts of iron.
She has a protruding tongue (see tree, above).
She wears ear of corpse.
She wears a necklace of gullheads.
Her body is jizzed with serpents and symbols.
She is a minor planet.
She is meteorite and she is starfish.
I want to come back as a mystic too. At night I grind my teeth. I coincide. Heavenly body at angular distaff. Clichéd moves and absurd postures. Something comes whose name one has forgotten, or does not wish to recall. It's the time of being here. In the final phase three tombs are cut into my platform. Are you ready for the next step. I too want to be remembered. Our cell is covered over with monolithic slabs. Basically, there was this amazing day, existence falling on either side of the skull. The one condemned paces back and forth. Retreat and scrap all directions. A thousand volumes teach me. Now it's our turn to be too busy.
Her anatomy and plumage distinguish her from the other species resembling uncertainty.

Inventory. Compression of small objects. A fluke of doves. An overgrown coalfish, origin undoubtful. Discovery: moss does not equal wait. Cranial disinformant—dental mutilation. Documents lend us every detail. Big person—small person. He catches blood in a wide flat mental dish (imagine a soul, embalmed—that old gold coast influence). We use the well-travelled routes provided by steaming rivers. Dawn exalts. Our journey's like the soothing of a pebble by the sea the mouth. We pass a sign of five english pounds bleaching in a field. We are covered in sustains. They retain him as their major operator. We are covered in assassins.
Open to question the validity of the entire body of feelings.

The arms are factory-made. Use the sinew that binds the bunch of flax. His soul has approached that region where dwells the vast coast of the dead. He drinks. The reception is bad, fogged with static. Terrifying dance of furies. Stoppage time, with arrest of growth—brood-circulation and bleeding, forced trepanation. Analyse and list the contents of his bowel. Maintain a state of equilibrium. It's quite touristy. Maintain constant. He draws into himself his valleys and his mounts.
Probably same word original as story.

Sometime saltplain, somewhere.
Comparison of different countries remaining underwater. When does she want them by. Our inquisitor is a veritable lackey-turd. An ode is sung after the chorus have taken their places. Measure one sapped, as in B. They tear pieces of flesh from the conductor's face with their teeth. Also try in D using centimes. This is recapitulation.
Did you live here legally during the fifteen.
Clarify mode or direction of subject—slope and disposition, drive and purpose. This is my animal's lurking pace, or favourite situation: a crosscourse vein composed of clay. A siding, a spell of mendacity. She describes him as a little mountain goat. He is held upside down for the extent of the ritual. No interruption by language, please. He is bled. He sets himself to automatic. There are four simple rules. They will lead us to the fifty: the names of coins, the sacred names of coincidence, the relativity of valves. Take that path and walk through the forest for a while to there. How many of these are worth this etcetera.
Fucking weather. Nervous fission of rocking-stone. Alien ash in the soothsay mouth, bigtongued summer of spam. Make grafts to show absent companions.
It was on this day during one of the years that he was guillotined. A simple spell caused the women to miscarry. A salt plan is needed, a four-square figure measuring six metres in every direction.

Tetragrammaton (any sacred word of four letters will do). Is anybody watching. A silver mosaic sphere hangs in a window. She's a little old catholic woman who eats the neighbours. We find ourselves on the same terrain, headed south. I'm obsessed for a day.
Ash of lens. I have just been voted the greatest theme tune of all time. And he asks, how many blades of grass were there upon the earth at the time of the battle. The law remains in the recovery position.
Hum drone in background. Terrifying electrical impulse. I wake. Someone's strapped a camera to my cock. Sunlight streams through the uncurtained window. Beyond is an earthen courtyard enclosed by low flat-roofed cells of corrugated iron. There's a chapel attached to the compound. We are our own subject. I rise and sip sweet tea with the rebels.
A bargain mister.
Talk sense boy.
I don't own it but I have the keys to this bethel of mischance. The required colours are lily white, red, and a darkling green approaching black. The walls are glowing. Be still. She says you are a beautiful man. Be very quiet. Electric current in solar plexus. She starts singing—a song of the mercyseat. Her heartbeat descends to her cunt. Colours flood her field of vision, innerscape with paralysed abdominal tissue. I will pray for you too.
My finger points inward. A man hands us a little bunch. Creators utilize what therapies leave behind—erotic memorials.

The names of the intelligences are as follows.
A compound is formed by the condensation of alcohol and acid. I tape his mouth and limbs to the chair (parcel). All the water is eliminated from the equation and slowly leeches from his anus. You can hear this happening on my phone. How long will this lunatic last. Myself, I am only too glad to be adapted.
Next we bind him fast with cords of nylon catgut. I am stolen from the root, a demon's adjutant. I draw him out of self. I seal him in a vacant amnion—he who delights in signs delights in signs. This is called the state or condition of lying near, and waiting.

Digression on the turf-cut mazes of Britain.
Thy by that—by thy much. What follows is the instrumental case of a deaf art. If that's a human arm, it is a very still human arm. It was insane, at once divine and human. I'm neutralized. I'm a supplicant. No one actually refuses me anything. Morally, this book is on a low plane (spirit of vengethirsty blood). I am the supplanting masculine of theta. I am the eighth. Or the ninth.
He's captivating, but could be much more evil. He works this sort of rocking sound. The spirit still holds the middle peace. He brings with him miscellaneous looks—pookas and daemons, analytical concordances. All feeling is lost. Fifty loops are slung at the edge of the curtain. I fight the law. I must ready myself. I lack the strength to pluck that hook from my remaining kidney. What concord hath he with the other, with death.
An old ship is fitted as a place of worship for the surviving mariners. The law is now in the recovery position.

Puerile encounters with death. Ketchup and friendly ghosts. What did you expect.

I am the core of a rotten tree: heartpulp of eaglewood. There is a screen of latticework. She cries out in the chief place of concourse. Sight and sound are interpreted. Make the clock simple, with time severed by five minute divisions. It's like a long long rain song. Let's hear it for the conclusion of the whole, even the daughter of my dispersal. We are not continuing in the direction of a coherent image. I compass the whole land. Write to me (symphonic poems welcome).
He dwells in the uttermost parts of the sea. That night sleep eludes him. He gives word. He orders up a chronicle of the day's events. Aesthetically it remains one of the greatest tales ever told. It's read to him. There are wings on every ankle, structural modification by arrested development. Stoppage. He knows nothing of all this. Stationariness. His history is uncertain. It shrinks from the head or the beginning.
At last of the universe. An arrow in relief ruins about him.
Check water temperature, then return to base camp.

A country crisscrossed with rivers. Stress composites, veil curt. An egg of polished black trachyte is rolling across the floorboards. It collapses in on itself. I take up my poisoned apple and walk down to the sea. There are weavers, fisherfolk. I hear breathing, the tiny creak of an infant. I'm observed for a day. It's not until the thirteenth that the priesthood feels strong enough to impose me. Their shape here is one of disintegration.
He's human and therefore appears at a single point in time. Simple atrocities of construction, elemental props: L tessellation in figs of arc, the divine semicircle. At this point his functions are inextinguishable. Cause to cease. He is another of my strident and falling-apart figures. He believes the precipice must be woven of stars. A papyrus skiffles across the waveless waters of the tarn. Verbal instruction: make patterns in the snow with hoof, then leave.
Yes now. Miscellaneous books on the ream of darkness. Weave template and quit. At last I am standing on my own four feet. An arrow in relief runs about me. Our companions carry him into the tent. Porters bear the reliquary. Its metal rings are threaded by carrying-poles. Do not return and never look back.
Personnel: the carpenter and the backwoodsman, the beehive coverer, he who delights in signs, the last born, the precinct, the pine-bender, the muzzler of pain, the roofer and the angel watcher. Together they total nine thousand, which as we all know is a mark of condemnation.
I haven't finished.

On sea demons.
Press: man in article of June. He makes limbs of wax for his son and himself. Scratch from theta to thanatos—death in the ballotbox. He says I will not yet kill you because I worship.

A mizmaze. He melts. He drowns.

Geisthead. Turn caress to langsam dorse. He circles around. It is the back of writing. Res in graves to distant frame, the Far Shiner. A corpse rises to the surface: long beaklike jaw with sharpening teeth.
Psychic be handle. Hoof stuck. Her ash-cunt mourning hair and tattered gown. Keep nerve, door-to-door. Kill swift in A major. I cannot return to your frownland.
He flies from his crate, waxwinged glass of angel. Literal public—literal hopen. Turn caress to slow dorsum. He's all about the contracts between heart and soot, loud and now. Spooks aloud. Spooks démarche.
Now end—end in love in the crest I fashion.
End. Ens. Spermatozoo.