A A Walker


          Lord have mercy upon us. Fish-like in vogue, with intrepid goodness, journeyman of lurid, primordial amalgamations: your similitude is hologrammatic to this aquarium passage. Magical secretions are rapidly looping a glimpse of resemblance, controller. The quintessence of modification, like a crystal hammer of the trans-divine, declares ethereality at the origins. But that's just a mirror-image of your zodiac compendiums, oh coloured antiquarian!

          This is a stimulant, a vault articulated by the elastic candour of disappeared memory. Very wild, candlesticks are to another property in circular time. The phenomenon is encapsulated by optic nerves in possession of cabinets.

          I need not languish for want of neutron emblems. I am not fettered by adoration of your travel plans. At this frequency, many a beast may very well be salting the parallelism of intermediary cells, profligate. The oneiric quickening of the wavebands of ethereal architecture are trafficking in anchorage of central living information.

          I consider to have survived agency by modes of synonymity with underwent precedents. Incalculably salient with a simultaneous fortuity, this converges initially through domains of the true embryonic egg. And with circumstantial fuel. My accelerated protegé assures any acknowledged relation is a fiction, yet virtually exists as a graph or warp, practically in hypostasis to the Aurora.

          A brass plate has falsely been associated with the veteran sublime. Implicit in this momentum, rainbow petals are at the apex of transparency. A collosal ceiling sprouts wings. Glory is a complex flow of protagonism obtained by continuity of mnemonically careering visions; the transmogrification of the buffet-temple. Analysed by Sisyphean measures, the engine has dispatched to the faculties assigned. Hosting threshold in entirety, independent in consubtantiality, the Endymion door or gate admits to nowhere per se.

          Transmitting East, eloquent solely in the patterns of delirium, a succession of figures the Wall Street News precedes in sequence. This visualisation is not counterattacked.

          The synthetic oracle acts as outer apparel for the out-site. Transition's in the midst. The government visits the neighbours and plugs them in. Intuition and volition transport in unison. Indeed, their latitudes synthesise their equivalence, illuminated by the cathode ray of utopian infotainment, checked live in amber transience. Immersed in the very nightclubs listed, here is free permanence, away from the cognition mesh. Sci-fi, on top of the metonymic streets, is a gauntlet to strive towards organisms with.

          The contemporary league was of a nightsky blue. Their intimate, synchronistic magnetism, of free-will. Fortunately, there has emerged from the earth, concurring bottles of a more current school. Furtively, a softened, ebony innocence is flourishing energetically in one of the few idyllic moments of ad infinitum.

          Chemical sparrows are sensate against the prevailing paraphernalia. A smattering of spun yarn from the random pattern generator charioteers our pivotal ionization. A diamond orb opens the signal for something else.

          The constitution is sincere in the anticipation of a winter sleep. This is symptomatic of the surroundings. Laudable thoroughfares are personified as an eagle epitomised by the supremacy of satellite romances. The tranquil media landscape automatically perpetuates the phoenix's cyclic solidarity, syphoned off for broadcast. Sublimely ephemeral, the autonomous, metaphoric oscillation of the multiverse is founded, most adamantly, in the imaged sanctuary of Apollo.

          Symbolism is slayed by hermeneutics, decoratively, bound by criteria of the paradigm shifts of linear things. Buried at the echelon, there is a deluge of voices in the kitchen. The euphoria apparatus needs fusion. Light travel is separative. The integral metaphor for continuity of miscellaneous elastic catacombs is transcendental.

          Greek spritzer? Or oral spritzer?

          Increasingly, and with effectiveness, mock-Tudor in a sheepskin, the neurological ink of mainstream culture has been deep frozen by the topical affectation of repeating stylistic technologies. Perpetuum mobile is an engine for the retrieval of large-scale rhymed clichés.

          The over-enthusiastic teacher is being dogmatic.

          The medium's toy technocracy is touted by the same androids who built the apocalyptic worldview. But it may have been an ad. In communicado, the film industry's ocean of Amrita gives milk to the mermaid's benevolent projection screen, triggering off a utilitarianist, dry, archaic vulgarity.

          The Luciferic flow of information is pseudonymously gelded by uniform renaissance. Its intensity can be said to unsully data from the New York whores' hybrid cocoon of social relevance. Often the claim of the switchboard's for a sado-anal re-configuration of materialisation. The mongrels are charismatic semblance data systems in the palm of an apple flower. Their juice is equivalent to information.

          Simulation locks beauty in the arms of imperative virtues. It's a leisurely gestalt mechanism of a singularly navigated archetype. Vocal; most opaque. The geographical boundaries are clean, hard facts.

          A benediction of oaths. Raspberry crumble and Devon cream corona. Naive doormats of a pastel folk art tinged with rayon mice and beeswax turpentine. Pollen with plundered stereotypes. A vested interest.

          Swooning in a Nike tea shirt, ear to a mobile phone: the caped jester.

          Piano keys.

          A crunched can and chewing gum wrappers; crystal transmitters.

          Shallow remarks bent, cutting winter hooked to the mock cyclic flute and morphic viola of a youth's beefeater birthday (the leprechaun mutters underneath his breath). The orange medal redolently scurries off. Boxes of jade armadillos break open. With sheepish looks, the camera is a mete receptacle for love and money, and hope, a surrogate keepsake.

          Read: justice is prosthetic. The ploughed punters' crass consciousness is the cultural crowing of aristo-journos whose public office affirms turreted arcs and arcs of plain-speaking, coughing the last bone dry.

          The manager is tacked onto a lackadaisical, mossed empiricism butter kissed by gravel shovellers. A family in the Karaoke bar forms plankton waves out of a talking head. The eye succours the pathway to the agate way, to the rabid hound, clamouring for another cause. Purloined mutton here is radio gas.

          The snake-charmer has eaten his own skull. There is a Porsche in the driveway.

          Maybe true longing is belonging with the pine-needles. That is blood.

          Is there anything in that? I am yet to discover.

          The broth is shallow, refusing to swoon with the seldom. Still, my bread has once again affected the semblance of a personage. Bring back the guillotine. This is futile, bathing in transparent water, neutral; succumbed to repetition.

          When attention is impossible, a subtle perfume blocks the door. A circus signifies the means whereby floats proceed. The end, a drunken stupor, is subterranean, where incessantly repeated, uncanny entertainments of moral derision and ennui, satiety or nether-nether are flying inklings.

          Emotion gets undermined by happiness, charmed by the Matriarch's backside. A vapour escapes. The god-kennel is left uninhabited, like a navel for horse-jugglers. Burial is heralded by drumming. Fingernails grow twice as long as normal. There is dew on the training ground. Candy-floss defies gravity in sync with the gnomes' kiss of life where sprung the first memorial foetuses. Dispensing a quack medicine for mock esophagi, there is thirst. And the quenching of thirst.

          The Matriarch, a gnome-hovel, has trepanned the Professor to engage in clown-bashing, grievances and jollity. The Burgermeister is a professional wrestler the Man in the Sun has ignited.

          Get some bar work. Get a cover story. Never want to do someone different. All but fresh and not discussed properly, is imperfection.

          Trying to befriend an animal. Likely to have an alien all winter. The silence goes higher with Samantha Slater. Connor Flynn is pronounced before me.

          Forever endures the generations. Eat what is good. To all things, servants hide in light. Delighting in established life, stand fast on the path. The covenant will never run to witness. To all things, servants hide in light.

          The seeker lets the forsaken forget the presence given. To save the sought precepts, I return to thoughts any decree has allowed. Love's meditation commands the accomplishment. Its gate, which is the image of a mouth, shall never be shut. The mouth keeps the word and turns outwards. Meditation understands the agape precepts. The aging river is as each mouth is and keeps the word and turns outwards.

          Healing is for the one who is. For you have taught me, sweetly, actively. Your honey is liquor to my precepts. Every creature is but one yet to render. We have falseness. When we hold fast, we are unable to be vindicated. The splendour of the one without approach is such that grace, while revealed, conquers separated love.

          Endure. Though powerless before the story, the story clearly shows its pageant is on course. Little did we know the Bunyan puritans would leap in. Too likely, they have the Pilgrim carrying simple benches when by and large he is not fed as a boy or a reformed measure. In broad terms, the voice of himself to begin with can leave us in no doubt. Authority knows little of what conscience there is to convict!

          This passage is an interplay between conscience or reason or interpretation. First, teach what you take for the basis of understanding. Then the tremendous fact of history there will be the fact of the judgment. No point trying to prove Genesis of the Earth or the end of all things is not a conviction or a faith.

          Having to live with questions in the ground of the sought-after, caught up in the oft searched value of a quiet catch—still an absolute fact.

          Experience and insight: confused, corrupted.

          What are civilisations?

          Why is the meadow green? In winter it was white.

          Is there?

          It's only a conversation.

          It is time which strikes, space which is struck.
          You can hear.
          You know that's what you hear.

          Carnality cannot be perceived.
          You cannot live by "thought".

          Samantha, now I am lying in another position.
          Forgiveness—stupidity—emptiness—control—propriety—all tell me here is electricity.

          Evasion by aestheticism is floundering, a faux pas.

          I want that.

          There is breath in every chord, every syllable, every movement and hush.
          Nothing is exemplified by thought and I am party to that.
          There is breath.
          Through dark matter, there is breath.

          The signal opens at the point of return.

          A shadow has fallen in the yard.

          Move bed, ignite fire, just one.
          The head is for you.
          Consult the face. Tell the words that they pass foregone.
          Redesign fate to love. Conceal from everything.
          Everything turns.
          Love does go together.

          I turn: snake, dove.
          I turn: man out of armour.
          I turn.
          I turn upon a white mare.

          Watch sun rise, shadow fall, hollow brain.
          Air, city: burn.
          Watch shadow fall, sun rise.
          Air, city: fly.

          At the point of turning, now, the signal opens.

          A shadow falls through dark matter out in the yard.

          There is breath.
          There is breath.
          Every chord, every syllable.
          There is breath.
          Every movement and hush.

          This can be thought.

          Penetrate: excavate dark matter.
          Do not enter.

          There is breath.
          There is breath.
          Every chord, every syllable.
          There is breath.
          Every movement and hush.

          The braver the plot, the wiser the harvest. Before the start, we cried. Now the pixies are on board. Holidays are on the beep. Rubber plants, amazing hair, fantastic quartet, yes . . . Anyway, turn and return. Throw it all away.
          Again, straddling the tobacco-heads of democracy, distributors of the knowledge-based "society" are like police identifying the querying, grabbing all those people who said the car phone was facing both ways.
          I would appreciate a light breeze. I would appreciate very much being given the chance to talk.

          The city rivers died in the film. There was a gap along the scenic route. These offerings are tomorrow burst open. Plus, we can screw that synchronisation back into the skyline.
          The thistle escapes to call forth glass furniture. The defoliants of its broad leaves have a wistful gleam. Without, within cries to bathe in the waters of Leith.
          Caught a taxi. Marvelling at the white stone and slate poeticisms: ride ahead and follow the ground, attracted.
          Into view: a new savouring of a rare translation. Hired lips are wands.
          Many years ago, dream and dream this will be read again. You will be able to understand that you are someone else, and are attracted to the ground.

          The head of the bed, the rose, spine of a book and characters to pronounce: from the cumulative mix of shadows, day and cloth and compost, the sharpened flint—eye of the tooth—pith of the fruit. They all come flooding back: the wheel, the fishes' voices, the mirrors. Breaking open their boxes. Absorbing black and white, antique garments.
          Never been to childhood.
          Many aspire to kiss the Earth, to assimilate the transparency of its rainbow wings. Undreamt at the fire of its core, the filtered eve is left unspoken. In the sky, clouds are the mirrors. Below, the seas are in tumult. Sin is with the transgressors.
          Why should they stray from where they do not dwell?
          For they dwell in chaos.

          Over unknown settlings, the ship of desertion passes a clamour vented strong and high. Outside language—prolonging the pleasure—sweet and full and outspoken, radiowaves are praising the steelyards and the shipbuilders. A fairground pierces the ears, practicing to angelise the orphan helmsmen, spirited wanderers out of infotainment attuned in no time to my medium for control of the hunt. To kiss the surfaces of the giant bridge, yeah, now I'm hurtling towards its ribcage, and taking up lodgings there. It's sparkling.

          The handmaiden of desire's exigency is eclipsing mask upon mask of unsullied delight. Her body is a blood-filled moon, a cage of falcons in the orchard—syringed by a gramophone needle—a sonata of mountaineering. My ears have heard the catastrophic talk of her midnight ejaculations.
          The forehead—the living battery farm—the phallus are with certainty, with courtesy, penetrating a lunar abyss where werewolves gnaw at the blue of her armpits; where sweat is an holy, holy water.

          Havoc is wrought by conventional irrelevancies. The mistress and her master, with their dark scorings, are voluptuous and ravenous in a bright foxhole. The universal concretion of their projectiles from afar are elliptic, wanton sensors at the helm of their fanfare. The law of the streets demands a lost vase found again. Postulations of engineers on the reservation are squandered, the crowing of riptide handles—frantic—like a job given in spades to the sky-worn mathematics of the trinity of hearts, pandered to at the Plaza. Leaving behind the Vale of Contradiction to put on a frosted chaperon, fire-hewn summer's diffusion of afterglow, aftermath and afternoon vaults electric blues down the back of the chair and up again.

          On swan-lake aquatic-continuation of everything-ceilings, the glass nights are in diamond-dense breath-rhythms, increasing nerves, tongues, eyes, flames. An everlasting incomprehension-dynamite is exploding idealist pathos. The spoken heat scaffolds brilliant-white handcuffs.
          Chained to the skeletal typewriter: Pelleas and Melisande.
          Whirring in a Muslim retreat, the taciturn blonde mother's broken thighs map the landscapes of ghostwritten novels burned in the oven, like sailboat hyena myrtles on the mohair blouse of the highwayman.
          Chancing the fucking pedestal with fortune cookie crumbs, with a whetted claw in breast worship, importuning a facet in lipstick, sucking bliss with incubus-clenched buttocks, another déjà vu gets horsebacked.
          The Angels of Crises are growing gaunter in the looking-glass, a century of narcissi. A mystified nation trudges the quarry road in a snow storm, swathed in frankincense. Smashed insects are conjured azure.
          Still, it wasn't clever to have smashed the radio. The lizard man—immigrant dragon-doll phantom—is not impervious to a drum-roll. Lifting their lids, the herd are like crescent scythes, serene and dreadful in their blindness, slicing a garland.

          Crow-headed, in fever and lamenting, cranked opened by the crow-bar of reverie, a marmalady with the likeness of the syntheses of brilliant things is in the latitude of rifle-shots, a burlesque Venus-apparition.
          The Italian daughter has risen up on the catwalk, but a body. Austerely, the camera, febrile with tenderness in a Minotaur-driven Aurora Borealis, like the animal skin of a soulful, fabulous new apocalypse—above sorcery—has a little danger money leftover now to spend on a little snakeskin and a diamond.
          Always fatal, this enchantment opens the gates of the enigmatic wireless signal. Catapulted by a moonstruck scent-bottle to recline about a Hampstead garden, with a sequined chest, with red cherry leather boots clunking over the patio tiles, the barbarian's white rose petals are conducting an enlacement on puppet-wires to confess to the luxuries of fixed-volatile natural sin, potent in street-lamps in new impersonations in the scarlet banquet hall.
          Finally, fainting in the bathroom, bound and blindfolded.
          On the Harley outside the café, after getting some cocaine off a gypsy, I get a stainless steel kiss. I am oiled paper with my pirate radio, with my railways, my lava, my riding crop. I am prancing raw fisted over the star-trekked, creaking sails, bleeding-gummed to the unrequited hemlock of free pneumatic twilight; a silhouette.

          This is made of newspapers. Come unto the wolf-skull of fiends. Open the declivities.
          Cordially invited to the peninsula of an anciently soft delta, upon langorous sensations, with a patience reciprocal to the inferno of unknowing, taking the chamber pot and wandering into purgatory, into the dung of some long-forgotten afternoon when sweet spiders of drunkard rods and cones lay on the chessboard, the whole gamut of All Soul's Eve is a gaping chasm. A scarecrow in chains turns to vapour, an aerial mist flown in from enchanted languages.
          In August, water-hyacinth from the banks of the Seine are whispering, indifferent to everything. The cause is fatal elegance. Pollution in a moment of beguilment.

          Moral consequences are inauthentic to make a pact with.
          Without the light, there is adoration of the nameless servant.

          Why, morning? Morning, why?
          I only wish I'd learned how to prove she was not my daughter, saying: "There. Didn't know why, but we'll light the candles and I'll take off your carnival cloak and we'll show God and then we'd better get out."
          At best, no-one hears any such trick speech. Mostly we are never quiet. Whoever, is of nothing. I simply want for, and long for. Wondering, I forget.
          We'll get going. We've got to be abused and we must not beg. Everything is rotting. Don't despise my enemies.
          Oh, where's that carnival cloak?
          We must fully, really touch. We cannot know how we'll let one or the other perform.
          Dear, understand: not once is forgiveness listened for. Not once. Oh, don't forgive the slipped allowances. Not once. Listen. The dawn is for ever. Life is vivid (pointing), a white statue, a portrait, a table, or a bell. Light the candles.

          With the consent, Connor Flynn is saying: "Very, very good."
          Ending with a song about all nations living in unison, bondage is given to the unruly, youthful dexterity of their motifs. To glean from ancient papyri a levitating over treachery, I am veritably dancing. The supernatural outcome of a miniature prophecy has the abundance of a rigour that could spurn. But I'm still keeping tabs on hideous, wild beauty.
          So, at this junction, having been derived from a Scriabin-like, paradoxical, frenzied and frequently inaccurate, electric English, thoughts are more de-controlled than before. With a somnambulist thrust—defiantly and coarsely—Connor Flynn dims my most recent corollary. Once again we lament the Logos' opus magnum. We declare that the legends are their characters' Catch 22. Upon the glints of torrents of rain, these bending eyes enter the rainbow, undaunted now, caught between the interstices of a durable Georgian bust.

          In the frenzy of Art, you will find: "we have perfect reception".
          Dancers love to be love's confabulation (as has already been so well expressed in that Italian drawing of my daughter).
          The harpsichord is trembling. The volatility of its lofty delights are starless. It's simply preposterous. It's the guide. Squander therefore and prosperity will hail the first, the very first good night as a line out of the publicity.
          I even posit that I am passing the hours with Monteverdi. I am iconoclastic alive. My offer to kiss is on for longer than three minutes here today.

          A pedestrian quantifies the maneouver of its index finger's arbitrary orbit. Searchlight data-cells are the modus operandi of the pandemonium. The analogous metropolis' astonishing stories are apparently presiding.
          These unorthodox adventures are a stream of subversions, a fair-weather friend in the performance of relationships.
          All novel thought-chains are reconciled by the tacit permit mechanisms of ethereality—the true physical—forever context-specific—relished in mantras of simultaneity, sustained by multiversal serendipity.

          A dead animal is found floating in the telekenetic beam of a spiritual spark water, like a benediction reliquary, just one slat away, away. Till now the scholars had no real interest. The noises from the street have been identified. They are an illusion of vast distances in space and in personal relations. Hydro-electric lusts are terms of comparison. The wall of fire overflows with revolving swastikas ticking with physical shuddering and jolts.

          The turtle and the hare need an accountant. The writer has an addiction to Ritz crackers. Telemedia go shopping in cognito.
          Just then. . . . What?
          Darjeeling tea is abroad. In a shop window, clerks turn to he-who-will-be-pleased. A high collar stimulates poise (or is it perpetual life?) for a shop native.
          On a green polished mahogany artificial lake—in the cruiser with intelligence—in the situation room—with doppelganger interceding—the peasant, parannoyed in the flourescent room, reads "Writers of Passage". Homogenisation affects office buildings (a societal paradigm via the 5th floor). Cards and horses are played over the burden of negative crap and visual aids for the merchant classes—neon.
          The beautiful magnetometer heretics' sad epidemic endgame, with the audacity of an inane interstellar politics, reprocesses the raw material, a mineral wealth of ephemerality.

          Languid sonorities are leaning on the spatial, slipping into ersatz eternity, caressing the here-and-now, like elixirs on limpid, light wings.