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Richard Makin

St Leonards

XXII

First word of the introit. The mouth nine of fasting by day. This section is about the surface of memory and things. Slide back the shutters in the steel window.
Night striking needlelike crystal in cell. The prayer is comedy, angel with lamentations and contrafacta. I foreswear and extinguish myself. In spite of all this ambiguity, it is still fair to say.
He writes a piece for keyboard and void. Caput mortuum: a star in Draco, a star in Perseus—fossil also, the crown of the root in a planet. I am the residue after sublimation of substance, a workless waste. Good for nothing but flung clear. All my virtue is extracted and spent.
He can no longer translate a single word of me. His fleet: inwater with idols.
Time a certain period.
I am well within hearing shot. The noise level descends. A humanheaded vase for holding entrails is carried into the room. The place is still. He's published three books on the embalming of bodies. We have become terrific ambassadors; we solicit by hand. It must look like I'm not doing anything at all. Tongues of flame creep along the gullet of the ditch, gulf-hole of the eighth. A subtle arc rises and falls across the page. I entangle the limb of my quarry before retreating. We're ankle deep in petroleum. Peel your eyes for the alien in veils of shadow—obscure convert of space and time.

A programme of heroines. Computing logic, distance and road conditions. You can't keep adding to this why. Reminiscence is retained by object and place. Why didn't I just tell you what.

Standing on the corner, a suitcase in my hand. You're always premature, bearing yellow blooms, the hard light with coloured timber of the moment. I am carried forth into spring (the season). Take no notice. Where is he know?
She rejoins: he belongs to the first age, the outer caste of the speculum. He has one hearing for me, a different for another.
The year is 1922. First rite of backspring. This night we're attendant on the basket. An infant is snuck in its wicca dwelling. I'm devoted to common usage. Trite and dulled by overuse, I stumble between improper officials: Yes really you must let me go. Shape and limit continue to provoke recession to an earlier state. The tally is consistent with my original.
On the trip it's said he discovered the nanoheart (you piss out and please aloud)—also the lung-drill, the brain pop and the remote organ. Such process doesn't consist of independent actions waiting one upon the other. The third is the head of a jackal. Foreseer.
A large clasp knife. Take this slowly, one paragraph at a time.
We had him but he escaped from our head. Rounding past a quarter circle, the arc of an ellipse traces itself through a grotesque curve. Robotic, finite and folkish—defeatist, like a family.

Supine on pallet. Describe.
A germ cell cum bathroom cum shower cum cot cum balcony. Random dots and scratchings vibrate in slow descent, faint spectres of marks—the gift without guilt in every movement I evoke. Obsexed and spiky in form the fuckstone, with soul complex. Dim shape a trouser press. Unbeckoned revenants steal away, nightsnaking. We are portless. Architecture of inferno with inverted pyramids. Now make use of the implement with five blades. That roar is the moving spine of the sea.
I trip over a bucket of smoke on the balcony. For the first time I take myself beyond. There is nowhere else to go. An afternoon of news follows: bright star in southern constellation etcetera. We are photogenetic to a man. Answer the following question, correctly off course.
Daedally nightshades. He sets fire to the intelligentsia. He enters in his coat of frieze, a particoloured cento cloak—one inspired by seeping on a poet's crave: batten my heart, and so forth. The script dates from the thirteenth, the famous bird in space series. A discshaped knife is used as a missile. There's a collision. All surface colour is removed from my husk: black lace with red rose, paste straps. Short & sweet, I have tackled Elizabeth England. Now shhhhhhush. They seeketh.

Boltstruck tree at the intersect of three paths. Camino real. Time, five hours later than now. It stays with you long after, scratching and electric. She detonates, a mayday sport of blackfaced chimneyweeps. Unwanted society enters, draggling calyx and overlapping leaves.
A petrified forest. It's completed one thousand two hundred and sixty-six years after the road was first broken. On route one saint takes another for his enemy.

Index to thumb caressing the risen scent of her interiors. I am turnhead himself. Pertain to sense of touch. The voice is incantatory-bad. Nonetheless, I am sacred stiff. All forty of us combine for the ending. It's like a hilltop village on a Balkan peninsula.
Phrygian cap in hand he lays himself gently into the dank gutter. Across me we breathe loose. He withholds sound. There is loss at my flank. Penetration is neither rapid nor easy. Attending death I tear the living to pieces (my first linguistic argument, he calls it). Cocaine is injected into my eyes. Cut down speech, the book of idle hours—outsounding are your cries with their order. Funny I can never find the book itself. You are very nearly someone else. A long line stretches back to the fifteenth. I count my illustrious forebears. Shift exhaust to coda—the putrefaction of space. Mechanics scribble a treatise: I am old as am yet only.
He digs his own potato patch and builds an air-raid shelter. In his sedition the music is retained and the words altered, or vice versa. Remote choir, Gregorian voluptuaries. Something fluid seeps out. I shall now proceed to get magnificently lost.

Talk between great-heart and being. Shrubby cupbearer lingering off centre with cap in hand. The whole project is about the impossibility of dwelling.
We're flung forward to Situation Twenty-Two. My life depends on the very tap of the keys. One stays behind to guard me. Trim at yourself, the subtle voice of admiration for another. Of course you're in charge of the opera today. And then he says, what draws you to her is this.
She is without gravity.

So many of the players have been removed into different positions. In nowise can I authority a body today. They swamp their instruments. Their howl sounds are sung as mantra or chant, a love song.

We find ourselves in a vast cathedral—the project is the purification of ordinary speech into something sacred. Djinn rummy. Tin points of light map a ground swell in the darkness. There's a sign on the door, stuck down with blue spittle and saltdough: no pills, no bike, no consequence (we have chosen to quote from the most beautiful part of his work). I am trying to remake the body, by metathesis from whelm.
The pain is nothing. Did I write this. It's from this very spot I open the republic of people. I'm tired from the long nights of firewatching. We agree to change horses. There are torrents every three hundred jars or so. My postillion is struck by lightning. Lowered into the sea he swims in a straight line toward the horizon. He will not stop. I love these chains of happenstance: chiromancer to catholic bar to numerology to pilgrimage. He's in the habit of suddenly disappearing in the middle of a life sentence. Unmistakably this is the heart, monster people—unmistakably this is the Great-heart.

The specktioneer's tale.
An amber glass protects him from the light. This one's got my name on it. It's a wrought curve. We reproach the building from below via underground concrete. It glows greenblue. I'm reminded of a fugue, a souterrain under the old peninsula—the last earth-house. Laughter and a hot dry wind blow down the mountain valley. Underfoot, loamy deposits of aeolian origin. I'm the etymologically unsatisfactory egg in the womb. There's a hole inside. The parts are distracted. Outside there's a three-kilometre wide boulevard. It's deserted. In the background embers, the trio of walkers. The sound is very dark but not really black: oldtarnished silver, I'd say. Did you see my comment face? Gold on charnel evermore, serene between two rooms, and looking back at me: wherefield of the star. The constellation resembles a structure like a helmet. Look me up. Use any one of the three divisions of the canon.

She walks slowly back from exile. I'm found among a group of undesired people. My friend comments first. At the close she takes a few false strides of her own across my chest. Leave it to chancre; it's not an opera, it's a mortality play. The cast count to seventeen-and-a-half before crouching again. Who idols these days.
The human race. Tick. Eczema and halitosis, notwithstanding breast pert.
Tock. Banbury cock. Platform for sunshingled glimpse of gentle cilia.

Abgrund. We are the champion. Insanity begins in late childhood. A nascent twister overhangs the collapsing pier. An enumeration follows, the days of the year—the full spread of annul. Light now metallic. Two march straight ahead. It's all down hill from here to the cavity. We have to plan our own route. It's troublesome (we are Siamese). There are checkpoints, so many styles to clamber.
Anyway the expedition.
An isolated I, far from being. Form the primary lesion. It's the beginning of year nine: body strings and muscle, pack-ice. There's a checklist at basecamp. The next stop is a bridge of sorts. Get the dead. There's a plastic sleeve hanging in a tree. There are casualties—powdery blood in the polyethylene cleft. I am helping out with the beaver group. Vitus dance at tideline.
She starts quacking. It's the old Saturday option: shooting or sleeping. I dust off my old rosco. Get back it's the dead. Sticky, aren't we? Thundery rain—the prop virus. I don't know if our sightscreens have changed or what. Maybe there's an animal here. Our costumes are appalling. This three storey building is now sealed forever; it was once the central nerve. I'm subtitled the homage: a measure of capacity, roughly bushel. Do not touch my glass. I'm an arrangement of five at the rim of everything. There are vacancies. The home is land. They've made a new map. All that needs to be done is for me to throw this witch and release my most evil creation yet. Get off the island instantly. Do not approach the glass. I drop a match into the pool of liquid at her feet. Over her head is a celestial, falling softly into the gentle bog. In the radio we're situated farther westward. Until now we've been buried. We have been voices off.

Originally he's the watercourse of a growing vessel. Knowledge of the word permits him no illusion. The moment passes. I'm so sacred. I count three Fausts marching out of his pregnant belly. I'm in between for want of something better, am used for lack of an alternative. I was born in your division. A pipe is inserted in my barrel to draw liquid. I am obsolete form. To womb indeed, but for that old roman.
The book is a novel tale of chivalry with unreal people labouring under a disguised name. Say, that creature is a repository: all your experience of humankind to date. I set out to demonstrate a thesis or proposition. The mentalist stresses of our time have grown into an unfairly fat book, a series of self-contained narratives that swell the story—a dynasty stretching across successive generations. Endless cycles of crooked shavings in which the book redeems me. There are flying ants everywhere. All of them have their sound manipulated and transferred. The heap swells. Familiarize yourself. Get off the island, instantly.
The hum of the pylon. Very pistol, with ice saga. Thus on the beachhead the armed with sundry dead. You are very neatly someone. Also absolute: happylucky. Hellogoobye.
She says you come unto me with open eye. The goddess, mind.
The colour white.

No sir, it's more like shringlekleeshrieking. Will anybody remember this date. The uncounted cards match ten or less.
He finds himself in a wood at a place where two paths cross. Stop the game. It's three months before his untimely death from an adjacent transmission. The tree he stands beneath drips earthward tiny beads of translucent fluid.

I am mazemaker. I quit the labyrinth to lay the minotaur (a pilgrim's motives are never simple). I am nerve. I am steersman. I die and I'm stellified. We haven't selected our flag yet. Cover my dead face with an inverted dish. Capsize me. The fourth head is the head of a hawk. Red dot at centre of pilot skull.

He is off in his own feet. Touch of metal aftertaste. The music of my period is fed through concrete amplifiers. Slow solemn dance-form, old and barely without movement. There's nostalgia for social standing. I can never achieve. I am in need of something exotic—someone folic, puck-hairy and sad-impish. Chock full of mis.
We crouch. The capstone is missing.
Now I'm standing in the middle of the cell. A screed shuts off one corner in which icons have been placed. She turns up bedraggled for rain.
Someone hurls a weighty rubber phallus from a sixth floor window. On its trajectory it bounces at the open pane. The following day a worker pockets the thing.

Five of us have gone under today. We cling to the swelling raft.

A mislaid corpse is found in a neighbouring cell. We're not allowed to jangle with the conditions. I am harvesting fivestar refusals. She has the old maggot eye and familiar odour. Any changes will of course be live. The greatest pressure comes from within, the old primary lesion. Now I am not standing in the cell. I know, I know—done there, been that: rat-rhymes, air experiments with the work-cards. Vision frieze. The quality, the attention to detail, is amazing. See my election.
Inspain. The acetate lets sound pass through the engineers.
Nox. Humangous animalia beneath the pallet bed. Putrefying tissue. Humming vibrations intensify and fade away. Impromptu romance and caprice. I'm imprisoned within her sex. I lift a statuette with bloom of lead or copper—fourlimbed and feminine, like an unpeeled book. Fear and flight are conveyed to all parts of my body through the neural stem. Tracers in the sealed iris, aftertrails of green sunlight, shingle and entelechy; the distinct mess of realized experience, propelling me toward a certain end. I am close to have not. I am a wake and I have lost my way. I perplex.

A pockmarked cube of marble weathers in the principal square of an obscure Adriatic port. Veneer of river in the humid air. A reflector of polished metal is used to view the open cavities of my body.
A gigantic raised highway
ascending its gracious curve through
desert fictions (science)
the future sleeve of saturated colour
flips open the master starchart
with disc representing the sun
punctuated by outsized architecture:
a Triestine basilica, orthodox cathedral homes, the tower of glass
landscape of imperfections through
which I carry a holdall packed with ice—
at rest we cut the meatless flesh into
smaller chunks for the coming feast.

The foot sampling begins here. His emblem is the scrip and the starshell. I'm still a visionary: sex murders, demure dreams in which several writing systems seem to have been used. It's still the early period. Then he comes, dressed in scarlet from sole to crown (the colour). Such harmony isn't easily attained: my footprints have only just begun to wear off. The companion is a self-appointed bloodbooster—as now as the dead, as folk say. He is the book that comes, that promises.
He says, in this way the bridge gathers itself unto itself.
He lives on until the nineteens. In the final years he wakes his home. He is silent man.
She knows every legend behind each of his whims.

Ens. Lowly marshland covered with sallow water—morass or bog unwept of. He is dated lengthwise with upwardcurving rim, an entity as opposed to an attribute. No gap between now and the coming age. He runs his finger down the index. The chorus joins in. He releases the scanner. I wake with soot-eye and am overhung. The power doesn't stop here. He releases the cancer sign. I am glorious failure, made sharp, made auburn.
Four lips on a stalk. Swap felt for bacon. She abandons her hair. Spem in labium. Black, mist race. In the next moment she turns up at a cardinal junction. There's no point in asking.
More on hair. Back to work. Cards are drawn from the stock and the sequence. Move this section down one.
More on the ageing of powers. I strike a bargain with the living. Pattern now twice or even thrice seven, rather than the old fifteens. I gain limitless soul in exchange for knowledge. I am also without cap, i.e. riverroman.
(More and more I think it's about numbers.)
Leaping salmon, in a country of whirring wings set beyond the rivers of Cush. After ten years on the run they catch him with a beard. He's robed as alternate man. He is his own medicine. I'm placed in a slow drift for a right angle. He's a talented all-rounder, scrumptiously romantic with the scattered language of nomads. I bring the nose round full-lock for the cusp. The emperor is now more real than ever. I am the same holy egg. We start slow, go very fast in the middle, then we go slowly again towards the end. Great labs of rock form the cliffedge. Angels on the wireless (I fear I wear them out). Situation: miles inland. I've seen the cables too. They've been extinguished. All the little outback places are like this. It's the aridity, stupid. Register and conform to say. Throw self onto back and leave. Remove axe first.

Our vassal acknowledges that he's a man of the feud. Memory's what I have instead of a view. The dead triplets are laid on the table. They're without recognizable qualities. We ourselves are quite different from how people imagined: primordial diners, with cracked and curling surfaces—the leaves, the liver etcetera.
A circle is traced by arcing taut chalk to the length of a string. Linger, I taste her mouth in my tongue. I am an arrangement of five things at the corners and centre of a square. There's a gap where my disc is turned. Miles in land, still the sea laps at my inner. (Now) one that can't be seen with the naked eye. How long is a.

The shovellers, discalced. My own footprints have only just begun to wear off. You'll get no reply.
Separate exposition, a mixture of persons and passions. Only seventeen years independent and I'm already dying. I am caught in triple time, a series of variations ground down to a baseline. I want you. I appear. I am focal. A misty indistinct effect is got by gradually blending arias of different colour. Shade off and leech out to smoke. Pretty. At first it looked as though we were going to follow the sump regime.
A fleshy spine of flowers. Lovely day for it. No synopsis can do justice to our exquisite partnership. The deceased is led in. She's accompanied by her self-proclaimed inner nazir. I'm mystified too. She is overseer. When lowered into the water she swims in a dead straight line for the horizon (lowlevel aspergillus is the diagnosis, pathological narcissism).
The line loves away from me. I will not cease. I'd have felt happier if that thing hadn't happened to me this morning. I must be obstructed. The second has the head of an ape. I will not use again till I can replenished my strength. I fall to earth with a lung. There's a pain in the voice. They plant a field of rape where I land, whistling all the while (this chapter will never work). They walk silently through the crowd of passengers. Powers give ear. I am closely allied to all other species. They grunt back half my prayer. That's about the sum of my standing, the whole pageantry of the bucolic year. They plant the meadow early, neatly in neat rows, with resined flavour. A feast is obsessed just before the fast; now it's bread and water till the end of the month. I can't face another autumn. This is the first chapter of a new life. I volunteer for punishment (rustic). I take when, someplace between here and next. Requicken self, stuckly thick in matter. Again and again and in a different way—refuse of afterseed when all has been exposed. I'm used so freely it's impossible to give a full list. Requim massive for the great resting shoal of the dead. All said and all done.

Finale with entry of masquer. A place of abode. A show of brutish air above old father: the signals, a deceptive mode of simplicity. The subject is night. There's a quiet mood of serendipity. My colour is determined by a poison. I am twenty-minutes' worth of air. Heavy angel asleep beside me. Compelling isn't it. You are simultaneously revolted and awed by my display. They tear pieces of flesh from the faces of the dead with their teeth. They correspond to each other through sheer enmity. Send ambassadors in paper skiffs; the cuntybeast is among us. Yes just drunk by the river thinking, rescind and cut away. Annul and abrogate. Cut to back—a rent in the timetablature. Alluvial liquidity problems. The river smells of cocaine and lions. Noxa. A has been.
And she says, I wonder whether your last gasp has its coma in the right place.

Give us this word our daily haul. His face is excreted to the nosecone, a genius of boring. His shell forms an elongated stone ending in a disc pierced with numerous tubular holies—minute mould of decaying substance, dynastic linkage. A heavy flap of skin is crudely applied. It conceals and signals a wound. Our faces own are blacked out with burnt cork. Send ambassadors, send ambassadors at once.
He is escape goat. It was a world so cold you couldn't set foot on the surface. How are they supposed to plan their lives when they have only twenty-four hours to live. This drug is not the same molecule; it's the promise of something colliding in advance. Whether overcrust or psychebook, someone has to be found guilty.
Muse therapy. I do this wherever I go. Because you are home.
He is standing in a circle laid out on the clay path. My first thought on waking is what a disaster, a return to sheer telling.

The next word is ikonastasis. We have come to the red road, where the muckrake expounds. A singer's nightmare (errorist). If you want to hear more of this magnificent mound, regale yourself with seventeen years of independence. The others are already here with us. I contain all future generations: I rebleed consciousmess. By germ I am failed of being. I exist only as an accident of substance: agenbite of outwit.
He is haunted by the vertical plastic grass.
His own accounting system pops out of his belief case—a division of sex, with origin obscure. He was once an exegete. He remembers the word and rumours through her ear. I was once a dicer myself, now I make my own fun. Diptera tangle in the sharp wire barbs that dangle from the ceiling. Tingle of the old ovaries, their paired transparent wings. This masks all sense. You are crushing mine, she say, the harddriven head.
They do their longnight worst. Dawn is photograft as though it were dusk.
The twin mouths of two tunnels lie ahead of us side by side. This image is a bit ramshackle, a steadycam exhumation. That's what I love about you, the relentless unapologetic paradox—sat idle within the compound in the dirt-dusty yard.

A workaday praeludium, but with a sense of brightness, the scent of light. And I a hapless harried man, in a region of mist ruled over by hel. When we clip together we become the dead: sister of wolf, daughter of lock—with roots of temporary earth, screw volving on a central axis. A strain of human kells, obsolete in form. Head and face sometimes reach the ground.

She sighs as the ship sails on. We are not made with intention. The third time the phone rings we all freeze. We're not made as being understood. Here is the nous—more notes on the mystic writing pod.
His italic. Superficial associations: verbal ambiguity and similarity in sound. He is agelast. Bright patch on wing. Sheets of lowery rain. I am apparent, form to put away flesh.
In the machine is a mixture of sand, gravel and semen. Annihilate forever all that may one day destroy your work. Is this meant to compass the both of us, her ion cast eye and outbright? We use a neurotransmitter related to adrenalin. My angel delight is in her. I am set among the stars. A man passes with street scalpel (I am often played out on the greasy cobble). A hole or depression receives liquid, cooling sheets of paste. Make it to nearby list, then quit for good.
Cobalt blue.
Bright peegreen.
Pillbox red.
Puss yellow.
Kingfisher turquoise.
Disused atmospherics, hummingbirds—the persistence of a sense impression long after the mystery of its stimulus fades away. The burr of the generator. Something to finish us off. For brief moments the world is composed of bolted squares of black metal; alloy of divalent copper and tin—something that demands a certain precision. Now he's doing his own face monkey. The lemur. The hostly ancestor.

We're in a fortified cave with vaulted ground plan. I am on the stair clasping the narrow stem that grows from my dilated base. On the convex wall of the well a projected image: the slightly swelling outline of the shaft. These are my great conversions (don't copy any of this, no one will understand). Morse is used, afterjoy as a sign of archaic conscience.

A bellringer rocks back and forth and back. A little voice in the dark explains. Acute studies in syncopation. A hellshaped object, core of capital—a flower, perhaps. Same music, different text—sacred to bawdy. My own posture is that of lodger-cum-lover.
He strikes the flagstone with his fist. They lard him with makeup, transfiguring sorrow. His body contains the ground plan of a cathedral. Back again. The psychological options available to me are unlimited. I am crime.
Do you hear voice she ask. I research and analyse. Lion and unicorn are confined within her. Observe calcification of left foot. Observe flapping cartoon griffins with large angular heads and threefinger walking rays. Body, beak, eagle and wing—we're all allegory.
Was she excited about: Yes, it's as if I'm still here. We rename the building. Enter principal candidates, then quit. She writes some male, the tempest—a prophetic test. The backlogs are like the old alley, a lost causeway. Gossamer threads form a kind of film on the grass, the investing membrane. Before Pharaoh's eye meaning is those who engage.

He identifies himself in a series of dreams breaking out of the skin.

Analysis of fumes with fiery solid. Various modifications are made to the wheel and the axle. We employ a revolving cylinder. We grant intensive delivery thrust—neuter of arcanum, the sealed chest.
Mark you the hard line of my shadow. I am digested with much hauling and hoisting. The sum of my discourse is teleported. My unconscience pares me to bone. I can't see through my window for the feathers and the dust (her vestments). I am a recent detachment of my own, carried arm in arm to rapture of sheer delight. So much for my application to the self. For other sounds see derailed chart.
He's a virtuoso of lateness. Go to exit—never amend. This ore of night rifles former knowings. I sometimes envelope the birthhead.

Newcomer in the east. His fur sleeve, collar and stole, shells spliced into jangles at the wrist. Colourcoded in tightspangling dress, with visor and magic wad—the buffoon. The well of several species sliced into. Vaginal chankh. At his rupture she says take care among the English.
A bird's egg. I am overspeech. Annihilate forever all that could one day destroy your work. No wonder there's such an intake of breath as we roll away from the compound.

An enmity of reason which exists outside of the mind. The town is called nerve. From to be.
She returns for an answer. Retort an old slow dance or its tune. See note at inwit.
One.
Two.
Commit him to arms.

Ricochet. One shot strikes the inside of the adversary's stone. A hypothesis takes rough shape within me, the comforting sound of an uncalled for commentary. It's simple present or bust. She talks of exile for the tongue, her last link to the past. What do you mean by exactly transformation. The second has the id of an ape. Mysterious patterns float down: angelic duo, hail of shadow in the bay. Duration somehow eternity, the wretched jollity of a slavic holiday.
We pass. A dazzling white promontory with castle beetling over its base. The track curves by within reach. This is crazy. It's staring me right in the face. We're nearly home. He eyes his understand—a contracted form of I.

I'm worshiped in the form of a jar with human head, the element carrying all my hereditary characters. I see a flare of light beyond his hand as it swoops back and forth through the back of my skull.
More on this, please.
Some forgotten sense of time. Hovering attendants, ghost of infant at bedside wicker. We ourselves are haunting, just beyond the trees. Glinting slant of guillotine poised directly above exposed neck.

We start out two hours before daylight, fanning back to earth. Give me a glass of that and remember. Strip down the instruments. He now knows the composer's purpose: reverence drawn by outward action of the man. If I should cry out. . . . On the communard plate sits the chalice cover, a mental disc. No one wants to touch the abandoned apple.

Part of the brain makes up the floor. You pay for what you get: chamber music with a shallow pool at the centre, ankle-deep in distilled water—salt of ammonia. Overnight we defrost. Don't mix the two: the beast's brain skates across the floor, propelled by her slathering jaw. Now my feathers are damp. Before I forget, the first book is the dead. The colour blue is missing forever.
Apparently he is looking.
He waggles his feet over the sink. The sign reads above chemist at work: a short cut to a quick death. Golem heights. He snatches the glass out of my hand.
A structure. The entrance portal is renaissance, preserved on the wing. There's nothing wrong with the exterior works. Remote female voice. If you persist I think it will pay off. Come join us. . . . Beside him on the floor a low porcelain table supports a casket of acacia wood, a temporary tomb (he must have been a dwarf). A cover for the head is provided by a certain species of bird. It hangs from a process on my upper mandible. At the end of the year he seems by his size many years older. The dimensions don't fit. I look through my lens. The box is three feet nine inches in length and two feet three inches in width and depth. I forgot about your arms. It's plated inside out with pure and contains a clutch of scrolls, miscellaneous tracts on something or other. The compound in which the vessel is held is dominated by vast metallic gates.
Dissolve. Treat as for molten metal, treat as for saltwater or seawork. My sense of failure is not so important. I have no other limits.

Newcomer in the west, foaming bright red with white flecks. A novice. Nothing fits. All his waters meet in one place. Forgive me I didn't dream on thee; time was unkempt. Give me a random word or phrase, any plant of genius. You won't be able to tell. Skin it back to sensation, also apply to the false. They wash and rub and scub him (self contained unconscious breathing). Doublet of casque.
He asks, was there a time when you were a child. A great number of things, especially trees, are spaced in the same way. We approach my junction. We're carried by the delicious number seven. How does it come to work the transference, my misty home? Why can't he talk, hallowed out with round vessel of blood?

Electricity in the chamber. She says think of it as like iodine on a wound. I separate myself. Tiny black crabs scuttle through the hole in one corner of the ceiling. They flood the chamber. The door bulges under our collected weight.
Night contact. We explode. I cite and partition myself. A letter arrives. It seems I'm no particular day in no particular city at no particular time. I am fracture—I fragment by erasure, by sewing, by my surety. But the word myth is correct: my sting holds the yolksac in position. So he's alive, in a trance estate so missing that big august melancholalia. Hope you don't catch it yourself.
Now tell me how you would outsell them.
The map she shows is contaminated by bunches of iritis and sundry names. I'm hauled back into the bog. I'm trepanned and gently garroted. I am a man in the course of excavation. All depends how flush I can be. All the women turn over on their backs and stare at the sky (it's important that we all go nowhere). There are consequences. On the whole it seems unlikely. I represent the lost country. A filigree of creeks and tiny rivulets penetrates my northern shore, a fragile lace of bone. The sound is early music, for sure. Mudgreen flatlands bubble with rising geese. She is too distant to do anything about anything. On route we squat upon a bench of frosty haar and raise a glass. Nearby there's a canal that cuts through this vale of lees—loamy deposit of aolian origin.
Above the vulva hovers a finely eclipt disc—overlay of moonshee, or whatnot. There are elongated cones streaming down every page (phoenix edition)—fabulous arabesque birds, the only individuals of their kind. I mean the mythic bred. I mean fragrant by trace, fragrant by slowing. There may be no pattern at all. I float above the skysail, all lunesick and seacunny.

He takes up his first proper. He is buck. He is post-off. All the metal objects he owns are buried with him.
Brother betrays brother. I'm trapped in the witness category. He wears on his head the so-called cone. He endures to the end. He is saved. His signification is unknown. He is put to death in the night air of mob. He calls out for the songspleen. Is it for you your fear of him? Divine is too feeble a word. He's pursued by furies. Rend his open home, a low shanty built into the street.
We try to show in an earlier book that all chemistry is penetrated by an immense reverie whose common character is original. Now tell more about the story you once told of the visiting.
He sees himself as an eternal apprentice. The neon sign above his head reads madwoman wanted, apply in person below. He's hanged from his father's ledge. We follow various stages of his progress, then the signal fades. His nickel-content is measured—coin of metal from an ore sucked forth by procedure. We're evacuated from the foundations of the dwelling. Hope is absent. Nonethefuck, we persist. This bladed whip etcetera (I'm sure you're in the witness category too). It's said he doesn't compose, he re-nerves. He is everything that rises from his predecessor's ash. We clip him together, rudder confused with sea and con. Alphabet brass, sixty-forty copperzinc.
Pasqueflowering. An aggregation of ids. Paragon of bog art.

At these altitudes, God it's frozen and it smells like carpets. Extend to other species. She digs at the base of a strange momentum. Everyone's lively at present, but we're still well short of our goal. She hums in imitation of the post-coach. She is the slowest start in the world. The congregation murmurs solemnly. I solve all the problems in the big book. Striped gillyvors unravel and glide gently past (usually I love problems). The sky clears. The author sets out on his third voyage to parts unknown. She unearths the slaughter-axe. This is more like what we're used to. She dances herself to death. A small deer-bone handle is later found in the cave complex at that very spot. It's too small inside its cavity for an organ. Its number is one thousand and three.
They plummet from a blue enamel sky. Drainage in the mine, salt in the engine. You'd think they invented death that day, capitalized it. Refer to his long-famous primer. Mille et tri.
Hum.
Zeta.
Raska.
Ostearmarked. Naughty, sensitive little lunahermetic.
The southern constellation. Later I assimilate a signal of warning, with clawlike architectural ornament. What do you do all day.
My staves are bound with hoops of rusting metal. Yes, names are funny, shunting about from thing to thing. Mad sadrigal from base of ovule. Who would never have thought it. Counteract the illusion of convexity. Diagnosis: inflammation of id. It burns itself every five hundred.

Whiteclad chuff the racketeer. Still on for tomorrow. Silhouette of his hand before the lowered lid, light shuttering beyond. We watch the film again and again. Overhelled, I am hung. I need to ring about myself with fire and chalk, scoop salt from the generous sea—the scrotumemptying sea.
Valley narrow and expelled. We start off in the crouch position, another of his inversions. We are being electrocuted. I'm a game set outside time and history, a vast parade ground with no beginning and no end. We are placed on a loop. Stitches of light crisscross the darkness. We escape on the climb, peeling ourselves off the runway. Colours bleed and trail off from passing objects. Time suspends, closely pursued by space. Fabulous electric misfits, barbedwire in the bath. It's goodnight Vienna.
She is badly damaged, seemly by accident. Tellus, there's a dear. She's jactitating. He seizes her wrist with his free claw. Turning now through coefficient, fast and flat with mass noy. Vee plunge fecund in good hand. Part of the brain makes up the sidereal wall. She's very slow, but with ample dismount. One among us sets the cheesewire. All thirteen of us in the room see her from different angles. We sit in a closed circle, a ring of twelve. A conversion takes place. Seems we're no longer synaptic product.

In the forests above a great river, the flat central massif. Perhaps white wave, white phantom. The sun rises beneath us. Our course charts a ranging U. Without my qualities you never would have made it to here. I work for seventy hours straight. I resolve the problem of making him sing. My cornerstone rots from within and then takes root. He reappears. Think of a difficult question. I'm disappointed: no fiery chariot, no blaze of light, no disc shunted before him across the sky. I die in my own memory. Gatekeepers are appointed. Primitive demonology is admitted—our own brand of free will. Return to basecamp without making copy. Five strikes and you're out. It's dusty-risky. Now tell me of the name named—slide back once more the shutters in the steel window. A pink-rose will suffice for now the scent. The drummer withdraws. Everything is quiet and strange. A neon sign reads mucus limber. I'm all over me. I'm perforated for television. My surface dimensions are retractable, labile. Sound: her-colourless, with purpleblack fringes of flesh that glisten and quiver about a tiny pink nub. A forty watt lamp shines on the music, camera angle picking up detail for the gloom. I am writing of the cycle—being neither safe nor unsafe. See my overjoyous letters home of analphabed. There's an inky plague writ all over her facials. Writing sounds rise from the kitchen, my complete work of mathematic—the stilled knowledge root.
The second reason is clothes.
He abandons his usual cynicism. Wire up and playback. Physical existence is in reality a sequence of statements, cathexes of gesture—memories of random encounter. Rising fecal odour on slow withdrawal of member.

The two shadowed campaniles of the town are visible from the lake as we approach the jetty. That prophecy informs dreams is a universal practice, the simple propagation of light and color. The courtyard is the remnant of a previous structure. I sip tea with the rebels, rocking and mourning.
There's no evidence she has ever enlightened. There's fire in the bucket. She opens the gasjet in her room. She sways wildly on the ledge—stumped thigh numb with severed nerves. A woman, denticulated, with rounded teeth between sharp notches. Impose upon her soft imprisonment.
I am my own plague memorial. Beat hard on the window pane. Backwater families are expelled from my lung, spat forth into the world. I'm an orthographic fault-block, a total population. Snail tracks glisten on the brickwork at my feet, the fall of dank dewy dank.

Fancydress in museum. Lead of air, much needed salt. Erected letters and fences—the stray axis. She comes in colours everywhere. Prizes disgorge: Japanese prints, maps of the plague, the diary of his lost year. The cart tips over. Bodies slide into the pit. There's an intense apathy, but something close to a strike takes place in several of the surrounding villages. Another of those extreme discharges of harmony take place at the close. Labour is withdrawn; I'm to be modified. I flower about the east. Position: my arm and leg are extended to one side, spreadeagle and separate. We're doing that all-important thing. Take shelter and take solace. List flora and fauna. The redrigged crow or jackdaw from its cry, the flower that smells like a cloven hoof. I have none and cannot buy. I am the inferred notch. Ex-voto shelltooth. Thoth and anathema.
This solution lasts about three to five days. Go eat. She says you stand out. No mosaics, no pilot. I don't know what happens next. What about her remaining arm I can't say.

Nightlong spasm on the boards—insertion of pollen tube, hard with neural crunch. Involuntary clamp at backbase of spine, the solar tangle. Clumps of hail, numbing toothgrind. Near the lotus hangs the skin of an animal. A man or boy is inclosed in a wicker pyramid, a framework coveted with leaves. She shows me a map. I am loss, the lynchpin.

Night entia. A vast parade ground made of light and air. Ajar, with human head.
La compostela. Lascar steersman andor quartermast. Moorslayer with sublunary joy—emblem of scrip and starshell. Unsignificance.
Proliferation at floral axis, budding forth of spat. It's not just about face. I'll show you, written paper with no interscarp. A charge of mental energy is attached to my object. There's a change, I'm convinced of that.
Bone issue. Partly scrap, the total sum. I consist of layers linked, a wholesale drowning, as by career.

Sometimes he does see you you know, then nothing. Please don't comfort me. I am used in the names of the body. I am son of. I am used in the names of the constellations. I am flavoured with bitter almond and peach-kernel.
I am used in the names of the meteors. Pyrrhocorax. Perhaps from cry, the scycle song—siderite of the swarm whose radiance. I am used in the names of formation and particle.
Constellation to north, with stonepit nuclei.
Eccaleobion, daughter of.