I have a slipshod temperament; a proper dementia. If you want clean lines, learn to ice skate. Here is mud. And if you finger it enough and if the rain is becoming hard enough you can probably find, in your greaseline palms, the further: I cannot promise a codex. I cannot promise that from now on there will be a return to framing. Said: I cannot promise that I can continue to speak. I cannot promise my lips to you, dear. I could tear them off for you? I could create such wonderful bouquets for you, darling. If I had just the, just the right angled flowers, the marvels. I'd promise you, a promise, they would pour forth from my hands, dearest, they would pour until you could take it no more, until your eyes could not contain all the light I packed in vases.
A lull. Ahh, without the hand in sight I'm given too much. Branding libertines in dreamtime. Torture porn? On all walls, blazing and daily monitors. A larger cube and a larger cube, nest eggs, surrounding and surrounding and all enveloped in each other with nearly enough space in between for separate and circulating atmospheres, each a box, like this box, growing more and more full of higher and higher transgression. Placating. The matter at (hah!) hand.
Can you feel the contours I'm setting out for us? There is a large basin that we must dry out and seep into and lie within. See?
How lowly! To neglect the matters at hand, namely: Thing. Paper. How can one even begin to speak for oneself without an intimate knowledge of the miserly suffering of oh! Others! Weeping fantods. Exhausted mewling. There is but one answer for those of us lucky enough not to scrounge for food or fend of rapists with engendered arms: Speak! Speak from the thresholds of all the Others! Speak with their heart in your throat, arteries pupping blood from your lips in parallel to a sad, such a sad and beautiful song. Let me begin now! Why all the nervous circling? Ahh! Let! Me! Are you watching? Eyes. Yes. Begin! THE PEN. How roughly I'm handled. The nobility I can scrape together from piecemeal moments, rememberings of myself in promised times, golden golden golden, keep me alight and illumined and trekking, always trekking forth into a brave and exponentially brutal reality, a reality filled with STARK conditions, but, here, watch, because I'm allowed to MOVE YOU! Here I am TRIUMPHANT! INSPIRING! My capacity to do something! Ahh! Look here because I can write! See the ink? BRAVE! And I'm held until I snap shut again. Okay: Bravo! Moving on. Address the players. THE PAPER: Blank I am. So lost and blank. And fragile. Easily ripped. But then after a long term of handling I'm kind of set down softly with some newly pressed paper around me and suddenly I'm not so lonely, but still crying. A CELEBRATION OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT! Okay, and then some more. THE SHIT IN THE CORNER: I stink. CUM IN THE OTHER CORNER: I'm spent — a diminished return. THE SKIN FLAKES: Musical number! THE SLEEPING SPOT: Obtuse but likable. THE AUDIENCE ROARS!
When Jesus cries there's far bleating.
So hip these days, to be of wavering number. A one man zoo. They pry at the bars, I bare my teeth and retreat. This push pull forms a sort of suction that attracts the local birds. Swallows dive inconsiderately. Popcorn is thrown; they block the view! And oh, well, I can't really be presumptuous enough to believe I can refute piety without getting pious. Another trap. Thank you, non-atom. Thank you, pictures, windowless facts. I'm feeling sprent through campuses. Total — in one sense — gateway drug.
You've jeered I think. I can smell you. So: Stand, scuff back. A pardoning. I'm going to lose the you.
See how long I can do that?
I fear my eventual transcription. How will the space be assigned? Will there be space? How else can you fill a blank? None of that stuff; light's in high demand.
Bulb breaks in his hand and a seep of crimson fleurs. Motions blend from that place on.
The wall with no doors is of no concern. I hope this is as certain for—
Only flesh.
You must people the void. You must? How could you leave it? How could you? There's motion implied! All around. It has to be in the space. This is no deep space terrain — wait — this is no unimaginable fold — wait — this is no — stop here. This is no.
It begins as a small bother, a miniscule bloodline back of the earlobe. Brush at it. It returns, brush at it. It feels negligible. The rest is smooth and not attended. After an inordinate amount of calming, reached a strait in which body became an absence piece by piece. Now an earlobe calling. Brush at it. The lack in between noted, made sure, brush at it, not a constant presence, this back earlobe. Brush at it. Bloodline. Faint. Note the procession. A calming, due and promoted and practiced, brush at it, until an absence achieved. Brush at it. Have to let the vein fall away. Have brush at it, to let the vein fall away. Brush at it. The back of the earlobe. The head. Brush at it. Pulsing. On the fingers. Note the fingers, clean brush at it. An angle. The legs underneath you, absent. Move them, note the ankles brush at it and the bloodline. Ankles rush, crush. Brush at it push it away. Ankles hot and hitting, brush at it, scraped. Blood underneath. Hands are clean. Note the hands. Note the brush at it, wall. Note the wall. Breathe, feint, let a bloodline. Note the. Breath. Brush at it. Ankles. Shift. Extend legs. Flatten, then. Brush at it. Note above you. Blood. The smells catching up. The bloodline. Brush at it. The smells coming up. Ankles torn, torn and note the note the, fresh to air, straighten up. Inordinate calm brush at it. Inordinate calm. Brush at it. Breathe. Straighten up. Brush at it. Feint bloodline. Note the fingers, clean. Clean. The blood back of your calves. Stay and promote calm. Brush at it. Feint let up. Catching up. Smells, back of your calves with blood. Brush at it. Ankles and spread up the bones, catching up, bloodlet, the breathing brush at it, calm. Inordinate calm.
The total force of all people suppressing terrible acts is the total weight of god.
Screed passed through the noblemen, fellows in ale, dropped to the floor at night. It corralled attention. Said: Do the opposite. Set eyes in paranoid lines. We look back on ourselves, the entire royal court with angled faces.
There, eyes aligned; a plane, a grid.
Yet again the pen. How can I play father when song must be lost?
And the much blanker, the golden loom: Paper. Is it paper? Or is it skin?
And I thought a door would show after the consummation of X and shit. After the consumption of shit, X.
No plan to render time into a ledger. No point by pointillism. Instead: A tuning fork.
Like putting down dogs for economic reasons.
Now it's time for candy code. Communicable waste! Keep scouring, though: The attack plan, Laura Lee, comes when you're dozed and cast in half-light. The concussions come in sync. Swimmingly. The city burns.
Counter intelligence reeks of sex.
Knowing my toenails, it's easy to play the politico. The dissident. And how you'd see me faint at the pulpit.
Counting veins.
Huge razing wheels tear through it. Sunspokes catch in the foliage, even though—