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quarter after press

http://quarterafter.org/

Founding Editor: Calvin Pennix

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wrack

Lawrence Upton

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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.

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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

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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

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8

I wrack

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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

10

a product of poetics

without the look-up

11

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 –

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

12

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 – 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.

13

One, the pronoun to identify others – 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

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delightfully whole, choc-full of debacle,

young life, cinematic unease; a work is itself.

15

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 desires’ 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.

16

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.

17

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.

18

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.

19

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.

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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.

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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

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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

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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 --

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.

29

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

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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.…./.

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.

31

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

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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

33

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 camps…

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,

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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.

35

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.

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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.

37

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.

38

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.

39

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.

40

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.

41

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.

42

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

43

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.

44

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 survive… 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.

45

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

46

arguing bodily metaphors

play object orientation

constructing liaison instances

one cannot get past the body

a disinterest in one’s self

moments of compelling…

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

47

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

48

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 uncertain… ways of knowing! dangling

more than anything else… the pitfall of knowing…

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

49

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.

50

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

51

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

52

the new

body

will help

encourage

confidence

53

I am with the dead.

We talk to each other.

We share our horror.

54

Intimacies

55

56

57

58

59

60

pages

from a book

of the dead

61

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

62

63

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

64

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...

65

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.

66

67

from a braid of songs -- call them songs, though no one’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

68

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.

69

70

knives write the opening body

and move secrets

to emulate wayward solemnity

71

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.

72

73

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.

74

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.

75

76

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

77

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.

78

79

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

80

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. She’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.

81

82

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.

83

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

84

85

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

86

of the eye flame

visible

pursuing

idiosyncratic

animal movements

images pursue

images

heads glance over limbs

heads

87

88

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.

89

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.

90

91

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.

92

93