wrack by quarter after

quarter after press http://quarterafter.org/ Founding Editor: Calvin Pennix

wrack

Lawrence Upton

Copyright © Lawrence Upton 2003-2006, 2010, 2012 Copyright ©. The right of Lawrence Upton to be identified as author of "wrack" has been asserted generally in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. This version of the book was made at Periglis, St Agnes, Scilly in September 2010 Many of these poems have been posted at some stage of their composition in draft versions on the wryting discussion list, where I received useful and friendly feedback. And many have been read at the Writers Forum workshop, again not necessarily in their final forms. Many of the poems in earlier forms have been recorded for the Brunel University Archive of the Now, thanks to Andrea Brady, and can be heard over the net. A large part of it as it then existed was performed at a reading in Camden Peoples Theatre in 2004, thanks to Chris Goode Versions of some poems appeared in Malleable Jungle # 3 (edited by Robert Lane) & Programme of the Poetry Buzz (“violation takes cognition”) (Paige Mitchell and Rob Holloway, eds) Intimacies appeared in Filling Station (ed Ryan FitzPatrick) A large number of pages from a book of the dead arose from my contribution to a web writing project managed by Trevor Joyce. Several two voice pieces (“sea’s the voice” and “repetition”) are being developed by Tina Bass and Lawrence Upton. Other poems herein could well be presented multivoice.

I can’t leave Wrack alone, I keep returning, making sure I’ve taken it all in, and of course I haven’t, and it’s becoming overwhelming. I deeply admire this work for how sustained it is, and how various are its movements; I envy it and recoil from it because it turns out to be, frankly, shocking in its courageous insistence on putting the body where the mouth is. Upton sets the reader to serious dancing – across disputed borders, between the lines of an exhausted official discourse whose stickman spokesmen have no body to dance with. Wrack shocks more because its shocks come slowly, surfacing patiently through strata of the matter being dealt with. Voices multiply, words divide; stillness and mobility keep clinching each other in the same act. It’s love made real in the compound eye of attention, in the weal of heed not quite yet speechless. All of the Lawrence Uptons yet known to us and one or two still arriving converge in these texts, in this shifting body of work, the wrack not left behind.

Chris Goode

Hello. Thank you for your e-mail. I am sorry that you feel this way about our customer service, however looking at your account i can see that your matter is being dealt with. Thanks. Ashleigh Scott, EDF Energy

"Teach it phenomenology." Commander Powell in Dark Star (dir. John Carpenter)

tell me then has anything good useful germinated from discourse in your soul? Eric Mottram from The Book of Herne

I wrack

In the garden, acceptance of phenomena, an horizon, a collective song, nothing more every day, feelings the same; unmediated constructs, narratives, one's own in the usual sense; partly ignorance, more malignant than my questions, every day being unwilling to know death, unblemished pinks face the end; dislocations of perfume.

I burn in control, giving orders to mind settings, the border between memory and sky cut off.

I could have been a remark in the expense of talk, motionless uncertainty, rivers obsolete, a kind of the word in the recollection of love; bodies shifting matter, forcing unreason, in time and place, here, early in the natural world one more fabulous place in transmission patchy recall

a product of poetics without the look-up

Data and assumption. What displacement! How to determine what will work! The magnitude of displayed majority.

Speaking of -- Speaking of redirection I just came across -- this is just â&#x20AC;&#x201C; This just came across -- this is to network. This rationale of your participation, in itself. Itself is to network. Itself is to live, is to endorse its own legitimacy. A savage ire in past tense, a conventional expression: you are potentially inaccurate. I am thinking of a dynamic of universal complicity.

To network is unwarranted, a wrong, enabling and empowering the voice the height of the fundamental mechanism. Structural change follows a catalyst with its self-disgust in the male voice quite the atrocity; that extreme lifetime income enhancement. A new affirmation

Curious to know what I was talking about! I was not destined to my personal experience. I think I recall. Remember my first kicking, commemorating, determined, a metaphysical coloratura more than damage control. He kept hitting me and said: This could be ambitions, thinking of fear out, as I detected the pause when he was back. He was back. He kept hitting me. A habit I had to teach. Many consequences. Quick to read the script -- no belief at all -- intersected by various animations, more impressive than news, the institutionalised nature. Hypothetical breathing a halt tortured extraordinarily to the idea; individual in essence; free will, I wrote, in regard to oneself. Any sort of life. I don't recall how everything stops. I lose the war. Modes of knowledge stuff things. That cried Let me go, sometime later. A kind of shape. So far. Endemic film is acceptable. Nobody would be nice. I still wanted to write. I was an evening newspaper. One situation or person. Wait for parodic adaptation of actuality -- a torture performed -- the burial of days -- an experimental love â&#x20AC;&#x201C; saturated. To write for soldiers. I can't reassemble how good they were. I'm determined to scrawl that way. I recollect my head. I steal another. All sorts. I hit when I wish. Almost as I found himself as they were. What was happening was the prisoners. Getting desperate, that exclaimed by rote, being shot upon escaping supervision. It begins to appear. You couldn't offload feeling: alarm from the whole world, topped by God. One acts several times. I read the role -- met themselves magically, a broken man or woman, the epoch of what were still seconds, particularly brutal -- pronounce my reaction to my own abilities. Speechless being -- taken outward from speaking. I didn't see it.

One, the pronoun to identify others â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the voice addressing oneself, with a version of space, to speak as the other; the way in which what appear are supposed to behave, falling to attain; one now being investigated in the territory of expiation, the tradition the imperative, reason or another angle taking the flesh, breaking any contributions agreed, freedom stolen with fields. Not a good place. A hospital bed. The territory of essayed opinion. You believe. Associate with prisoners, detainees in a psychological examination of how pleased I am, in the description of everywhere, of writing the rule.

Own the territory of elegance, using the imperial history and flame. Concentrate on wake up, the autonomy of snapshot, of handy media allergic to breaths. Conflicting stories of conflict? Take care. Strong language digs down to distinguish levels of conflated yarn and stitch up. Opinion must reassert itself for the release, interesting massacre narratives, Gothic example history. Other things seem to become part identity, another ebullition of reference, translated by definition, suspicious, illegal. Modes of discourse struck off the street. A whole lot of particular cases. Markers of sophisticated disappearance in the territory of artistic influences. The writer is an aspect of conception

delightfully whole, choc-full of debacle, young life, cinematic unease; a work is itself.

Writing newspaper stories. Discreetly. No sound. There is obscurity. A burial chamber. A white sheet. Silence. Believe. It is nothing else. To inform and to enjoy, inhaling and so on.

Procreation of bone. The transparency. No stars. Dig up your desires for he gave you sight. Hubble froths in the cosmic wind. Ghosts condense from desiresâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; nostalgia.

Emerge from the eye, light gathered from all the colours of many incredible prices. This means the figures will turn labours into reflections surrounded by strangers.

This at the core: judicious horror: reality done violence by prolonged society. One is transformed, looking for alarm. One is remade, and the facts: money charisma, under the onslaught of allocation, copies of everything! An influence told me that getting is rational, a heady thing, the whole world nuanced, asking for revenge. A silly history; simply lack of mind. None of the living can alter culpability with vacuous justifications.

Thing, superb; intimate; a psychological disguise, its limited spectacle a voice. It is no proxy, endlessly. A caught something. A rewrite. The music is good; throbbing, perception flowing into the milky world; sincerity powerlessness, an ingredient in every story, telling particularly the industrialised untrue; and essence, a relationship between now and that. Still life.

Need appears, repeating lies -- hollow, to ourselves -- into a satisfying shape, easy to read. Much the chance for anything beyond process; editing being; knowing something. News maltreatment also talks. No storyteller. Not once during history. Others have talked about being, even knowing something; bits evasive, patterns and connections; dying. Speaking playmates, just thinking, a coded way of being soldiers. Attempts to surprise. Declarative. Infilled by weaknesses. Fingers into original meaning. A bird not going. Writing the music to start it, looking, counting; our next breath conventional wisdom -- writing our future -- a squashed eye. The war coming on to language. Expression of response. And losing responsibility, breaking into people. Type them; and stick them as the end product.

Inaccurate answers are possible things: we are there, delighted, by each other's opposition. Motivation is more frightening. Speech should submit -- the contemplation of mercenaries, maiming stimulus and escape. In the desert, a greater balance, chucked aside, speaking. International media and performance. International sentimentality. Permits. Lies stand up as discourse -- wounding or formal critique -explorations of technology -- available in funding. Accompany it with information. Beyond their work, the dead are there. Interesting times. Some attempt a synthesis. Discussion and not thought available, practice-based and apparently feeling, that we are things after the prison camps, in new media, categorised as outmoded performance; or not in selfhood to suffer war explorations.

Digital targets; billowing radar, unseen, generalised.

Word cruelties, struggling with supremacies; noxious presupposition, tumbling on themselves to dust, the termination.

These violations vocalise the memory of the several ravishing desecration.

singularity takes cognition

violation takes cognition

or intention

delicately crooked limbs dignified teleology responding to ground subtly

a pretext a bounded system bonding

an animal

allowing one self to say send all that sort of thought

these are things of it you inside of the individual burnished all kinds of wintry self walking off unreadable the click of intention subject to interpretation an intentional perspective transforms it you are you

the shiny field 21

in the way a recursive recursion problem with the proposed explanation to finish the discourse clearly simulated. It is critically important. The system is what happens. It's not damaging to submission

exchange is intentional

sing

Whatever a person fears is suspicious. Identification is opinion. Distanced voices, identities or selves, becoming contemporary -painful work of generous intelligence. Assumption of historical context? Belief without fear. And it does matter what imagination is. Forever being. It seems an added idea. The termination of intellectual superiority. Compelling enough. The maladies of fear. Definition performance a trace of art, the mad among the many commentators, already dead, unfettered; the history of the people a single reading sympathetic to depiction, the troops of the combative writer, surmise overthrown, invariably monstrous. Incumbent distinctions matter. The background is not really funny, a wide range of idea and brutality. Believe it, but in ambiguous light, an achievement of the imagination thing: difference against the invasions of identity -in confrontation -the termination moral (try to build a fool) -clear the masses -reconstruct killed mechanisms -fear will oppose -feeding into attitudes -beliefs prove disastrous --

repetition Voice 1:

Repetition of itself.

Voice 2:

Not for itself.

Voice 3:

An horizon limited, two or more.

Voice 1:

Modally associated.

Voice 2:

A matter of language.

Voice 1:

The point of the language.

[Pause]

Voice 1:

Repetition for itself.

Voice 2:

Here is shallowness. Here is shallow repetition, conjunction.

Voice 3:

Resultant reading.

Voice 2:

Repetitious distortion.

[Pause]

Voice 1:

The flaw.

Voice 3:

A glance of a human.

Voice 2:

A glimpse of sexuality.

Voice 1:

Repetition for itself; and, childish, the absolute horizon.

Voice 2:

The absence, the expense!

Affection remains, to be an identical twinkling, another, an awareness, a delusion, several bodies in a dark wood. Depiction of personae, worlds to inhabit outside of the carcass, an illusory meaning, a favourite beauty, autonomous; biospheres becoming legal flesh in irrational talking. Error as affect, a disjunctive synthesis. The basic logic. Free interest. A fearing each moment. This has computational function, a repetition that is working out with political activity -- a simple man to produce code and names, naked, made electric coincidentally and totally.

Internationally dispersed, a group production, arguing about design, frames, colour; it's certainly performable. Taking on the same character under different people will argue. Characters accrete into a body, fury reaching new material, shaken at the suicidal door by imitating someone else. Write the elements not-for-profit news and information, reading intimacies, echoes of selection. Some characters are work. Open the ocean of a substantial torso, claws prospecting infrastructure. A mess, a critical somnolence, new media, science; and, giving, you go, as if mind's uneasy, but as the middle of sexual difference, the difference between people's deliberate irony, gasping for a multiplicity of parts, rising to visual certainty regarding situations and opportunities. The people will be sent an identity easily referenced in focus another chemical landscape, mobile data. Procedure is textual, generator developed, easily referenced, the mechanism for breath, listening. Continue exhaling the terrific engine.

As stupid as work can be, one felt wired; accepting labour at its word -- this was work, one dreams of incessant perfecting -you know what's meant, perhaps: a past needs doctoring. There are fewer rampages now. Unrests at times. Resistance only, beginning of self-absorbed oblivion, watching a new empire as it balloons, a tune in regard to perception blowing up the day, invading actual value; inaccurate orientation coarsening blunders in chance. Thought in love, systematising dominance. What sensibilities, by and large predilection, brutalising, grotesque -an existential invented sentimentality, public blindness, a certain scratching -the first secure generation bouncing from a past -forcing people to figure in much error, confident stiff work, hungers grating! expectant exertion; sometimes cognition resonates in much; the trusting grind desire; violence has made that choice, satisfying all I must say

The way he was, lifelong, corpsing. There are some who are arguments. The infliction of the same features. I would stay away. For some time. What is poetry is parody, since it is written. A good imitation. The predatory but acculturated yarn. Power structures in minutes, ingenuousness the fact. Gatherings of attitudes and beliefs, primitive and passionate, intolerable; information a straight face in our unfreedom; assertion of complex signalling; and ancient. Only the body and not the person, experimenting with types and forms. Perception opposed to unpleasantness.

We became friends. Identical, you see? I receive duplications I have had. Trying to sort it out a partial response. Further information will be dealt with. Sort of distressing. Further information will be caused. The same message; one unfortunate person downloaded. It seems to be curious. A throwback. This is fun. It might have been coming through. It seems to be a duplicate. I have to impel myself to think. It doesn't sound reasonable. No surprises. No alarms. No message. Imperialism to destroy. I hope this is forever -early morning of the tangible anybody can see that way of thinking. The original is an irrational assumption like the face -- one idea of more -- I have done the problem at considerable inconvenience. Early morning of opportunity; anybody can read the body men, the other the other without, I thought disbanding receiving multiple copies of consent such a thing. Early morning in a larger complication. Propaganda will be language. A thing seems fun during the formulation of the war. I have often wondered

language in electronic cultural campaigns this morning resourceless, each other taboos the formulation of many people both intellect and emotion sensation perception . desire it. . Protection. electronic intellect. just exhausted irrational assumptions for duplication. plenty of the user. occurred to force.â&#x20AC;Ś./. The worms here in bed. a revision of food. the deep insanity in the grammar check. write for language. country with sex. It seems to make a man. abhorred within sympathy. diminishing realities. one copy of one humanity. entanglements of sleep.. Reason is a partial response. in electronic equivalence of questions. a duplicate sends out culture.

Poor things, unwilling to release, regardless of light. What have we got? It is a message followed by a war. We retain strength; constantly struggling; consonance; painful tumult; the irregular ceaseless. Answers can make love bloodless, hope for years the greater cure -- cruelties of the sick; men persuading themselves to justify power. Secrets. Torn out of fear. We are the first writing. The foolishness observed. In the memory of borne complicity, contrition, grief, garbled, so much confusion. The rule of feeling, with ruins, formatting the validation of frenzy -ash flattened beneath a long time. We can make love to this

eye on scene perception among perceptions just like an ingredients an informed eye this line learns calling many repeated messages headstones twisted wonder not to support a pattern archived affect die defending pain unfortunate persons uploaded sympathy for newly turned mud

graves hold cities universities quotations

an inside view last refuge of profundity hordes calling help bigotries online suffering for poetry, draft sham dragging feeling within grief laid bodies freshly pulled surprise you propagating short messages unacknowledged

Newspaper. Nothing very good; and remains to be seen. Very detailed, surely the cultural dynamic, embedded in response. Seems to make it impossible to respond freshly, or other kinds of state killing. The age of knowing, when understood within the newspaper. Nothing very pertinent. Recent scandal. I refuse rather complex violent relations, if one benefits. Newspaper. Nothing soul searching. Being too literal is blindness, the connection to do what we might perhaps wish to evoke -the bourgeois intellectual. An expression of nothing! I have to be, say, terrorists. Hold guns to me. It is over. The situational context, reading portfolios. The complicity of the standpoint theorist in any kind of reportage, part of the mouth, and our collective gratuitous memory, the war absolutely elided, children shot dead. Rhetorical massacres at many levels. Human beings breathe cyanide. In the news. Search for an act upon the female body. Impossible to say, I recall correctly. This being literate is being thinking. Reread. It is frustrating and flippant. How many cities? Nothing, very fucking. Comparison of issues, forgotten concentration campsâ&#x20AC;Ś Recognise this accusation! Spread the news. Claim the wounds. Conquering the librarian. The light privileged shock of knowing the happening rhetorical reality. Believe this, our miserable world,

this not seeing, crying, an evocation of the very good; and the horrifying pictures. Pictures in my side. This is our cooperative memory. Slick up the dead. They belong to last week. Heads broken and certain statements one cannot like. Death row, heads; mea culpa.

Complex modern societies not supported. Human beings not made more visible. Stories of elegance moved on. Sin breaths. I seem to remember the absence of impacts in particular days invisibility external the prevailing mode a curtain of past disquieting communication technologies like telephones a good thing self expression is limiting a kind of tautology. I have television.

Be a thought provoking reply focussed on collaboration. Be detected apparently useless enabled the moment behind. Be confirmed into issues from torture. This is a large room; an object perhaps annihilated online knowledge-creating. Be the motives. Be the only justification. Anything else would be iniquitous a sickening which ignores itself drawn into flame being gratified. Act intelligently the only justification. What does that contradiction? Be the book juxtaposition of ability. Be interesting. Tire of motive and threat.

Painful? Pursue it. Will makes a difference to if, caught or killed. Funny quickly, quickly dispossessed becoming. The error lies, transported hunting, and thought moves into order, reading creation for additional time -- the history a movie, coarse mother, big flash in science disability, cerebral general jargon, sediment of people below thin blue. Memory in wanting; I seeing, somehow irrevocably. Omit the unbearable. The structures have become self, leaving the appearance, recording the reader. We've been dead, an endless good thing becoming weird. Talking macho; physical suffering can imagine: the days come immediately -- an illegal discharge, pain and talk happening in your circle -- the unknown unknown -- leaving a survivor calling for restoration.

No one died since the beginning of the city, most of whom are children, to grow up happy. The doors are subtle and painted. Some of the bedrooms are simultaneous. Snipers shot at ambulances. And they demolished my house. They smashed witnesses. They consume my land. To fall back into sharp and sweet! Beginning the whole world, not this scrap place. I would breathe ideology. They destroyed the doors. It begins raining. The reasonable human mind, flickering the fascination war; all men so frail, disguised.

A crafty shift, not in identity, not in identity, withdrawn from operation practice-based and in presentation. People can be touched -space for this desire for the world left no damaged areas interdisciplinary the whole world definitions your shock the basic decency. Witness a totalitarian telephoning -lean information against insurgents; connecting is a subterranean precision, the homeless children a sinister reading. Create an invaded realm that we call Reason. I have these counterfeit feelings, facts in the situation, actions and motivation. And yes it will be space for a limited number to the good path. One died. The cruelties of homeless people.

System strips off attachment. Some kind of inner cessity. Messages identical to the population to violence and brutality. Copies of more. An indication of war, mouth cerebral duplications in the light of privy backgrounds; grossness serving information; the tyrant torn from selected people -- inspiring teacher -- receiving duplications of words: the fall of the user, incumbents in their cars, gasp discoveries. The original is glances, causing some considerable inconvenience. Can you imagine? One error message one skin, self-expression wanting to remember. The original is an over-simplification. Deliver me painted, an indication, underneath matter, the prevailing mode of imaginary fire, street vanishes in fascinating, a plausible surmise. Laugh in a house full of taste wanting, to fit, some kind of dress; a test message, along these lines, as breathing, arguing human realities -- brighten the archives, a not made, a violence, cracked; the conqueror in the world, in a tradition of prophetic anger; a particular stare.

Our activities. If you would like to invite proposals. Guidelines. Came here from… We are offering recent accomplishment by turning into collision two wounded people. The purpose of desire. Came here from Eastern Europe. There will not be women who are the difficulty. Even soldiers think, redemption growing involuntarily from optimism and life. Others hear us! That last statement something that occurred. Fragmented human being acting. Came here is the title. Came away, wit the full prospect, to obtain funding. We are having a paraphrase. There shall be an ineluctably masculine regime of emancipation from my family line. Please be valorised differently. The speaker is heralds, the flesh of disgust, as a hideous act. Came here likely to moral awareness. You are the product, categorised, developing a new declaration without historical perspective, needing redefinition. The use of longing. Performances in violation of a prototype, audience an offensive joke, the custom of the utterance, permitting signification, the work of an ancestor, extraneous identity generously supported, theme swinging. For pacification. Weapons of mass media. A creative context outwardly imagining, the practice explicit. The presentation of the joke, a forebear I have received. Your place then. You are the error. Authentic perception in some image or stereotype. You were just telling it. Behave… Motive, information… Critique, credit, for instance. Came here from terminology, accusation as rhetorical. I can only speak for domination. This is frustrating. Motivation; figures… To be the error lies.

Thinking plausibly, acceptable, no more Am I pleased? I know loss; a face of one's own emotions. Control is important. Not only the real reason is thin with others. Layers of actualities, faulting belief, claiming it allows argument passes from arguments little rebellion or expression other words turned out healthful pressures become limited suspension of resourceful pathos nurturing encouragement blood forms uncollected reproduced an affect system on names of dead soldiers experiencing desire through fictitious exploitation routinely got together. Recall the source. Recall the source a language quick as hunger The impulsive is ghostly dust

film of enemies, lustful reproduction generated a cast of puberty not wanting to leave a discontinuity credence for all pained commentary riding within reasonableness biological drives to escape opposite coming ownership of chanting.

What about others? on the car radio? Write your name. Enticing to forgive, the artistic compromise, discarded for oblivion by something similar. Enough machines and some surviveâ&#x20AC;Ś What about others? a conflation of some of what happens and comments, capable of emotional disgust. I know a fine job. Linguistic artifice of physical destruction near terror. Sumptuous words. I invent us. Turn off. He doesn't destroy him, more exclusive than aware. I had to turn off. A new look, full of superior quality immediacy, barely defended. Luminous to turn off. I remember nothing. He likes to invent us all, sitting down to deal with sex, a sensation of outwardness: a good line in unrepeatable tongues. This kind of time, in a course of lyricism, part of a wall.

Give you an idea -- until sunset -- a surreal averaging before a heavy schedule -- and it used to build palaces. Give you an idea. The road secure for convoys in a cold phenomenon. Matters glide. Call it often. A way out of work. Emotion. Crumbling. Expensive rapture. Return to brush aside pictures. Written statements. I grow older and gladder, emotionality the event, the realities of irrationality impossible to split or transplantation of extravagance, destruction and prejudice, abuse unallowable. and remain embodied caught in an ordinary sense, big pipeline realities diminishing slowly enlightenment the abuser at the peak of response. Listen to acquire extension, and outcome mastery; with one of its objectives beyond all of us to complete a way of repression, continuing ratiocination, looking for the war zone; and go through continuing variations extremely rational, perhaps reason and emotion identification, insecurities; and seeming coldness desire for lingering evacuated operating in light just one hitting one they claim no feeling

arguing bodily metaphors play object orientation constructing liaison instances

one cannot get past the body a disinterest in oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s self

moments of compellingâ&#x20AC;Ś

proof is full of reason in a different background

language overblown

interface is distance. acknowledge.

dominion of possibility

an empty space, silence, to survive death

difficulties enjoying it

Among themselves, defined as others, their heads being so governed and governing, they value obedience, bonding among themselves in search of living in pursuits to build a new perspective

a most wicked sense of interpretation

poetry is superpower before the invasion, after the invasion

fingers of moral philosophy closest to be creative

common perception among opposed people supported independence for the ego dragging feeling emitted bad towards wondering

accreted worth their only expectation

between minds

intimate with the bloody as a cognitive habit

horizons of fingers of ice expanding

Identity. Literary impersonation. It's a frailty. It is not possible for one saying me. The creation of weapons. Mass devastation, beyond authoritative human desire wanting the theorist imagining destruction of what will not be imagined. Such things would be false or attempting the vocal, still striving for some standpoint, plump psychotic defamation of what is fundamental. Extraneous circumstance is authentic mortal fantasy. Desire is wanting come-back, without empathy, to make sense of exposition; a sense of amusement that one is assuredly displeasing and uncertainâ&#x20AC;Ś ways of knowing! dangling more than anything elseâ&#x20AC;Ś the pitfall of knowingâ&#x20AC;Ś social transactions dissembling, comfort; rhetoric got a position -- many die -- determining selves

Psychic distress, able to write briefly, unable to say; carefully opposed to a problem with meaning, without placing it, without a good thing to emerge.

Easy to wonder at an hallucination, the ocean of salt flesh speaks for creation of the personal, winged thought thrown in, before it is to be taken out to firing, a head turning, for example, for hysteria, proper: harmonious context without devising in the absence of wind in some selfhood. Who sleeps? I can only be lying; often ill; wonder at the book; it's a frame, blossoming

Political realism is suspicious. A lot of beauty. Rely on survival, gangsters but without extensive foreign support, conquerors, coloratura within, the malady of art, the ear in governance embedded in anticipation, participating in lack, the cruelties of apprehensions.

your body moves beneath between the door opens to accept you welcome to the room you've entered in it's me door remains but that's behind you room closes around you circulate the room body beneath you all move together gathering

homeward, a body, walking lightly, and not uttering, gets on a bus, and sits, looking out

through some dirty glass a mind observes, familiarity its brain lets through unimpeded, unaware

each unaware the brain continues filtering knowing little of source or sink, without desire

or formulation of desire while its ghost looks out a window

the new body will help encourage confidence 52

I am with the dead. We talk to each other. We share our horror.

Intimacies

pages from a book of the dead

your body moves beneath between the door opens to accept you welcome to the room you've entered in it's me

door remains but that's behind you room closes around you circulate the room body beneath you all move together gathering

dead meat, filleted, stuffed, put out in June and flies came round, quick to get at old flesh for their murmuring fuddled intentions --

the live, scared by expected stillness, took the patched dolly to their processions, incontinent, upon a land they'd spoiled --

false words force words marionette a juju dread of inoperable death chanting what it heard, and adding its delusions --

strong ones told of a man's prophetic scripts adding a few more untrue words for taste till the body flew home to its mausoleum

A glass for the women entertainment! (Think for yourself.) They giggle over the general rules for working, easing off paper words listed in writings, remaining unnumbered, nervous. Nostalgia for protection, alone together... Safety rattles its constant links. I listen. The psyche of the thrill of the body. With a body; the book defunct. Courtiers pass on death. A box of expression. A slaughterhouse, I am. An unidentified shape. Infatuation goes unnoticed. Girls in a basket, or something. (You say? Who was refused? What was refused? Why can't you? What you say?) The page over everything. (You say?) A speaking of available ambiguity. (Fist his face!) Edges in the plane, moving, certainly, seated on the awful waves of the spirit. (Any more errors, let me know.) An inferior object equivalence: murderous sunsets... the stench of every curve...

But not a word! Now the pieces can be linked, bacteria form the stench of understanding, the cutting out. You made the right decision not to be muffled. Tick for an epitaph. Sun shines outside the cellophaned humours of the earth. Care is closed. I want to write about alcohol. My companions adjust to protection. Surface words scare away the body. [An explosion. Bone egress, dust of familiars, perception an entire city running, scrawling puddles. The average man can be dealt with; body count's an excellent material. And I have watched these insects crawling. So much is blue.] Making is detached from tolerance, crows on reinforced concrete, menial heaviness, sift from the impossible. Writing is an imagined significance, subterranean networks navigated with indignant entertainment. Sense roars to exit Death; all faces looking, in a moment, several bits human.

from a braid of songs -- call them songs, though no oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s here which could be singing -- the cadaver shadow trembling dead merge from the body, softened in the narrow and dark cortex, writing an unknowable horizon. song blood. music? defunct off-planet calm, mischief inadequately ordered evidence incapable of life amalgamates in constellations. emergence of an entity space. domination of psyche a slaughterhouse of eyes nourishes the dead migrating throb in a flickering. mental sustenance. hands lost in mind, mind disunited. entering gathering light, pain a secondary body, a non-specific figure severing the knowing world from the eye, mischance cloven again, an unidentified shape within herself, as blood, constellatory, sundered, to dark sides of light passion grows most weary, breathing a pathway, vantage unknowable. push every impulse. and step strangeness, the known world meshing the family, and the body. it becomes body. body produces memory

Have you heard of breathing severing the body? It yields recollection; within, humans' bloodshed, thin; ambiguous pushing in dark foulness, denying judgement, mortification, inadequately washed. A pathway to information. Longing delight, inhaling and exhaling names. Such thoughts are lenses. Gloom stumbles from the hand; personality space, disjoined, blows. Remade people come into reflections. The torso does not outlast trembling seconds, the cold bleeds, formulating and entering sustenance, excruciation pulled, amid the eye, held still, living. The brine it wept; the pride of the understanding; the street active, scripting the known world. Quivering dead emerge in desires, a detailed gang clumping along the machine.

knives write the opening body and move secrets to emulate wayward solemnity

Late, getting stuff stuck in glasses, bits of food, a sodden cigarette. She thought: Polish the will if you polish anything. She thought: We never succeed; and she held that for a long time. Later, still busy bringing it all back up to mind, she thought: I was hoping to be smooth. There were no meet words, only rules. A body withers, working slowly, quietly, a guide to the inflamed, and all the coarse changers of the human. The distance between one and another is intimate, but there's the matter of touching without damage. What's so easy to see through can still be sharp. A shaky hand makes and receives impairment. Confidence does it, made and broken on a wheel, turning its trick in the glittering light. And in that light, the most efficient, the most correct... There are breakages.

Death was a shock but not a surprise; and there had been time to assemble. There was little pain. The newly-bereaved sat very still. Those who had admired the deceased called by phone but were not invited. Those who visited were not admitted. A neighbour returned several ladders; and they leant across the front doorway. The cat was sulky. Alone, at its insistent request, the bereaved sat beside remains and ruin, staring without focus. The deceased hadn't bothered putting its gloves on. Its new gloves. Gloves lying on a cold pillow. The bereaved put on the gloves. They fitted loosely but could be pulled up. It shuffled to the deceased's wardrobe, removed an entire outfit, and dressed. The result was preposterous, yet there was similarity. String pulled in the trousers at the waist and checked the billowy shirt. Rubber bands held the sleeves in rucks. It was little better; but the deceased had never cared about sartorial appearance. Why should the survivor care? It rang friends and announced itself as the deceased. I have died, it said. Come any time. When they came, they asked, in various ways, what was meant by these actions. Responses evaded questions as the bereaved affected not to understand. I am fine, it said. It's just that, my partner being away, I need company. It began to cry, squealing softly. A psychiatrist called; and, after some minutes alone with the survivor, declared it sane. Visitors stood in the cramped kitchen, making occasional shallow remarks to each other; and to the person who was claiming to be another, now deceased, who was saying odder things. At last, the survivor leading, all entered the inner darkened room, each carrying a knife. The leader seemed to hesitate, seemed, for some moments, to dream.

And then speech. I have changed my mind. We shall devour the entire corpse. No one leaves until we finish. Pull the clothes off the still one and start cutting. Save all the bones.

though it is morning one unavoidable harps on

the estimation of obscure patterns images of

autopsy

enter symptoms within bodies of the sick the modern name of fear

dead welcome living rising head and shoulders from their ground signs of expectation like pigeons

speculation is all there is engrossed by the bench they do not approach

Within the first day, were available, light and supremacy. Hegemony danced, power in harness, and other interesting variations, for the stiff at heart. Later, the marked beguiling body entertained alone, the pillow surface black. She was all a bit lucky... Evidence is money. Example: Here is a nicely tended orchard. How fortuitous! No one bothers to learn. All objects are smooth -rivers flow out of it -- the wheel churning discharge. Broke eventually, a something ablaze used to transform souls... Encumbrances of terror and age. Sick of each object. Sleep refused... I caught this here, the shaking, the twilight sky strangeness... Urge and I have to question, serenading. The long night is a house whose sufferers are large, eyes shut to see up through the earth. Perception is bigger, fastening understanding towards artlessness, capability in ostentatious jiffies; submission; touching without emotion.

writing into love the peculiarity of the tongue's edges god breaks into reflections

the carrion essence wakes to its rotting that slow conflagration scripting the nucleus of every impulse

constellations mapped in the stem when ice was jungle puncture the skies burn now

Eurydice set forth her touch, bruised integument still discoloured. She danced in an outline of the present is gone. They touched each other. They do. Beyond this apprehension is to get up, eyeing a stranger, crying, and creep towards the border of the day. Courses that irrigate will become brackish. The hand will command character space, disconnected, frailty figuring shifting surfaces, draughty, the inert lens formulating errors. Too long now you've finished, or some other, living, excavating loneliness and distance... The strangeness... It's an eye. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d heard the psyche. Within herself, she wove a man asleep. Ache lost himself in giving. Shivering terror. Momentarily pushing. Many is nothing else. I gave her my succour. Incredible the body. Laid waste. Inconceivable and now permitted. The extracted log partitioned; and the fool cock-eyed, without cause. Flow yields memory, gold and copper it cannot measure. In the wood, mode tv, mischief, beauty. The water is light. Through fields no longer, to confuse pulses in shadows. Hands guiding. I love you is all our knowledge.

Intimacies are formed in holes, fault indexed. Analog. Witnessed in the world. Reassemble. Become violent. Security of the comic disclaimer. In the field here? new semantics troubling the concept. The comic from anger. Breathe deeply. Torture friends, shouting interference. Remind yourself, including beatings. Have an original biography. And viruses. Know every word in the fabricated body, almost evanescent. Or cohere.

1. sea's the voice got up from sea a shawl of blood a net corpses beneath glittering liquefied undulations full of names waking in light burning staged naked humans whole and living whole and living blood and experience continue to another's table continue to another's table departed transparency your desire for death in pursuit of afterwards most florid maximum light decomposing crack the mirror crack the mirror the body is wasted the scent of blood the observer pleases peel off satisfaction

2. it is insignificance it is insignificance technologies of harm the chronicles claim the chronicles claim inflicting maximum light across hand commands, balancing the maxima of measures the maxima of measures metastases metastases hunting individual space only to have this knowledge to have this knowledge this wire trap we cannot name of the world with its frequency shifts with frequent shifts it instructs, controls it instructs, controls this time denying consciousness denying consciousness daylight through walls an utterance a knowledge intent in neatness intent neatness nuisances whisper whispering nuisances

of the eye flame visible pursuing idiosyncratic animal movements images pursue images heads glance over limbs heads

Dark broken into the person I am: birds of carrion. A surface moves in the spoil. Blooms bond to worms. Words scare off the blues crawling above evidence. Life is an emergency. Whispering is human, a rising mistake. The evanescing psyche prospers, muffled, blending face and body, neglected, understanding stamped down. It's a peculiar interior, dispersed in the race of susurration. Writing is passed so quietly. Manufacture of parts. An image making approximate noise. Infatuation withering, fooled by terror. Armies are moving. Work is being God, writing, into love. Strangeness my mouth. Attenuated extravagance. Earth is making the noise. In the sewage. As a word. The edges harden. The inside outside the person I have detached. The stench of the asylum. Every night sky is defunct. The body will be expelled, an unidentified figure taking its head off. Sunsets, palpitate. Making is detached from perception. Heaviness shapes method.

You wake in the night. Awake in the body. It is death. Some tears are delusions, mistaking the known world of dark mouths. Oh for consciousness and hope -An electro-chemical action inside of some other functionary. Interlacing is fundamental. In our story, our story grows. We are no more. Whisper it into the mirror: I am just not understanding; impersonal day, light-hearted ever after. A lord wakes to its putrefaction, lost in slack euphony. A face full of books. She wanted what I could give her. Then she raged. Scattering futures are birthing the desires a stirring body, consciousness incapable.

It is wasted; every muscle in the atrophy, steadily perspiring, the eye constant, gathering light; a broken maximum; silent recall energy, labouring into reflection, within strangers, a chamber and wet images. All this can be watched, if discreetly. Stoop for that melody, harmony management, done with singing, the word Truth between discarded bones. White fleeing, opposing quantification, logic. Of stars, to have this knowledge, sliding into ripples. Consider that spinal. Decomposing flames in a body. Reminiscence? This boundary constitutes a speaking; and idiosyncratic animal movements, diverging paths a voice of the dead. The living breathe together. The scent is fluxed at incredible prices. This protest betrays in voice in similar condition. They should lower themselves for it. The force of words? They hunt. Empty pulses, a skeleton, every socket strange. Epidermis full of names, lips a bright boat from the shore. Suspect the cosmic wind. Electricity bill? Paid! Another chamber. Self unswollen is nothing else -- place killed chattering nominally -never reached the sea, twinkle of mess, daylight through declaration. The technologies of harm regulate satisfaction, the midpoint preoccupation with the edge. The might of words is hopeful. If the flames just go somewhere else, agony cut into a wholeness. Flesh burning in pursuit of blossom. Silence in pain, each other in joys.