temp

exhibited in the post- mod & pop room of the Storey Street Gallery

#40 The scene is set in an ante-room. X has just dropped in.

We were here before.

And there were no others ’ere now that there was then.

Then. And now. Remember? Of course. Of course I remember. But we remember our

recollection of the last time we recalled it. Memory is subconsciously revised.

Have I changed? You’re the same. The same? The same as I was? The same. You haven’t

changed at all. Not at all.

I am happy here, Mr X, with my husband, Mr M

Good evening, X. My dear.

M, there has been a terrible misunderstanding. She turned her ring, as if invisible to her

husband:

The tea is here. He made a programmed gesture, dear, if would please, pour A.

Let us move on. Do you?

She allowed the spacetime curvature of her stockings staticrackling to continue the conversation,

until she stඟ dby

What’s disturbing the tonight?

I can’t seem to see whe’re not there, the ground is giving way

~ like swhirling

dervishly ~ beneath where I lied bestood, ænd now, no, where’re you goest intΘ‽

Wait I don’t know, that is, I do. we’re where we were. I was here, and you

were next to me, the same as now, and you were standing by...

the occasional table.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1tD2QVPizpJuoqo3VCa0V3OkxHryXKDmb/view Then you said

While the assimilated dialogue, so extraordinarily ordinary, so real, as to be, factitiously

fictional, in retrospect, ran down to a certain, hour-glass word, Virgin?

Mr M opened the musical cigarette box on the table. Do you? Players this side. Virgins in the

middle and Chesterfields the other side.

Such a pretty little tune.

Her imploring eyes were still upon her husband, but she allowed Mr X to lead her to the so far

before, give my wife your secret? He pats her on her girdled bottom behind her husband’s back,

leading them in for drinks, shall we? but with the import, as if, come, sit and make a 13 th at table

with us, and take our dear, disconcerted wives to desert.

Mr. and Mrs.Lovelady

Hello. Oh, hello. How are you? I’m fine. How are you? I’m fine. And your most hospitable

? as she abstractedly turned the collet of her binding, ruling ring, speaking of her as

if she were invisible there. Yes. Everybody’s so nicey-nice, sure, real, so real, the Levittes

inviting us to their home, the new people in town. Your wife’s cooking is as good as she’s

looking! I’ll just die if I don’t get this recipe, I’ll just die if I don’t (my husband grows

mushrooms in his basement) swapping recipes as their swinging hypnotic come-hithery hips

continued the conversations,

Let’s play a game, Θ‽ grabbing godfrey’s wife, only half-playfully, snatching at her proximate

hindquarters,

What game?

The game of the night is catch me strip me.

O, no, Harold

Yes, ’and here in this domestic occultivation of paranormalised occulture, these chattering class

covens, where rape becomes fantasy even when it happens, where Whist! Bid for partners, is but a

bourgeoisie’s discrete charm, all part of the theatre of the table: why clept double you see, where swaps, ipsissima

verba, becomes like a child’s game that, in the deforming conformity (I am just winking words into a

train of thought) has lost all inhibition in adult hands, where one keeps learning the games they

play, as quickly as they can change the rules and why I feel she’s you’re mine I think,

swapsipsissimus, Mrs Lovelady. G, but what are you doing, you don’t have to do that. I know

it’s only a dream, but I can’t help but help myself. Oh, I know it’s my own fault, but there has

been a terrible mistake. I am happy here, Mr. Levitte, with my husband.

lhoo [sein]

○ ⁀○ ○ ○~○ ○

follow the b●uncing boobs

He has her down on her belly behind the sofa, while still the banal conversation continues, I’ve

just been with your daughter, a most hospitable host, she’s been showing me the jewels of her

view from the bedroom.

O godfrey do something, can’t you, Yes, godfrey, do something, your wife wants you to do

something

You like watching, godfrey, don’t you. You’re already getting redder and, read her textured

body’s soulful Agony. Pity washes through him, giving him a sudden hard-on.

You’re resurrecting in spite of yourself. This is not the time or place, but you can’t help but help

yourself, just as you can’t blame the alligator.

Viddy well, then, viddy well.

Harold, how much longer are you going to be? enquired a beautiful young woman in a fur coat.

We’re late as it is.

When in walks the idolescent dote-her, Christine. ! the bikini atomic bomb had

painted her lips and, armed with her two red patches, she was tossing the banal, eden-red apple

up into the sun-dusted air, catching the glossy fruit with a cupped, polished plop, thwack, skin

against peel, imprinting impression. She pretends nothing’s happening, throwing her head back

as if she’s on a swing, the bikini atomic bomb, and goes on biting her apple, each bite like a

gravedigger’s unearthing whose every gravely dig is like a bite out of an apple.

With her elusive, fey grace, hand cupped at mid-section, as if to say, ‘Come here’ or ‘some

change, sir’, she looked like a gypsy, beggar girl.

She plumps down, as if the poppet of a puppet unhanded, skirt ballooning ~ the mild contour of

white fringes of her drawers like featherings of soft white down, of a strange and beautiful

seabird landed there, none knew whence ~ subsiding

If her knickers show (a teasing drop of somen on their silken mons trance) it is because little girls

often sit in a position (a piff !) in which their knickers show. Her arms winged akimbo

around the pupil of her face, giving a predatory beggar’s bliss coincident with the girlish

movement revealing an auxiliary stippled russet armpit.

Whosoever shall succeed in pulling my daughter’s pants down, shall have her for his bride

No, Harold, as if to say, how could you, as if you’d had your fill, how could you do a thing

like that how could you, like that, when I was just, just going, I thought we were, weren’t we…?

The whole damn crowd is working on her. And they huffed and they puffed, and they grunted

and they groaned, but the pants would not come down.

Mr Kabalteste goest over to the table “...able and reads, amongst the

sheaf of photos, ‘..one who’s supplicatory supination revealed a

russet armpit,

and I recalled a jeune fille au bord de la mer, like one whom magic

had turned into

the likeness of a seabird, stood before me in midstream, with a

dripping fleece

between her slender, bare legs, the raising of the thigh made the

same swan’s-neck curve with the angle of the knee that was made by the stoop of claire’s seaside

schoolgirl thigh when she was lying asleep by my side on the bed, offering a rosary of

epiphanies: the open wings of the thighs, crenulated imprint around puerile hips, the boy scout

badge of a knee, the mons clunis of her tense narrow nates, the ripple of the vertebrae, the downy

bloom along the incurvation of the spine, the doctors and nurses show me the body. Now come

along with me, she said - still quite a liddle gwirl - you know what I mean - when nothing is

formed yet, in which the flesh, like a precious leaven, is still at work, no more yet than a stream

of ductile matter, moulded ever afresh by the fleeting impression of the moment, buddhing

bodies, outlimning nascent green apples, blurred form out the thinvisibility, those lovely, lithely,

lively, maddening, seaside thighs, o so oft soft blossoming blooms, soft and slight, slight and

soft, girlish and touched with mortal beauty, in that short radiant morning time, between the faint

purple-ink shadow of rosy-fingered dawn and the blurred mirrory pale fire of a dead leaf’s echo,

I begin to like them at that age (not yet the taller thinner leggier imprint) a kind of nigh on fragile

feminine semi-demi-deb but an already eerie vulgarity, that would scorch the tormenting itch,

with a look of contempt, the deadly noli-me-tangere touch the very Quick let me come in, the

new I want. I knew then that I was in hell - watch your step, tread circumspectly, following her

hipnotic, cynosural wavelegth, I thought I must be in paradise, I’ll introduce you, go with her,

I’ll leave you in her hands. I was looking into an empty room, waiting. A door opened in the

left-hand wall, and a coltish beauty in her late teens, pantsed, no, mid-thirties, black dress, pearl

necklace, brown-haired, slender, entered, wearing a black dress with a single strand of pearls at

her throat, five-foot, three inches tall, slimly built, brown hair, light complexion, she wears a

Oh, if I can only, …

Stay a moment,

A hundred times I wished to go; and I followed you, I remained. And I shall carry away with me the remembrance

of you. But you will forget me; I shall pass away like a shadow.

Ah, man, you’re for a maraschino jam?

Apply yourselves, above all, to the amelioration of the soul, to good manners,

to the development of the aquiline,

She weighs her breasts in the palm of her hands, watching herself in the mirror, and thought she might be a voyeur

of her own experience, living at an angle to the moment precognitive of its own future memory, and recording in

some state of future-mind, while therein where reflected a voyeur at the window (a nicety of triune

physiological equipoise: in the one pupil reflected the other’s self-reflection reflected in the

third’s gaze, a secret bounding one to the other but not the other to the other, realised, through a

rare and sweet chance, by two simultaneous and distinguishable sensations)

Turn over

She was looking into an empty room, and waited for something to begin. On the television: the

clickety-click of frightened feet tipto on pavement, paveyard, graveyard. A door opened in the left-hand

wall, at the door, his hand on the knob, and a man entered; he walked over to the table, took a cigarette

from the musical box, lit it, then sauntered slowly towards, the screen fades in to a dark passageway. He

pulled up a chair, sat down.

‘Good evening.’

Opposat tv (a masai, a mass), she turns away, the door opens, he stands there,

What are you doing here?

Grinning, gaping, groping to ward which she’s trying to hang onto the phone and get the folds of

unskirted-blouse back at the same time, bobbling and bouncing, fumbling behind her, her skirt rides up

ther thighs to the leg bands of her panties. She’s got a hot ass, lhooq! It’s quite a picture

skirtpinned

up artlessly, artfully, a patch of tensely stretched bare or exposed to the flickering television light

the television lights flicker and flash over her glossy flesh

He gazes down on her, unaware of where she were showing her wares, as beauterrorful the

happenchance meeting of awful incongruence of pantyhose over panties, slapping the palm of the

eye on her pushemdown even as reveil apiff! a knee: the target, her dress raised, as the housel:

ecce undies, the little tufted stipple locus, jenny’s light brown pubic hair!

And then the button-man pulled the pistol's foreskin back, ready to enjoy the orgasm of the crushed trigger, plug,

pop, blip off, rub-out this skirt. He gloms down at the looker, a good-looking lass, an hour-glass looker. Hesitates,

aims.

She clutches her hands between her thighs - no!

But what d’ye know, folks - I just could not make myself do it!

He’s pushing something between her legs, hurting her, feeling her come alive.

The hood shoots from the hip! Explosions! Bang shot khrrrrkhlak whirling in asymptotic curve comic-book arc in a

pulsating dotted line, triplet dots and dashes against. FLæsh!

It’s cramped and awkward and slippery, but he’s pretty sure he got it in her, once anyway.

His pistol drooping in his collapsing hand, dropping, he drops, spent

Sirens.

She do

we passed (parent this is) upon the stair ...

me) when I came down again

… (she was not there, or did not see

a way a lone a long

a storied gallery of melodramas and chamber pieces and portraits and shop window shrines and

peep show, red-lit, one room display cabinets and exposed exhibitions (parenthetically, in one dolled

up corner window (which effect,

might indeed be attributed, in fact, to the reflection opposite the open

window) a light doppelering on the ceiling, and signs of movement along and up the lights of the storied window,

and a figure flickering across the filmy frames of shadow projected on the wall, where over the bed (Christ

preaching to the nymphets! given away with Photidbits) - a nymphean, houri-glazed

good-looking lass, closeted in willowish privy enclave

petrified in a dramatic attitude

of such masturbatory incite looking as if she might step lightly down so she must needs

raise a little a knee, (a mild contour in the picture, stripped bare nudescending, even

the waterfalling fountain of her smuttering flowing gown given a glassy glaze by the

illuminating gas) blushing and making a knee

her shame shaded, framed in the teabrown

colodours of a masticated holm in its green going

hangs on the dark-panelled wall opposite

Mezzotint, titularly graven: ’975 – Unknown. Λορντ Ρου, Λορντ

Ρου, έμέ έβιάσατο - pleasant to see first thing in the morning)

This deified, celestial image then dissolved in the air, like the smoke, perfumed with musk and

ambergris, that rises to the ether from a stick of incense, like the heroine (“bust: 36; waist: 24;

hip: 36”) killed off in a line, in the act of saying that she thought you can kill me off in a line if

you want to, never think of me again, having never recovered sufficient consciousness to put her

arms about his neck, his mind change, ere sh she he her erased, quickly she vanished from my

sight, together with my alluring dream… This was the point, o gentle readers, at which, alas, I

awoke….saying in her twittering song Τηρεύς Τηρεύς έμέ έβιάσατο. I awoke and emerged with

a start from my sweet dream, to turn the television off.

But this was no dream, I was awake. Walking across the sitting-room, I turned the television off.

(and all before)

(heh, have you seen this!

A tiny dark-brown mole by her pants)

‘Good evening’.

When the curtain went up (to pass freely through windows, it is necessary to respect the fact that they have solid frames. This

principle is simply a requisite of the sense of reality. But there must also, equally, be the possibility of otherwise as well), when

the curtains were drawn, the scene confronts the public voyeur like the exaggerating mirror in which the depraved saw

themselves, aghast at the sight of its other self, unmasked. composed of imbecility, lust, merdre, a beautiful blending of

dissonant elements, the demolished ruins of Monsieur Teste and Mrs Kabal ,a man without qualities, lhoosein.

You be you,

and I, I’ll - g♾d g0d! - K awoke at last to find herself getting laid

This character out of my mind, whose author I became in the days when I was losing precise recognition, had a way of looking at

things, with the eye (that frontier between being & non- being) of a man who does not recognize, who is beyond this world -

behind closed eyes, what sudden lights, like the windows of a house seen at night when someone is walking through it with a

lamp, but which approached might change into railway stations or a brothel of possibilities, each train of thought the

contemplation of the mechanism by which the relation of the known and unknown are but observation of beautiful forms, such

perspectives in himself, that he did not himself know where he would come out, what aspect would finally prevail in him, the

very demon of possibility - feelingness opinionated, thoughtful contextual, emotional controlled - why quibble, suppose we grant

him all these qualities - yet he has none! When she, whose beauty was of the fatty tissue supporting the epidermis, spoke of love,

he spoke of the statistical curve of behavioural patterns - unable to regard his own inner response as anything but an expedient,

knowing quite well that the development of his attention would be infinite and that the idea of finishing no longer has any

meaning in a mind come to that point where consciousness no longer allows an opinion to go unaccompanied by its procession of

modalities, and finds repose (if this is repose) only in awareness of its own innumerable precisions. Meticulously kept separate in

time and place and weighed out according to formulae, like cogs of a machine, the office, the theatre, the home, where one

returns and finds familial wife, frigidaire, gramophonograph, and shilling life (the paper (1s.) will give you all the facts). But

whether he was happy or not it is hard to say. It is not to be found in the obituaries. We should certainly have heard.

Probably neither, as a plant is neither, but he had succession’s reversion into memories to disturb him. Then another

self-same faculty developed, a qualitative habit of looking at things that passes the time that would have passed anyway, that of

seeing things as so many symbols (not my strong suit: I am not a man for seeing syntax as fantasy and grammar an illusion, I am

a stupid man, I am a sick man, I think my liver is diseased, well then, let it get even worse, no matter, nothing happens, fail again

better, it’s awful, memory’s succession of succesion), and, a mystic without god, killed the puppet inside.

His wife, watching with ’Enry the - it’s always - blue smoke from his cigarette “curl lazily in the air” into the

statuspheres, while on the tv, the superhero, his underwear bagging at the seat and knee, returned home to his

wonder woman, who, amazing erudike as she was, held his cock at arm’s length, while mended his S and played the

frownlined frau, shrewd and untrammeled, and watched on the tv, on the other side, no exagggeration, no plot, no

digressions, the ambiguous dialogue of certain strangers on a railway platform, while April marches on, and hunger

provokes wailing which brings the breast which permits sucking, which late late show provocation suggests wants

that envision the things which will indeed satisfay the wish permitting that which issues in further provocation, so

then need, object, act, and satisfaction are soon associated like the charms on a rosary.

Not a tale's length past we lined our bowels with dinner, and already they growl for more.

One may decide that the nipple most nearly resembles a newly ripened raspberry (never, be it noted, the plonk of

water on a pond at the commencement of a drizzle, or the painful red eruption of a swelling), but does one care to

see his breakfast fruit as a sweetened milky bowl of snipped nips? No. Is man a savage at heart, skinned o'er with

fragile Manners? Or is savagery but a faint taint in the natural man's gentility, which erupts now and again like

pimples on an angel's arse?

The wife of one who dreamed of Jenny with the light brown pubic hair, declared that in her time and place there

were scientists of the passions who maintained that language itself, on the one hand, originated in 'infantile

pregenital erotic exuberance, polymorphously perverse,' and that conscious attention, on the other, was a 'libidinal

hypercathexis' - by which magic phrases they seemed to mean that writing and reading, or telling and listening, were

literally ways of making love, the act of which requires a progressive shortening of the senses, allowing the mind to

be present at that so long wished for, as parallactic facets of dégringolade faces are crushed by the collision, losing

colodour and taste - no lime, me, tangere - eat me, this is my body; (do not use semicolons, they are transvestiter

hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing) drink me boody: a kiss is the beginning of cannibalism. Eat my

creamy and delicious words (take it or leave it to stew) and mulligans too. Bequeathed to the tome, more beautiful

than a found fall leaf, the hic ejecta jaculations of a picaresque auteur, they wait, toom womb, for you to impregnate,

in the spirit of consummate communion.

Wait a minute, this is getting out of hand!

I descant my pricksong(you

Salmon Man’

lap clean my lolly), I lift the veil on my tale, and I’ll tell you the story of ‘The

My pen is my joystick led which way by the pen’soul’s velleity, extempore psychography.

I held my penis in the three-fingered bracelet I had hand made for moving amongst the housewives in the aisles of

the church of sales with my loins at half-cock, working at arm’s length, staccato half-inch strokes up

from the base, bang shoot, semen jolted into my palm, I threw it onto the cobbled pathway, spilt it over the

polite fences and bijou gardens, it splashed the windows of the temples of commerce, consecrated to the

household gods lares and penates of the television set and frigidaire, splattered across the sales slogans and price

reductions, and a 1950s kitschen ad for New! Improved! Omniubik, now in quantum packets, showing just how it

allows the modern housewife, to be so different, so appealling, a hostess ‘officio’, whose intimate confessions pop

true, in gracious relation to her home, in pop-out, garish, low cost, mass produced, popgunn bunkum colours. I

circuited the town, scattering my semen everywhere I went in this paradigm of nowhere, scenerise extempore

with the immediacy of dreams, compose condense the drifting images draped with memories,

moving in and out of the empty streets, I can’t help but help myself leaving new life clambouring through the

cracks mapping the graven stones, a pagan gardener stocking this reconditioned eden.

I wander my solipstic island, inventing it (just as I have invented you, dear reader) extempore,

those who’re to whore, I put there, I have dressed them and may well choose to undress them

(nor is that the end of my beneficence and cruelty, in fact, without me, they’d have no cunts, o

what a dreadful beautiful beastly thing all at once), all this is neither here nor there, they are done

and they are undone and then all ready to be undone ‘n’ done again ~ through these, moving with

the freedom we have when we are alone, when it is impossible to be dead, moving with the

living silence of a Rose, her eyes looking through me - I insert an appropriate sentence so she

appear to be answering me, as if she had been waiting impishly at the end of my thought, as in

circumstances so like a novel, talking like a person in a book, in completed sentences and poised

posed phrases - coexisting spatially in two different temporal dimension, the beloved artificial

ghost of an image who seems, I sometimes wonder, to have invented me, that I should appraise

her, a prize to be praised, to be prised open, that my invented island is really taking its place in

world geography, on a scale of 1 to 1, that the country itself is its own map - I look on the map,

yes, there’s a tattered fragment sheltering an occasional influence of the future on the past,

And there, giving a flourish with my pen’s stick thus - - a way along

a wavering faint crack that joined the main crack about half-way between the squashed ? mark

like stain of some inksact outhouse and the Sign of the Inn Inn, the road to

indeed no signpost

but there is

(Listen, before you leave, I’d better tell you about the appendoma. The generalised life-course

looks like this: : notice the open space in the middle at D: this is what an indivifual

system looks like (c the parentheses) see, it moves into coincidence here, and out there. The area

out here is called the endire. When a certain level of saturation is achieved, then it is in a

prepared state for the entrainment of the vibratory systems.

with corresponding dischord and concordance, on the ot.)

Thence you rode the vibes,

My pen is my gearstick steering my mind’s Spannungsbogen spacetimeship through shifting

limen scapes

tralala a way along the strip - mobil, bus - met a more bilious stripper, viva ultravioletvelvet,

vaginatatis, who’d offer you a candy, darling? from her silver foil, and swishy in her satin and

bibbety-bobbety hat, into the backroom, where she’s everybody’s flower to de-, space enough

within, where the curtain rises over the hermetic pocket universe garage of the queen of amok,

and the superstar halo’d aristos, a peephole gallery who’ll yield to their A-void, any zip-trip

who’ll stand the pressure of their thighs, two new pence to have a go, you betcha bang bang shot,

khrrrrrklak, yago tatell, viktoria, howtelle are you? I’m fine. How are you? I’m fine, and so it

goes, when this naked, young, immensely marvellous cunt undulates in. You’re very well made,

said Bishop Castle (formerly King Rook), who’s snatch a girl’s snatch right out from under her

assets, 17th century, I’d say, What are you, exactly? it asked curiously, as it jerked limply, mouth

in rictus grin. I’m a little girl, of course. Aren’t I? Then, who are you? Now, this was a very

remarkable thing to say, for the heroine seemed to spend an hour underground in thought, and

could not answer: I do not know, because I’m not myself, you see. Lady Kruppingham-Jones,

one side taller, the other side shorter, inspected the yung fretend woman, typical of her period.

Does she want to make love to me? I suppose I will, it will add a touch to my present menagerie,

I wonder if anyone claimed her. Nây-m-sdi pâ made a gesture with his ring. Ash nazg u agh

kimpt to. It is done. Programmed. She belongs to you now. The fraulein this, is pense que t’a

make love to elle. What games we are going to play. Uh-huh, Where did I put that key…?Ah...!

put your mink on. You may have my body, you shall not have my soul. I am a respectable

woman, I am a housewife, I am already a married woman, I think my soul is diseased, reconciled

to the knowledge I must spend this paragraph (such as it is) with you, though it is my duty to

learn to remember...I must remember...no! not that! that when the the memorphail effect (you

can't stay in the past once you’ve visited the future) rubs off I will be returning to my husband, to

convince him that I am not the wanton woman he believes me to be. (Flasbhack cutaway: she

smoothed her skirt under her as she sat down. And then she vanished. She was gone. He was

alone. The knick-knacks seemed to mock him in the grief of his separation and thus increase the

pain) Love love, my love, the abstraction offers all the pleasure, and nothing whatsoever of the

pain. G∞d g⊙d! was the world I knew merely the interior of the being whose inner voice I myself

was? Who or what word in what world was the final uncontained? God? Nothing? What's on the

other side? she thought to herself, sky lurking behind her eyes, a tv tuned to a dead channel. The

other side of what?' said the pawn queen, just as if she he she had replied to her unspoken

thought. When the petite-mort of fear has gone, fallen back like spittle in post-coital tristesse,

only I remain. I am still Mrs Underwood, with an imploring look of longing, that said, I am a

married woman, Bob, do something. ‘Oo’s ‘oo, yawned Nây-m-sdi pâ , he wished they would

get to the p∝int, and began to stroke Anti-Christine’s dune breasts.

Do you mind‽ A? Θ!

I awoke to find her gone. I must have dozed, for when I twisturned, she was there again. Do

you mind or is that rude. People don’t mention it. I am pert. I do mind. It isn’t rude. People don’t

mention it. And you are pert. Then I woke and she was not there again. Vanitash. Whether she

were ever there, or dreaming mind’s dream, and I awoke but truly once?

Perhaps I only imagined the other’s presence, with the illusory perspective we have for the first

few moments on awakening from a dream where we were still at one with a lost beloved before

they, fey, fade, and goest away a way as though dead, or coexisting spatially in different

temporal dimensions in one room, moving in loops,

a ball bounces from the door across the room ~ the outline of a small body, achromatic, einters,

flickered a little, undulates forward flickering in and out of focus like a street walker in and out

of streetlamps in an old film, briefly stared about her - as if to say, what shall I say when my

Lord comes a-calling, leaving the marks of of his grave on the floor, seems puzzled and a little

pert pout, as though, I’m a little girl, of course, aren’t I! to an unguinous, ingenuously not so

ingenious question, then stoops, as if muttering, alas, my Lord, I must decline, because, you see,

I’m dead, aren’t you? - then, stopt, as if something ambient in the room must give her pause,

adient, faces, but does not seem to see You, audient reader, and, as if in reply to a voice, off, Yes,

I’m coming, to herself, in but a second, before, after the flickering static recording of an

atemporal, eternally recurring, leaked impression replayed, abient, shevanisce

This has all happened a long time ago, many times before. What is now is never, only then

exists.

But no one will come now, he is saying. It is the summer of ’75. He is 9. The war has given them

a past.

In the background figures in white are playing croquet. Clicketycloche sougnds. Voices over

this. What a pity there wasn’t after dinner, I sat down at the pianothe recital would have beenlike this. would have been And you

were over there!would have beenPlease excuse me, it’s late and I’m tiredexcellent with aThat’s right!

Something in the cornear retinained, almost readable voices from somewhere nearby.

I was Lady Kruppingham-Jones, you see. I still am. There is no other.

Quite duscended, a tighstatic grain, so fine, lights lifted it, voices crinkled it.

I overheard voices overhead discussing the state of someone who seemed unaware of what was

happening to them. When did you see him?

He was here…

I said ‘when’ not ‘where’

“It is as if an author on another plane of existence was typewriting a story about us.” The words

they had used, coinciding so exactly with my own thoughts.

Tap goes the pen’s table tipping.

Is there anybody outhere?

It’s outthere!

All the same, it’s other.

Cut! It’s ‘over’.

Take to the 4th wall: perhaps it had all been decided before, those in league with the voices

holding sway within him, combining innumerable incidents that must bring him to the necessary

moment, inexorably, the hour-glass moment when the invisible voices become the new tenants

for whom we are their ghostly hauntings

What a pity we cannot come to some understanding I think it would help us to understand each other we

have only a hosrt time left and then it will be all over what a pity we cannot come to an understanding

Again, once more, then the piano’s common integral vibrations orchestrated with those of

extraneous origins, the aerial momentum vibrations, coinciding with the corresponding

eigen-frequencies of those absorbed in riding while working on the concordant communion, in

that symphony of all human experience, suddenly stops, and a ball bounces in from outside the

window. A white cord of ectoplasm seems to flow hanging materialized in the air. A boy looks

in at the window to the right, then climbs in preceded by his worldline, like a spewed path

channel vector from his appendix worm centre, and picks it up and drops it out the window and

jumps out the window, leaving the marks of his grave on the floor, because you see, he’s dead.

The scene repeats.

They’ve taken over the neighbouring room. Come on, hurry up, don’t forget the wireless, poppet,

you’ve got time, run, run faster, faster, faster.

Gently, then suddenly very quickly, the landing-door closes with a terrible bang. During this

moment, she can be seen streeking to handshake the knob (that story in which she was involved

was still in progress, could never be known to her until she was outside it)

She thought she heard girlish laughtear, whispurring, I suppose you’d like to see me undress

she turned around just in

time to catch a flæsh ff white, step out onto the psychogeographical border of a lane. I suppose

you’d like to see me undress (it was as if he just appeareed there). She stepped out onto freshly

mowed grass bordering on a suburban boulevard (it was as if she just appeared there).

There was thinvisible in the air, that terrible listlessness that starts to set in about 2:55 on a

sunday afternoon, when light floats, that that paragraph is unreadable, that the raised finger ticks

toward the hour when enter the long dark teatime of the soul.

Whisht!

Sh’hid behind the hedge at thedge of thebend, filled with the worm i’ the bud ombrous rustling

of maiden flowers and the hawthorn scent which strays plundering those returning home from

church along the hedgerow’d way from which the once-trodden ways and even the memory of

those who thronged them have vanished into a field of stubble without anyone interfering,

hlistening to the swish of pneumatic psychicles over the unmade road, the coddoubled bicyclers

who’ve coasted down from the poster of a cycle race, on which, as they came over the dread

bridge - monsieur x on his causal l∞p track, followed by any number (8) mud-drenched

pscyclists on equally muddy cycles (oo’s ’oo n there were no ones ’ere now that there was then,

commagain, ydoan o nudhn, dooyuh) one took a spill at the third turn, another suffering a whole

plugulp puncture of thorns thick as thieves, a third carrying his on his shoulders up the hill, yet

another, as the intermingling of molycircules or road and rider brings death half way to meet

you, half-man-half-bicycle, propped by one foot at the kerbstone, was leant akimbo against the

poster - one perceived by the roadside, a young woman, Mrs Amelia Violet of 23 Chiltern

Avenue, Farnley, near Bromham, on the afternoon of 24 April, 1895/6 at 3 o’clock (I would

build up the hedges, stow round the obfuscating subfusc, have the cimmering, chthonic,

glowering welkin arch cupolid over, hold the scene cloche and fist, a vignetted only, and

exorcise in a phrase) formed of nice curves, putting her foot delicately down from the

suppedaneum-pedal to balance her bicycle, and holding it with one hand, turned to look at what

had disappeared as surely as the smoke of the train passing underneath dissipated like clouds on

a clearing day. She now had a large tear in the hem of her dress where it had caught in the chain,

which ud hadda go ’ead over e’eels, ay, so alp me, yunnuhstan, woodundat maik yuh cockstand,

lemma telya, lisn, oi sez woodundat duhsumpn maik yuh commagain, what?ch’mate! There is a

poised tension, as if to say, wait, remember, you will see, inure, in remembering the one who is

still to come, whoo when squarely round the cornear came a black bicycle, and on it sat a rider

who seemed to crouch in the saddle, wrapped in a great astramental cape and hood, so that only

his centripedaling boots on the suppedanea showed below, his face shadowed and invisible,

whoo when he reached level with her bicycle’s simple, docile, unassuming way, the bicycle

stopped. The riding figure sat quite still, with his head bowed, as if contemplating how her

saddle seemed to spread invitingly into the most enchanting of all seats, her encircling

handlebars floated with the grace of alighting wings, and at how reassuring the pump rested

warmly against her rear thigh. At that moment, the rider sat up, swung into complete union with

the seat, and gripping with assurance the reigning conqueror’s handlebars, the bicycle stepped

forward, moving slowly at first, but with sweet reciprocal responses to its master, then

submissively breaking into a quickening rhythm.

At one end of the street was a midwife and at the other end, a funeral director, as if the street

represented a life story (there was also, parenthetically, in medias res, a post office and further

along a church, as if reflecting an epistolary tale, should that be to your taste, and to further,

indeed, the correspondence, at that moment, Miss Lovelady was highheeling it up toward were

Mrs Bandrews (℅ Mr B-) was stepping with her nicely blacked shoes upon the pavement ‘for

shame!” a honeypot in lace, so that he thought, such a scene would be of use to start, in medias

res, an old-fashioned novel: “Miss Lovelady was stepping with her nicely blacked shoes upon

the pavement toward were Lord Lovelady, jauntily highstepping in tan shoes, a hat at a raskish

angle, with his cut above the rest glance, was making his way from the post office”. The fleeting

thought was touched with irony, an irony, however, that was double-edge, because somebody, on

his behalf, had absorbed all this, recorded and filed it away, and here, or rather, there, it was, is,

to be read, now, as it is for you, but when it should, as it was for me now, then, as it is for you

now, when it was written.

And just here, I will designedly negligently dropt, waiting for You who would pass this way,

an infantile epistle, dated, small em monday, reading: capital pee Papli comma capital aitch How

are you note of interrogation capital eye I am very well full stop new paragraph Thank you very

much for the candy. Please send a check, dad. I [crossed and re-written again] I lost my sweater

in the woods. Imagine (o please to stoop) here, the copse of a ‘private room’, an emblematic

nightingale invisible witness of their tryst, she would be sentinel, while something quite natural

she resisted just as naturally, but curiosity and camaraderie prevailed, and soon the other would

be called to go to her now. His name was Peter. He seemed confused and was shivering in the

sunshine. And when they were done, they would walked back silently, as if disgust and hatred

had arisen between them, yes, and then, many many years later, all the details of that adventure,

never forgotten, would suddenly come back so clearly that she would return to their room in the

wood, where he too haunted in his memories, I too, think of it often, when, come, my dear, her

husband would say, I think it’s time for us to be going, let us return, hold on a sec, the pup here

has got hold of my sock our prize titbit: master bate’s masterstroke, skirt pinned-up by a shutting

door, or pop-up in a sudden breezy breath, caught by an inopportune coincidence of occurrences,

artfully frahmed with the menseful amount of moue pout of her lick-reddened lips getting on

in the photo business will send when developed there is a jolly good fella shows up here some

evenings, he knows Q’s photographs of seaside girls. Tell him silly milly sends her I hear the

door downstairs. That’s my cue. Byby. Signature with flourishes capital em Milly no stop:

useless, will happen, blossoming into a well-built beauty that yet not overmuch is considered

sufficient enough to a stranger’s eye else she lose the beauty and never find the true friend, yes,

yes, that would happen soon, for such a piece of work is man, angled, godless, parasite,

quintessence of lust, who in bed forgets that he does not know why he is himself instead of the

body he touches, who unbeknownst to himself knows not he is kept out of the know that would

have him scream across the sky that he himself is the girl who forgets his presence while

shuddering in his arms, yes, one and all for what they can out of her, O I must easy easy restrain

yourself not till then good opprrpo god I wouldnt mind being a woman,

so oso yielding but

resisting or somebody to let myself go with I wish she were here

upon my honour I would

dote on her and I wouldn’t let her go to another to whose indecorous propitiations she would

answer her one propitious word, and I’m to give her to the son of another man who was always

writing to his daughter that she should not do things that were wrong that would disgrace him,

she should not do such things and in every letter that he wrote to her he told her she should not

do such things, that he was her father and was giving good moral advice to her and always he

wrote to her in every letter that she should not do things that she should not do anything that

would disgrace him. He wrote this in every letter he wrote to her, he wrote very nicely to her, he

wrote often enough to her and in every letter he wrote to her that she should not do anything that

was a disgraceful thing for her to be doing and then once she wrote back to him that he had not

any right to write moral things in letters to her, that he had taught her that he had shown her that

he had commenced in her the doing the things things that would disgrace her and he had said

then when he had begun with her he had said he did it so that when she was older she could take

care of herself with those who wished to make her do things that were wicked things and he

would teach her and she would be stronger than such girls who had not any way of knowing

better, and she wrote this letter and her father got the letter and he was a paralytic always after,

who’s son would see that she were comely and homely and take her to wife and dote on her, the

lucky dog, curse god, an earthly father bain’t nor judge of ’is own maden (Soy tu padre y tu

marido. Y hago de uno o de otro según me conviene) but when do spy a nice rounded leg to do

blame god for, would have her cover all her wickedness, a wild piece of goods, pert little piece

she was, shapely too, sex breaking out even then, lovely lively lithe legs legging up the stairs,

buds shaking and dancing about in the cut of her blouse like her mum’s, neckline just low

enough to provoke a past master’s frenum, and just high enough not to make a postmaster frown,

same thing, watered down, weak solution, kindred soul, discern at once, by the ineffable

tabulatable indices, the deafly demon from a sunshine-halo’d group in a collection of

photographs, lhooq, the author of quality plays, of the little nymph, fatherly love, hobbies:

photography, fond of children himself and fathers are among his best friends, conquering hero,

friend of the family, tapping her lo on the beeoteetum on the qt, no, nothing happened, happy,

happier then, far away now past, might take a trip down there, But, o papli, how old you’ve

grown! showing me her exorcise book P, attractive enough to take advantage of my letter and

make a pass at her, then I would be worse than a kidnapper who rapes a child, 15 she was, safely

solipsized, without impairing or affecting her, as if she were a photographic image rippling upon

a screen (and now, here, brief materialisation, as if it were really before me, courtesy of a

photographic memory) possessed but the ideal, the idol, overlapping and floating between,

unwilled, moving with the freedom we have when alone, when it is impossible to be dead,

unconconscious of, her solitude is unviolated, no harm done. When the wife came home from

town, we had dinner and some red wine, then we had sex. It had never been that good, before or

after.

In my father’s housewife’s housekeeper are many rooms. Jealous blinds adorn her windows; her

hallway is always full of the passages of coming and goings; the drawing-room where she

receives formal visits; the sitting-room where friends and family come and go as they list; but

beyond that, are rooms, barely opened, and a room in which she sits alone, looking out of its sole

window, waiting for a footstep that never comes ~ but then, an unknown step thudumb, coming

up the backstairs, mind, slowly - oh, so very very slowly, for the steps creaked - stopping or

retreating where it might distirb, a solicitous aversion: a tentative adversion ~ after a long stirless

vigil, begin again, sounding nearer and nearer, not so ideal, up the passage (get out of my house

is barred and bolted and I won’t let you in) while more and more faintly came, like wine through

water, memories carried on the breeze, lethe me in, through the window, that you won’t! I’ll

never let you in, and her thoughts pretending it was merely the leaf of a childhood chapter

carried through the air (why don’t you, a voice gentle, encouraging, a lover’s voice on a late

morning) turned into a dove, serenly drifting above ~ and he turned into a ~ and she into a ~ and

the steps into a bird of prey and her thoughts shifting shape (no stranger’s feet will enter me) a

heavy numbness seized her limbs, yew-chewing, geophagous roots, fed on the substance of the

potato-patches in the toom tomb spaces once occupied by allotted cubiculum plots of unquiet

sleepers, harpily clutching and clawing, sapping her hasped casement (why pluck’st thou me?)

let me bring in the memories (wash the panes) as if she wants to cling to the vision she has of

herself, tightening herself into a knot, as it started working itself over on her, going into herself,

merely an evanescent, intangible t’ouch, but a tertium quid, but you can’t tho you bleeding cun’t,

you cant not know no more, you cant becaws youre carrying it inside you, there it is and working

in you, the waiting to happen aint out there where it ben no more its inside you,

there...there...she could have, should have

she could wish not, but has, wish she had, but has not, ‘tis e’er innocent’s lot to fly to the wolf

for succour from the hoodsman.

‘My ingenuous predecessor, she was unwordly too?’ ‘Yes, quite a fledgling’ ‘He seems to like

them like that!’ ‘Oh, young, he did, I mean, like you said.’ ‘But of what did you speak first?’

‘Why, of a certain innocence.’ ‘In the ways of the world?’ ‘Of what else?’

I recollect I threw this off at the time - spanking the hand made - but leave it unfinis

This is getting out of hand

Listen, not so much I should like to see her again but if she were to introduce me to her daughter,

you must get that girl for me! A says she's an "innocent" girleen, but E says she's "older than 14”,

mature-spread cunny is all right, but young cunt is better - you can forgive a young cunt

anything, but when I look down into this fucked-out, doesn’t give a fuck, fucked so she’ll stay

fucked, selfless empty hole of a cunt, even if, without curves and swerves, with the hip-sprung,

high-assed way she swayed, like a character in a B movie, used to being seen, from being

married, she knew how to be naked, that doesn’t put meat on the bone or juice between the leg,

incarnivorate, only still immaculate flesh appease, how can the bitten apple flesh out its scar

again (now then, let’s take off thiss little frock at once, here, there, littel girl, one lesser garment

will suffice to clothe your crotch, hide that undiscovered cavern where old time will wind his

watch, whose Moloch’s palate-paunch makes no distinction between gristle bone and handsome

flesh, impossible to chose, all are wondrous, but none is finer than the rest together, betwixt

stools my breeches falleth to the ground, any girl any time they do something pretty, even if

they’re not much to look at, or even if they’re sort of stupid, you fall in love with them (you’re

my kind of girl, pepita, said peter pėckher, and I) would do the juicy with her, cave, teef be

twean her legs) and all the world’s but a bunch of boobs and ass and cunts and dicks and swaths

of snaths and snash and snatch and grab and fingers tingling with shame, at least you can tickle

his creatures, there behind that screen, resembling a hedge of altar flowers, their blossoming

buds swelling with an unconsciously appealing look, whose object was to force one to halt at

their altar, to see, to know them, as different from the mature cloud of bloom, tortured and

groaning under the weight of their fruit, inedible and bosoming the light from the younger

blossoms with their curling tight buds, as a flock of gulls alighting from God knows (or perhaps

God does not know) where, or the married probably now, with a young family, she’s been called

back home, never saw her again, why should I remember her suddenly, on such a day, rain

falling on the apple blossoms (Not so much I should like to see her again but if she were to invite

me to meet her daughter, that carrefourest of all that led to and radiated around her, charming

glow of bluered colour beneath which would come soon the leavenous moment when the as yet

unemerged bloom is fixed (so short the space of time between the mirrory beach and the violent

violet shadow of some rosy rock) and her young girl friends, the future Gs and As, where an

impassable gulf of the impossible precedes and separates them in their enshrining sentiment of

mystery, who’d evoke reveries and sorrows of my own youth and indeed, as the belying crescent

moon bellying its own mother, the still surviving desire aroused by the ineffable signs, certain

indices (index (little lith) rapidly tapping upon the cigarette) of the shyly slight slim little lithe

but barely budding ghost in natural colours, pearl and umbra, with infinitely soft partings, in her,

even with her pair of pumpkins for breasts, in whose image she was made, photographed (it is a

question of focal adjustment, to hold the vision of one in the image of the other), and in whom

(these theses of the parents) perhaps, excusing myself through a certain aesthetic egosim, I might

be allowed the privilege to see and touch in one chaste kiss on time materialised in this

personification of lost time, moulded into a masterpiece, reflecting its own art within itself, the

inspiration whose culmination and fulfilment of all that went before, all experience, all

remembrance, you now hold in your hands, where you read yourself) nichely posed in poised

poesy, thedges vignetted, dressed, as though in holyday attire, in the smooth silk of their

blushing pink bodices, powdered and edible, as a freckled complexion, which would be undone

and scattered by the first breath of incensuous wind, each disclosing as it burst, its blood-red

stain,

the jeunne filles en fleurettes of eintrancement, with forsake-me-nought floral frilles, and their

bells tintinnabulate with magic music, so as your heart would burst or blood would gush, the

body shrivel, dry up, and wither like cut green rush )no lime tang ’ere in the lemon scapes(

when wend these ways went they, trailing their teens behind them ~ o catch her by her candid

colodour in incalescent incandescent, like interweaving colours of the wind making ribbons of

the parish, R is for Ragaratanha and A is for Anna, I am all these and beside me there is No

other, they’re all But merely a beatrician schoolgirl blissfully blooming for you O would you

have the flower Woo the butterfly, and the q.t. apl of his doter’s eye, claire, obscured like ours,

by dark bloom (’er ’oo’s’s’is? why gee, bloom in dig, go viviane)

Lie bestood near fanta morgana, in untroubled pure harmony, sch, as tell marveils, in the mirror

in which you read your past is your memory and the judgment is your own won

Their formerly blooming, flower-like bodies, wiltering and wuthering, now like branches torn

up, they caw their lamentations as - harpies feeding upon the deflowered, do pain and create, and

for the pain an outlet, bane and antidote both - sap hisses and sputters in the eerie trees, why do

you break me, why do you tear me?

With 32 female artifices, swaying like young vines, their pleasure gardens, as if to say, you may

enjoyn our bimba-like lips, lotus-like eyes, and rounded breasts and hypnotic hips, the smooth

belly that hides urines and faeces, I did not say that, the affected, affectionate eye that floats in

pol`luted liquid, I do not mean to deceive, I’m being so careful, choosing my words, and hiding

my meaning, now (with affection, in an effort to to lie be understood) gently one thing but

remains to win the treasure I would seize and take this and drink it and you’ll sink into a sleep

helpless while I’ll undo your preciousss ring, Why should I yield it, smegma-ghoul babbler?

What? that’s not what I meant to say, my preciousss, who’re here hear what mime was meant?

Who’re our mistresses who’re seen, through the mists, from a distance, to seem ravishing - you'll

be disappointed at first, then without being able to say how or when it happened, you'll find

you've forgotten your disappointment, and the first thing you know you'll be kissing pps and wri-

Hypocrite lecteur, — mon voyeur, — mon confrère! ¿Qué estás haciendo aquí? Fuera tu - (ting! -

that thought will never be completed now, read her thought’s thoughts as you think), eppeeist

appeased - yet later, empty and vanquished, all allure vanished, undressed and distressed at who

we are, epee hebetated,

In my pocket, I could feel what she looked to feel from afar she looked what from near she

looked like she were to be seen, which effect was as a woman in parenthesis of a window

opposite, who, in a movemoment, as a metaphormorpheusis’s woman in doublet pattern shift is

born during sleep from an uneven position of the ribs, would revert to a damned fellow on an

-ism of their own (which effect might indeed be attributed, in fact, to a reflection opposite the

window)

wherefrom

train

Now, how did we get

here

dream

therefrom

come see

come saw as was

n annext level crossing, a fetch train of thought shifting, truly dreaming back, relives in

return, with shiftings of knowledge falls dreaming back once more, awakening each 1st time

incident’s janus-faced dejamais views, dopplering pass-part-out, opposat, goest who I’d

will-o-wish I were beside.

A dolorous, wistful, allicholy stabbed my heart as it did whenever and everywhere I saw a girl I

might love who was going the opposite direction in this too-too-big world of ours (beneath and

within which, another current flows, from tomorrow to yesterday, and from time to time, of this

web of weave and unweave, we receive mysterious rumurmurs of that other, interior,

subterranean, counter-history that ebbs back to its source) who as shevanisce was everything I

might have loved and have loved me, all I regret and hope there is a heaven where the aggregate

of all the possible paths are realised.

Accursed Chance! Show her to me, show me a possibility which seems an impossibility; show

her to me among the shades of the underworld; I shall fetch her up; let her hate me, despise me,

be indifferent to me, love another, I am not afraid;... enough understanding to break off in

exactly the same way death breaks off, enough to want to have it all over again — then one is the

favorite of the gods and of the girls.

It’s still there, waiting to happen again, you can’t never go there, you who never was there,

because it’s going to always be there waiting for you

Maybe nothing ever happens once and is finished.

Knew he’d wake up the same as the day before, knew he’d wake up with these same thoughts

waiting for him, that he knew he’d wake up the same as the day before, only way to end it all

What goes around may come around, but all it takes is one groove's difference and the universe

can be on into a whole 'nother pairailel

phono finish.

And so it goes, the binary of 1ife and 0blivion ~ out of the berth of the dearth earth (and what is

earth but a deadenss with life growing out of it) the birth of life into the lifeless, death into the

deathless ~ the ludicrous plot in which we are all trapped.

In toom womb edengendered ~ she sets her hourglass over but i’faith that sand was as our

lifeblood draining from some wound, we watch it flow, and would fetch us off to bed with our

last quarter hour still in the glass ~ til dispelled by the toom of time. Out goes the candle out

goes the lite out goes my story, and so good nite. God and Satan played chaturangi for the soul.

God won. It was only left to be determined which of the two was God. [He’s the one that looks

the image of the only one can kill him.]

God is unavailable at this time, but your call is important to him. For sins of lust, press one, for

...

It was a wrong number that started it, the unanswered signal of a telephone ringing three times in

the dead of night, and a voice on the other end asking for someone who was not. You shouldn’t

have done it. Nobody knows how I killed him. Why should I kill him? If I did. Why should I

even want to kill him? Neither of the two notice me, although only one of them was dead “How

did it happen?” “It happened simple enough. I heard the door opening, and I switched on the

light, and there he was, and I shot him, and there he is.” A bullet kissed a hole in his frame.

The light was draining out of the room, going back through the window where it had come from

And I sat there seeing more and more and more afeard and more afeard, staring until he could not tell if it was the

window or the window's pale rectangle upon his eyelids, though after a moment the remembered scene emerged

through the present abstracted window.

He is leaning out the window: an el train rumbled past the end of the street. Down below, ghosts of living people

pass by (death is only the logical negation of life, and life is not only itself but the negation of itself, the meeting in

space of thing and no-thing, determined by its own denial, which must incorporate in itself an inability to endure in

order to be exist, and so must depend upon its loss, absence, to have existed at all, as the incestual realisation that the

familial virginity must be destroyed in order to have existed at all). Many many are taken up as in a crowd crossing

the street, I had not thought death had undone so many, all these here once as you are now so once were they, all

once as I am as I am to be one of them watching another such as I am now. A host of cycles in pomp goest past.

There will be soon, there! a portentous doggo doggone shout in the street, taken up in a fugual bark. From window

to window or on the stoop below, the gossiplers will be telling tales in the present vindictive, their community

hospitality spirited from common hostility, they critiqued each human drama in the immediate world of their ship

afloat in concrete - Here is a story for you: Your chair: Arthur Arthur died at his jigsaw puzzle (a dissected map of a

cross-section croquis of a block of flats) a male piece still in his hand for an x-hole, clang show and not tell for a

nickel clank, the abortions upstairs stopped up the plumbing, and where’s he‽ the superintendent’s super attendant

letchtrickery of mr bate’s lonely wife not to be found either in the diary of a seducer or notes from the seduced (bate

himself, hawking, bate back with her it was like being backstage during an amateurish play), and what of the

landlord who got out of bed in sections, like an autonomously made automaton, and carried his self into the

bathroom to perform his simple-heroic acts of heroic-simple proportions - a treasure house of stories that illustrated

tenement life within its railroad flats, with rooms like pullman cars strung together train-like, which, as a body in

symbiotic relation to the soul, so, by an extension and attenuation, each habitation might fantastically be supposed to

stand in some relation to its inhabitant, whilom the stairs - that neutral place that belongs to all and to none, the

everywhere paradigm of nowhere, with its soft damped sounds, embryos of communal life, fragmented echoes,

splinters, remnants, shadows, those first moves or incidents or accidents that never go further than the landing, with

its inventory of memories, emotions, atmospheres, designedly dropt waiting, as a suggesting host of photographs to

ward off death by creating a permanence, trading hopes for memories, but each excludes the essence and losing

meaning become a heap of details, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door, the lost lane-end into heaven, crossing the street,

thinking of the future, suddenly a door opens and he sees backward, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door, whilom the

stairs, echoing with footfalls down the passage - the furtive shadows of all those who were there one day, pass by

without seeing each other, separitioned by a few inches, they perform their synchronous movemoments, a few

simultaneous existences repeated from storey to storey, yes, right here, just like that, in a rather slow and ponderous

way, between the 3rd and 4th storey on the stair, just there, from which ¿ or ?, it begins, whilom there sounds, from

the empty third floor right, the clumsy-click of a typewriter, to which two storeys down and one across, there was

the echoed response to hand of mistaking reality for the imposition of the frame of its picture, which stopped me

dead as though by some impalpable intervention, like a sheet of glass through which I must watch all subsequent

events transpire,

Or more like I were behind the back cloth in a show, through which, viewing the world behid behind the smoked

mirror sunglass windows fronting my skull-house, I could see the other figures moving, watching, only no one could

see me. But what hand were moving me then?

I seem flesh and blood, but depersonalised, erased, I am not there, I am imitating a semblance.

[Exit Stan (with an air of exist ance)]

To pass freely through doors, it is necessary to respect the fact that they have solid frames. This principle is simply a requisite of

the sense of reality. But there must also, equally, be the possibility of otherwise as well

There wasn’t anything in the door. Then she was in it. The philmy light flickering fused pov! (W). Turned on the

light. The window went black.

She evanescce, as if switched off, ghostly retinained, a panoptic pov holograph, a palinopsia that mae goest out of

the distorting memirrory (O my heart’s darling: return. O lost, and wind-grieved ghost, come back again, oh, once

more, come in) and though thought she might be a voyeur of her own experience, living at an angle to the moment

and recording it in some state of future-mind, she was something that was once for the reason that she can die

someday, while her god can't be is because it never can become was because it can't ever die. Few ideals survive the

transformation into reality.

’And with a fflæsh of my pen’s handle, my word, spilth ink all over the paginal sheet, her formulaic beauty, th’inked

creamy-freckled skin of the paper, all COOHs and sighs, if I could have t’and’s her lovely quality born from her

defects, skinned over with a faint taint of grafile manners, which savagely erupts now and again like pimples on an

angel’s arse, have her, like that, slim, schizzy thorobred, maia vidal-garner, sign something allowing me to use her,

literally, the rhyme and rhythm of her body, the dainty languor of her legs, the to-be-bitten cherry-teats of her sad,

owl-eyed breasts, a rim of white under her irises, like her drawers, her skin, creamy and delicious, the textured page

on which I write my mind, have tidal moods of physicality, enveloping spasms, play across the sheet of her body, a

saros would not suffice to describe all she, but 220 sardonic, synodic months herself, meant to me,

I, the author, will-o-wish indeed to have my heroines perform all manner of heaven knows what salacious services

for me. To write with the chemicals of their come, all COOOHs and Os.

In the beginning was the gesture and in the end the come, in between are words.

Let us fuck then, you and I, now you are spread out like a page etherized upon a table. For if life is worth living at

all you can have your cake and eat it, too (съесть ее тунцом as the Russians say).

Stately, plump, yes, I will yes, reive her a way a long the run of her but buck back if she buts bolder ha’and to feel

the curve of her parabola, I reached out a noun handling the nearest and most commonly available adjective (what a

handfull mouthfull!) with discreet verbs and delicate conjunctions, questing for the protocol proper to their

respectively parasitic and amensal stations and commensal and mutualistic dreams (please sir, a painkiller, for the

parasitic being inside) with vice versa virtue and with vivid verve entice her vital briefs down her long arse (ecce:

itchy) and with many manoeuvring and meted mense take her up the arse in sin - the natural grammatical transition

by inversion involving no alteration of sense of an aorist preterite proposition (parsed as masculine subject,

monosyllabic onomatopoeic transitive verb with direct feminine object) from the active voice into its correlative

aorist preterite proposition (parsed as feminine subject, auxiliary verb and quasimonosyllabic onomatopoeic past

participle with complementary masculine agent) in the passive voice - Reader: he fucker her who was fucked by

him, with slick lipstick adjectives and indecent prepositions ~ up on in ~ which burst like a bubble’s kiss ~ but book

back, read her ~ every choice has its obverse, renouncing difference ~ I have not reached out my hand, and she was

exalted by it for a time, become rounded, and I snatched her to me, and felt myself snatched; I felt myself snatched,

and snatched her to me. Join our stories, and bury them next. I was buried in her flesh. She throbbed in the beat of

my pulses. She was wine in my blood, I embodied in her “flesh”,

What was it I held, and called Christine? A bagful of meaty pipes and pockets, a few thousand pencils of carbon, a

few buckets of water slaplash thrown, a voracious matrix, innards, nacreous liver (1975 grams, 28cm wide, sexteen

thick and half that high, browned, frim but friable) comely homely twin mutton kidneys, soaked through with juices,

strung up on jointed sticks (measure, weighted, counted, supputed, subract her quarts, pints and gallons of

ubiquitous liquid: what is she: the hundredweights of a butcher’s brisket off the hook, plup! the product of the

mutual dependence-mutual hostility of thòúsands upon thoûsands of individuels) - the whole thing squoieasching

and pulshing, in patters of pulp bits shot whirling in comic-book arcs spattering splat against the flesh - doomed

soon enough to decompose into its elements, become undone, the inside become oustide, the crowded, silent-roaring

city of an invisible host-captured carcass that had already begun their unresisted invasion (curtonevrae, she should

hear them, or would if could), until, wasting almost visibly, as little by little the abandoned corpse puts on its

makeup, til by the time their biology-spreading work was finished, all that remains of life left in this human ruin, of

ധhat lovely breasts all the better to solicit you with, of the leavenous contours of her bluevein mapped

legenoumetry, her rings of red hair, her childish unquestioning reliance, of her pale crescent eyes bellying the full

stare belied below that made her look like a child when suddenly it turns serious, so that I was made jealous, began

to hate her, wanted to show her what I hand’t thought of before, but now I did (what use her well primed, great

weight, handbreadth expanses a cubit from her, like that, what use coyness why be dutiful and beautiful,

when we have more of that towards which we move in us than that of which we have but a moment movement, it

is anywhere, in the ugliness of what’s been beautiful too long, in the forgetfulness of what is far away, and in habit,

that forgetfulness of what is close), of all of it, is but a a delicate relishable turmoil of limbs and innards and loins

and vitals, body and soul and blood and ouns, a splanchnic plash, a senseless menseless mess, oozed where the

body had been, a stain convulsed into a ? - Θ‽ but indeed there is no sense at all in describing this exciting inviting

enticing inciting exotic and half-bric-à-brac as though I were taking an inventory of any shop-window - to describe

her at length would be a pleasure, exhaustively analytically abstract and catechismically resolve this too too solid

flesh into their physical, emotional, psychical, cosmic, aesthetic, religious equivalents, a

mathematico-astronomico-physico-mechanico-geometrico- psycho-chemical sublimation at the algebraic ∞th

remove - yet afflicted in the brief meanwhile with lump slide and melting, troubling its sleep with dreams of

passedness, of love,

K awoke at last to find herself getting laid

no no did he make you then he made you do it let him he was...

She accepted that--not reconciled: accepted--as though there is a breathing-point in outrage when you can accept it

almost with gratitude since you can say to yourself, ‘thank God, this is all; at least I now know all of it’,

a voice gentle, encouraging, a lover’s voice on a late morning, believe it’s merely the breeze

taking you, a dove above, as though a thought stole you away, and she was thinking of so many

other things, of when she was a girl in the foothills of the headlands, and how the moon shone on

the pond in the woodfall gap when she got there, no longer than while there is somebody to

perceive it, thinking more pitaprattle telltale to obfuscate what was happening ~ will you won’t

you will you want to wanton wont me eat you drink me with what big bad bags you have as

made a dame mad who’d even eaten already, food to chyle to blood to dung to earth to food,

good god becomes man becomes feather bed cot rot dot dod ded bed swallow the spider to catch

the fly perhaps to die grave tree’s limb’s nest’s egg’s bird’s feather bed to ded dad to dam to dum

to mum, mum diddley dad fiddley office oft’ ’tis ads and fads for lads and dads, ads for babs and

fads for mads, and say, do phallices eat alices, do alices eat phallices, nevar raven ~ parsing

mechanically about commonplaces, odds and ends, measured, weighed, counted, supputed, made

nonsense of, shuffled, annulled, some prosthetic device to plug the gap, a dress of a certain

colour, another lover, to fill the sigh-lent silence, conceal her thoughts, ride the vibrations, and

without which it would not even be breathing but mere protoplasmic inhale and collapse of blind

unorganism in a darkness where light never began. Dreamend. Azone, redolent of faded sperm,

lie be stood, little deaf, she was exalted by it for a time, become rounded, but later it became apparent to her, he

battled with himself upon her body, and something withered in her. What happened to it? she decided to say, and

then said it, What happened to it, is what I'd like to know. I wish someone could tell me. Something’s died in me,

it’s dead, you’ve killed it. And the terrible thing, the terrible thing is, but the good thing too, the saving grace, is that

- excuse me for saying this - but that though it ought to make us feel awkward when we talk like we know what

we’re talking about when we talk about breaking up - srwhoitstckl - though you know maybe not even that we both

knew it then.

What are you doing?

Trying to figure out how to describe you.

Want me to pose?

I mean in my book, what kind of character should I make you? trying to reconstruct a reality that

I couldn’t make sense of when we were…

Just if you can only remember half of the things and write a book out of it

See what I mean, in real life you’d never have spoken so

So?

So like a novel! I mean this is the kind of thing a reader might suppose.

Hmmph. …. “Every word is an unnecessary strain on silence and nothingess” on the other hand,

he said it. Maybe you can include that in your book, the works of master bates, yes.

Wait! Where are you going?

To get a pen. I’ve got to write this conversation down before I forget it. I’ve got it. Paragraph 1:

K awakes to find herself getting laid. Paragraph 2: she realises it’s the end. By the end of the

page, [Click!] She came over to where I was. ‘What are you doing? Where are you going?’ ‘To

get a pen. See, here, writing, and here’s you, saying “Yes, maybe some one will read this one

day”

as he lived it prophesying his deciphering the precise moment when he would finish deciphering

it – having already understood]

Years after I'd seen her for the last time I found myself thinking of her unexpectedly and often, in

a seemingly similar way that certain places signify more in the mind with passing time. While

my wife talked reams...incorporated...call...body, slɪə̯ ¿ping back into the narrow end of nigh’t, certain sets of streets I keep

returning to, one dim mist of railroad rooms, and the same figures reappears, borderline ghosts, a llama crossed the zebra crossing, where in a

flaming room a lama who’d reamed out a double-crossing zebra bond salesman who’d left behind reams of alarmingly telescopened font

letterheaded with its alar ྉ, whilom a fire engine was briiinging a l’adder, alighting raddled faces away kenning up the flickering licking

lackering lickerish flames drowningluggl indeed‽ the building wherein

What happens when you wake up? Will I cease to be? Will you? Or… if I (that is to say,

otherwise you wouldn’t be here) wakes, you won’t exist, and it really was shwaə, Dinah, after

all, which dreamed it, Dinner!, good to eat, sufficient for my hung her you should’t have done it I

must Wake up! What‽ Dinah! Θ‽ An other, another nightmare. What? What do you mean

another nightmare? Like the one last night. The night before I mean. What‽ first I’ve heard of it.

What’s the time? Dinner, that’s just what you need, darling, to help you get rid of those horrible

nightmares, until you make the unconscious conscious, it will will your fate as the righteous voice of your

bicameral mind will call it,

It's inexplicable. It just does not explain. Or perhaps that's it: Nothing is true, everything is permitted.

Go out among them and tell them that their nostalgic seeking where thy’ve never been is sex, that they must

come to love love first and not that from which it comes, dispel that we move unknowingly knowing toward each

other, not to love humanity, but those members who happen to be at hand, t’andy, someone one day, and the next

another. You meet someone, you go with them, and suddenly you go down new streets you didn’t even know were

there, you get a whole new place: everything changes.

Come all ye labour-saving devisers and piledrivers, come all ye who live deliberately and ye

drivers of the dray, I am with the master builder shouldering his hod, at home on the red hills of

georgia, or in the woods of concord, I suffered, I was there, on the 14th of nisan, walking with

yeshua ha-notsri when he had his moment of doubt and faith, I turn the bridegroom out of bed

and stay with the bride myself, jetting the stuff of …

My true church is a whorehouse, where virgin handmades are buried who bore us and who’re us, prostitution the

natural apotheosis of the feminine attitude, the sacred demands the violation of the object of terrified respect, a

surgent urgency to defy modesty as immodestly as possible, blameless for a sin whose pleasure is precisely

reciprocal to its pain, that fullfillment of empty longing to sere with desire that reduces us to pulp, that rises once the

worm has got into the fruit, that must be tainted with poison, whose extreme seductiveness is at the boundary of

horror, the murderous violation bordering on death, assenting to life in and unto death, which insatiate satisfiction,

were we to grasp the ecstatic moment, we would define, and desire dies sere ere ire it erise.

If happy I can be I will, if hapless I will I can.

Because, what else? I am the sum of all the moments of my life, all that is mine is in them. I am a part of all that I

have touched and that has touched me, which, having for me no existence save that which I gave to it, became other

than itself by fusion with what I then was, and is now still otherwise, with what I now am becoming. There aint no

only myself, others are but appendages to my needs, shifting and flickering according to my changing desires,

shrunk in stature before the statutes and statues of my invention, the projection of a world.

The only unprerecorded in the prerecordings themselves, scenes repeat in truth as shadow-theatre on the antre wall,

This then? This is not a book. No, this is a projection, all word virus is a copy, the machines project the walls,

coincident upon themselves, and what if the machines are projections? I must insert myself into the machine so it

appears I am become death that death becomes the condition and pawn for being alone (when it is impossible to be

dead) to contemplate and appear contemplated by her.

Know now no where or when, now, here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment, return all if buts and clichéd

reality from which we escape by metaphor, making silk dresses out of worms, unmotivated the moment, life freed of

ends, there is no why, no god but is in me or not at all, I am the world in which I walk, how wide and deep its

present, desolate but for the world within me, tree=umbrella=tree, that I could not tell between thinking and looking

out of the window, seeing more and more, and every moment a window on all time, and everything beautiful and

nothing of terror. What we got is now, and now is forever. Until it ain't.

And it is just here, just at this dark and silent frame, that the zero point, reaches its last unmeasurable gap above this

theatre. There is just time for a last gasp grope, to greet with the pretence presence of a nod, to, wholly open, let

things happen, sustain a glance, hold an apple in the hand, read, with blackened fingers, a newspaper from headlines

to horoscope, enter the history of the world, to penetrate into the heart of things and sleep waking in some pre-natal,

fetal fatal sleep of the toom womb of mainline shot (no sales talk necessary) whose temporal dimensions far exceed

their actual brief duration, with an accompanying diminishment of the experience of time, to hover once and

therefore forever above, and yet feel the weight of now, now and now,

The terrible moment of immobility, stamped with eternity, in which, passing, as two trains travelling in opposite

directions, observer and observed seemed suspended in the timeless architecture of a movemoment, the piece of

driftwood or ball leaving the child’s right hand come to immediate rest, petrified in mid-air, its parabola arrested, in

a steady state movemoment that partook of inertia. Follow the bouncing ball caught by the camera never yet by the

boy, (that’s some catch that) instances twinned in the twinkling of a moment. Imagining, when the train had passed,

and I stared out of the railway carriage window and watched the trees and telegraph posts slipping by, and through

them I saw us, perhaps a little younger than we are now, as we might be, I imagine arriving at the station, giving up

my ticket, letting myself in with the latchkey, she would be in the hall to meet me, or perhaps upstairs in her room,

lifting a kettle from the hearth, and set it sideways on the fire, where later now, then we were moved to the country, I

am with him who goes to her when the lights goest again, the trees changed into the telegraph-posts just before the

level crossing, and I got out at the station, and gave up my ticket and walked home as usual, alone and without her.

I was two pavements from my destination when some trenchcoated destiny ‘ps-s-s-s-s'd at me, from out a ginnel.

‘Greet tell, greet tell’, sounding flat flatly faltering, like a pair of lactic speech balloons, but ‘greet tell’ who? when

suddenly I realised I was listening from the wrong spot: tell gretel: ‘tell gretel’!

Don’t stop. Go on. Don’t stop.

I, Hugh, he was after I, Hugh was saying,

–You say: They found you in the passage leading to the booking station.

And you came home?

To die. Yes.

To die?

Yes. To die.

But that's getting too far ahead of the story, although the end but begs the beginning, my last page is always latent in

my first, but ~ writing cloud-like changes as it went along (genre generate genre) - the intervening windings of the

way become manifest only as I write.

I rub the memory from my eyes, and sleeping back, let me take you back, and take myself back too, to

You probably want to know in a line what my lousy childhood was like. There: done. I record that it was remarked

once upon a time in my ab-sensce (I am the sum total of everything that went before me, of all that happens after me

which otherwise would not. I contain contradictory multitudes), that the hands of the clock came together in the

middle in namaste (let us pray you have not forgot to wind up the clock) chiming with ‘Stop,’ Word sent tense.

A pair of grifters, perforce ceased their waltzing revolutions, held in illimitable dominion, their hands raised in

arches over their heads

Another chap there:

‘Book themne’

As for the rest, these pages must show. Call me the hero, or not, as you wish. Excuse me for a moment, not a tale’s

length past we lined our stomachs with luncheon, and already as indifferent grave-worms, they growl for more, I

thought, but it was nothing.

And after a while I had been hearing my watch for some time (people probably do hear watches go tic-tok, but I’m

sure my childhood clock went tic-tic-) ~ a pair of noises sounded around about, vibrating though there were no-one

to know it, my shadow walked on the grass beside me, no longer than while I am by to perceive it, beside myself

with foreshadowing amen, the three of us hand-in-hand.

Lo, a shadow of horror is orisun in your reason, refracted through the subterranean lair of the wily human

relationship: a dark maze of pop-up demons, fun house mirrors, spooky dead ends, multiple false bottoms, wherein

the night’s wind mills the mind’s will

Coming Soon!!!: A Narrative, New! Improved! POSTmodernISM

Well, let’s move these pages elsewhere, where something else is happening.

Are you all body sat there comftybold two-square on your botty? Then I'll begin. Now, of cause like

all real-life experience storie, this also begins once a polly tito. And now we take you to the suburbs

of Excelsior. Take a good longing gaze into any nearby window you may select at suppose, let us

say, the house of number 11. Let’s drop in now on their lovely home. Eggeberth trittly-how in the

early mordy, deep hungry in his tumbload, as sure as hatch-as-hatch-can there’ll be eggers for the

brekkers homelette, sunny-side up. All halt! Sponsor programme. Eulogia, a perfect apposition with

the coldcream, Assolute, from Boileau’s. Simpy adorable! Could I but pass my hands some, my

hands through, thine hair! So vicky-vicky veritiny! Vaselubrious Resurrectine, rub it on and a quick

healy huff and that was that. Ads and fads for lads and dads, ads for Babs and fads for Mads. A

bowl of petunias, free with ogden’s basic nut-brown bran-flake suntime flush breakfast cereal.

Send off for Perspective Vortex ring, with 8 coupons collectable on the back of special quantum

packets of [unfinished at the time of the author’s confession, published by the firm of micro sub

meson in the form of an electronic component]

Looking through the faroscope of television (this nightlife instrument needs still some readjustment)

only a fadigraph if a yestern scene (there's some scenery for those who think they have to have

scenery.)

But who was that other woman in the living room? Oh, that’s the maid.

I'm the maid. I have spent a very pleasant afternoon. I've been to the cinema with a man and I've

seen a film with some women.

Oh, oh, oh! there, it’s six o’clock and you’ve let the fire go out.

We’ve eaten well this evening. That’s because we live in the suburbs and because our name is

Mr. and Mrs.

This is where you came in. We have to go on for ages yet. But there’s no reason why you folks

shouldn’t go out into the lobby. The end of this scene isn't written yet.

your guests, have just dropped in. They were supposed to have dinner with you this evening.

Just a moment. I have something I wish to say to the audience.--Ladies and gentlemen. I'm not

going to play this particular scene tonight. It's just a short scene, and that’s all we do—always

beginning again! Over and over again. Always beginning again. Beauterrorful, more, preciousest,

more on more, to please me, my preciousss, sh nothing, ingperwhis wind through out the leak hole

in his hat, thought ought, let us swap hats and exchange a few verbs to make soundsense and

sensesound the words which follow in any order desired.

Happy ever after as he manages to put exactly the right amount of milk and honey on his cornflakes,

a bit of which he dug out by the skill of his tilth, he folloped ft-ft-ft out the back, ploddy-ploddy forward

into the deep fundermold, full-falolloped down the street, underwhere a rainbold scintyladen dangly

in the heavenly bode

The hybrid sky, here rolling with a signature of cloud there piled in strata, now rain scatching its etchings against its

darkness, then, come again as May once more, with a host of bread-white butterflies and yellow butterflies

flickering along the shade like flecks of sun, the pulsing and shimmering murmuration of starlings, the

twilight-colodour of honeysuckle, the held-in pressures of buds burst in a bid to be breautifull as girleen breasts ~

feel the thinvisible curve of the parabola, the gravity against which it must parabolise, and beneath it all was a hush,

almost palpable, a sound like a wind getting up, a sound caught by a spell just under crescendo and sustained, in

which could be heard the rapt absorbed sounds of vegetation growing, the flow of rivers, sewers, semen, blood,

amniotic fluid when it spills out of the bag, kidney with is gravel and what-not, the rain-clouded bluered neon lights

of the stores soaked up by the darkness invading the street, uriniferous sentences the flow on like the flux mirroring

the adulterated images of the soul. The road ran through country where the trees and halt-tenements seemed

arranged for the pleasing picture they made when looked at from the road, the figures placed here and there as if

they had been built there with the fence and the hill carved out of the hill itself, wending went out of its wily way to

visit an outlier parish, then turned off to cross the hill, disappearing from view. Onwendeð wyrda gesceaft weoruld

under heofonum. Ne mæg werig mod wyrde wiðstondan. Gǣð ā Wyrd swā hīo scel! My wyrd shadow walked

stencilled on the grass beside me. The secret lay in the soil, a secret past, a hidden history. The moment one attends

to the small and daily unperceived, a leaf of grass, a grain of sand, the small powdered plosion of a rigadoon of

grasshalms, the nearest pismire is an explanation, it becomes mysterious, indescribably the bounds of a whole

universe in itself, and how small the journey-work of the kosmos (the palm of a hand would hold it, as eternity in a

grain of hour-glass sand), not even the rain has such tiny kisses less incalculable, in comparison to a single

individual recollection, some sacred, salvational memory, preserved in one’s heart, and exorcised in a phrase, the

small powdered plosion of the one o’clock downy arm of a daffadilly dandelion.

There was a slight disturbance, as of a breeze that rustled the trees to the left, as if a flickering of some scene seen on

a screen . The air was so soft, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.

There was nowhere to go but every anywhere. Giving myself up to the movement of the streets, become a seeing

eye, a transparent eyeball, a camera Iye, I am nothing, I see all I am a part of circulating through me, every now here

were anywhere, paradigm of nowhere I were. And all before, c’n’t’re, an aggregation of co.s ℅ conglomerates, a

network of infrastructures, a chain of associations, a column of figures rubbed out and rewritten, a bible bound in

body and blood with scribbled marginalia, as a buzzing on the windowpane sky, mistook for the room, smudged in a

? against the azure psychic sees as the blue physics of time.

I ⟷ the observed phenomenon had quietly fell into a bizarre reverie, still remembering I thought I would call at

T-’s, when, as we passed under a streetlamp, my picaresque and quizotic co-peregrinator, struck a match in the

silence, Just as we passed that last lamp I was going to tell you a further thing, but now I am parenthetically

continuing with a new train of thought and by the time we reach the next streetlamp I’ll return to the original

subject, so apropos, that I at first replied unwittingly and matter-of-factly, so absorbed in the reflection, before

attending to the extraordinary manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations, so he appear to be

answering me, as if indeed, he was waiting impishly at the end of my thought, to complete my sentence in such a

novel bizarrerie, so like someone talking in a book, that - here I paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he

really had - alighted upon the circuit of associative self-remembering, he said, why do you pause? you were saying

to yourself, how strange I and in this place, and I thought to myself, that’s true, there can be no doubt of that, and I

remember wondering how had I woke up, as it were, come to myself, wandering along another street far away in

another corner altogether of town

Shadows crept across the lawn and approached the house, as if the shades had substance, psiwists ff

shapeshifting shadeshadows whisper and coil through the limbs of the trees, where, where children come here,

but, they say, none leave, is approached, we’re nearing, approach where we were come upon, a cottage in a

clearing, but beyond: what is the sound of black rags flapping, that doubles back on its echoes, folding into a sound

not unlike

and one ghostly white leg, with dimpled knee and soft round thigh, thrusts out from under the

blanket of branches, then the obscure teasing shape of blossoming breasts beneath a blooming blouse, which the

breath of a breeze flicks in the same gesture as a girl huddled over her breast (it’s okay, you say, I have a daughter

just your age) might shake a hand off in a shudder, licking at its gossamer wings, whirling, whipping, flapping,

flickering and fluttering, riding it up as if a brutal demand is being forced upon her, revealing a zipper gaped in an

open V above her hip bone, and an auxiliary stippled russet armpit, which effuses her surroundings with a lustrous

radiance, and the ruby-tipped breasts budding from a flawless chest, gravidly gravitating on the breastide of

emotive motive, and she floats, legs dangling and dimpled knees bent slightly, buttocks breasting the curved air,

leaning against the wind over a precipice syntax integrates itself to the constraints of the paper, over which tales of

syntax upon syntax against syntax that form the form of the typography of the text, I muse, while a hopscotching

73-1-2-116-3-84 intertextual or ontologically transcendent intruder picks the protagonist’s back passage (as a

reader in Research of a Recherché Author, I was booked just for the background, whereas the protagonist made

one maid per page, and the agonist was paedo per passage, analyse that!)

And to all you others out there, buried deep in wordy tombs, or walked from off the page, and to you readers of Mrs

X (‘he believed that because he had obtained a wife who was made up of wife-signs (beauty, charm, softness,

perfume, cookery) he had found love, that beyond her body, how many other things, nightingales, copses,

moonlight, algo gather in what she is to him) flying over the country of her paragraphs looking for landmarks,

passages of sex, who writes such awful novels in competition with Mr X (‘The flæsh made word, a book of cant and

cunt, one body unchaste, requisite to your requests, body of your book, that will bring forth the fruit of your lines’),

when she stretches her remarkably long and well-made legs out before you, so that her skirt slips up to the tops of

her stockings, a shake and a kiss.

My disenchantment? Oh no, my dear, who read her, there are merely progressions and styles of possession, in

spellbound existence.

What then was life? No one knew. From the wombth, a fever of awakened voluptuous matter, the existence of the

actually impossible-to-exist of a balance, made possible by the overbalancing of its instability, conveyed by matter,

like the rainbow on the waterfall. A morbid stimulation of the immaterial, a condensing of the spiritual, the

automatic blush of matter roused to sensation and become receptive for that which awakened it. As he lay there, the

image of life displayed itself to him, in midair, she seemed like one whom the transubstantiation of the poetaster had

changed into the likeness of an angelic envoy from heaven, it hovered there before him, against the mist inane, head

and shoulders above but not quite near a tree perhaps 15 yards left of the house entrance, returning towards the

house, and walking on air, she turned from the waist up, in an exquisite movement, one hand resting on her hip-bone

stood out sharply under the flesh, and looked over her shoulder, turning to him in quiet sufferance of his gaze,

without shame or wantonness, pale and becoming summoner, fair and beckoning one, the hands clasped at the back

of the neck, the acrid shadows of the arm-pits corresponding in a mystic triangle to the pubic darkness, just as the

eyes did to the red, epithelial mouth-opening. This monstrous multiplicity of individuels (the not even small

enormously large) in whose inmost innermost themselves universes of constellated self-divisible void space, till

nought nowhere was never reached.

He held the book (the outward sign of this inward sacrament), his lids fallen, and he beheld the image of flesh-bone

loveliness. She had lifted her hands from behind her head, dropping the milky way of her breasts, the labyrinthine

cracked map of their faint bluerred blood vessels. She leaned above him, she inclined unto him and bent down over

him, he was languishing under the liquid language of her languorous laconism, list! linger not too long lest it be lost

Having diurnally read, abed, dreamily I idly thumbed over the leaves of the same book, turning a page here and

there, sometimes turning up a page already read, at others one still unknown. It (the telling) seemed (to him, to X) to

partake of that particular, peculiar quality of dream-logic, the very quality upon which it must depend to move the

dreamer (verisimilitude) to credulity - horror or beautitude - depending upon the same recognition of and acceptance

of the elapse of time as a printed tale, and to which I, the dreamer, clinging yet to the dream, to fervour savour the

waking into the more than reality, into a time altered to fit the dream which, conjunctive with the dreamer, becomes

immolated and apotheosized.

The hand that shapes the mind into clay or written word slows thought to the gait of things and lets it be subject to

accident and time.

Take the lifeless mass and denuded paste and with the feverous, fervent ferment of imagination imbue the dough

into bread and the bread into wine and the wine into song, take it, read it, for this is the texture of my body, forged in

the smithy of my soul, out of homely materials, from no model but the vision of my mediations, one continuous

present tense integument slowly unfolded, where form is empty of form, and will deny itself - nothing, being beyond

all knowing, this I have heard at one time, at another, beyond all being, thus I have heard two truths

Like life’s unlikely coincidences both inconsequent and consequential, a storymaker, measuring and weighing event

against eventuality, deploys possible-though-improbable happenstance to begin a tale or give it an unexpected twist,

though thereafter, however, the plausible (even when impossible) is to be preferred, however improbable, to the

unlikely possible, for fate in fiction decrees no puppeteering auctor ex machina, no peppery fetch fetch the nivolist

from the dramaturgical corner he has written himself into

Here I was at the end of the page, no more land, and nowhere to go but back (happy land-endings to you all of us)

The story ends, and upon it, upside down, were written the words: Iu ϝμԍ Euq ʍɑƨ Moʁqɼԍƨƨuԍƨƨ, but still I hear

them, the voices were there again. I waited for them to finish. Then I sat down and began to write, I first heard of

mobius from a stripper (secreted in some unfinished novel) some nonce of a noun holding hands with the nearest

and most commonly available adjective and roistering with some sluttish verb (hey peasant hay presto chango, Why

are they going to disappear her?' I don't know.' It doesn't make sense. It isn't even good grammar), on the one hand,

languaging in infantile pregential erotic exuberance, polymorphously perverse, the word written through the author

in a flæsh frees the dream within it, words whorled to a world, on the other, a libidnal hypercathexis, by which to

mean that writing and reading, or telling and listening, are literally ways of making love.

This book’s relation in time and space is a mortal act, the pen casts a long shadow upon (it must be said) no surface.

A fraction of the fiction is faction. If you were to scratch the surfiction, read the inexpressible in the vague mist that

remanes between words, it might be seen to hide the loreful implication of a possession. There’s even a scene where

I go to see you - You, it's you I'm addressing, who else, from inside this monstrous fiction. You've read me this far,

then? Even this far? For why? How is it you don't go to a movie, watch TV, make amorous advances to the

person who comes to your mind when I speak of amorous advances? Can nothing surfeit, saturate you, turn you off?

Where's your shame? Read it if you like or don't read it if you like. One way or another, no matter, it's myself I

address; to whom I rehearse as to a stranger and disclose my secret - the last line before I leave you is, that that’s

what I want to stay.

I left a couple of letters for you on the breakfast table - you covered them with your bo

no safer place to keep a secret than in an unfinished novel. I created her in order that he might seduce and betray her,

but blinded by her beauty, I so far forgot myself as to assault her myself. The book is seething with conspiracy

among a faction of the characters. And I am the god of these nivolesque devils. Between you and me, reader, I

forbode my last page, before which I will understand the prophesything ending that comes with the instant of my

reading the instant of my reading of it. Absurd, but here we swim, will-we nill-we, against the flood, onward and

upward, toward a shore that may not exist and couldn't be reached if it did. If something happens, finish it for me.

The idea is very simple, so simple that if you are not careful you will forget it. It is this - that.... That's what I want

to say.

God will stop dreaming you...because you, my creator, Ledwidge, are nothing more than a nivolesque being, and

your readers are novlesque, just like me,

I wanted to swallow myself by opening my mouth very wide and turning it over my head so that

it would take in my whole body, and then the Universe, until all that would remain of me would

be a ball of eaten thing which little by little would be annihilated: that is how I see the end of the

world.

Θ‽ if this whole were but an infundibuliform anus, behold the gesture I make, three-fingered ring

that I have programmed for the occasion,

invention of intention, working at arm’s

length, scenerise extempore with the immediacy of dreams, vignette apropos, stow round the

scene, compose condense the drifting images draped with memories, fiction being the fortuitous,

foreign and familiar, fortalice for fucking the world, I can’t help but help myself, be!hold, yes,

there: it is done, Θ! the country way divides - up the garden’s forking paths - ecco the gesture I

make, ah, staccato half-inch strokes up from the base ~ the shudderiding thrust and heave thumping of

arriving trains ~ and many many times taken her up the arse as in a sin, as soon as exorcised,

degringolade, melts into the stuff of dreams, disintegrates, ceases, sees but a blot on his exorcise

book, bang shoot up the passage with the phrasing of an aorist preterite proposition, in the

‘Reader, I ****’d her’ reader

Hand make a small breakfast of her, cyril?

Ay, so alp me, I played both parts yunnuhstan

Do you tell me that now

She s**** for all that

Nope?

Yup! And she, Oh, Cyrileye love you too, but…

And thend?

Lisn oil tel duh, oi sez,Whfffck? wutt’s the mutter wid yer’n yer whoo ha how, yu shoot itt, nuttin’

doin’! ydoan o nudhn, yer kin jest git yer shitty littel finger art an’ do an ’and’s duhsumpnruddur

V!room!

F’n’ ’ell, yer, erz goin duhwhaambamyuh

Was that, Your tea!? O Thank you, mam, Was that just when he, she, did, done, ah!

Mr Cyrili, with careful hand, recomposed himself, and with bent and with slow care detached his

sleeve from his jacked and pulled it back, and the circle formed by the face of the watch attached

to his wrist said...And sir?...4:15, exactly. Funny, watch stopped. Wast that just when she, the

tea,

On an instant, the clock jumped the way time will after 4:15.

A time fix…tempodex

My heart's in my hand, and my hand is on my.

This is getting out of hand

weary way homeward, to the accompaniment of a fugal barking. He travelled beyond any sheer sound of clacking

shears, beyond the sound of the cock-crow, from the comfortable houses of folk, trespassed into a queer corner of

the parish. A profound curious silence reined in the domaine, broken only now and then by the cuckoos calling

unconcernedly, a whittled old clock, or the cry of the curlews in the reeds of the marsh (and there were words in

that cry, as in the whowl of the wind creeping round the corner of a house, though I could not catch them), the

occasional sound of the wind, sigh-lent on the soughnd, that had been left by the ebb of the land whose glimpses

dimly remembered are inspirations here (...and then he needs must marry. Perhaps because she was young -

young she was and yet not so - perhaps because she was fair, pretty as a felony with rings of red hair unduh duh

pansied panties, or because she had shapely ankles as she came one day, out from amongst the gopis and

milkmaids, through the misty marshes among the maiden flowers. Less things have brought men to their ends and

been the nooses with which fate snared them. We die for a dorsal view glimpse of gosseberry fuzz down an

incurved spine between blouse and briefs as here one reaches, revealing a stipple armpit, a dream of light brown

pubic hair exposed to the flickering television light flickering and flashing over her patterned panties, or a palmful

glimpse of another’s two bags full, plumþ and hard-soft, explosive in bakyonyu bra, composing by grafting on to the

lententint of a shoulder - expressing a truth of a psychological order - the movemoments of an auricular, oracular,

teasing back in auriform ? an uncoiling falling damoclean skin, the crural stations of a stocking leg’s spacetime

curvature, tenderly tending, tendrilly, caducean around its other, here through another finding one or another feature

wherein she resembled a botticelian angel, assimilating the patina of a knee, or the genuflective sheen of a

ravishining, gingerbread shoulder, dropped prettily as, steadying herself, she dipped first to her right, then to her left,

in order to heel her shoes or rescue the yoke of her skirt, hitch-inching it up - that is enough, then, after taking the

–ve to be developed later, fabricating, composing a character, epitomising a love unpreferenced, unreferenced,

realised in the mind’s darkroom, although as individuals (as a book is a cemetery in which the majority of the

tomb’s names are effaced, but ehrein they wander ghostly) I had no recollection of them. As well her as another,

because at bottom a woman. Yes. Mrs. X ℅ Mr. X, vowed to have this done to her. h A h man. So be it, sobeit it be

so-so. For he now perceived that in putting on the ring he obeyed not his own desire but the commanding wish of the

other. As if, gyges ring, he had become invisible. But then, with marriage curiousity entered his house. After all is

said and done to her, forsaken. It is finished. I thirst. They were pansies. The panties).

Pray, list, time passes, a breeze creased the thin visible air, in a nigh’t mad with will-o’-the-wisps, while the wind-shaken wood awakes a

second dark time, when cloven tree-foot goblins, before whom, attracted in very repulsion, the body cringed in revolted

adoration, as, lowly o so slowly sneaking, stealing, streaking, creeping and cringing, gobbling and

snuffling, gurgling in their collum, like a starved frog they ate their umble pie with an appetite, judas-hole eyes

unsheltered and unshaded under an eyelashless frons of cadaverous parchment, though a tinge of red in the grain

of it, corresponding to the rings of red hair, which lankly hung down, high-shouldered, the blades meeting across

the back like the wings of a butterfly, swaying, as if searching the ground, rubbing long, lank, skeleton hands, so

clammy and ghostly to the touch, one must rub one’s one afterwards, to rub their’s off, licking their fingers, as if

they remembered some old torture, in premeditated anticipation, await at the lamplit leaning corners, they entered

houses, where, a white arm rest upon a knee in a triangle (for such gestures one falls hopelessly in love for a lifetime), good-looking lasses with

hour-glass figures, make haughty, come-hithering glances, as if to say, you have seen a thing or two since you last peeped out of

a looking-glass, to their reflections, in front of their looking-glasses for the dance of the world in the street outside. Hist. A morass bird’s

cry trespass into the silent domain of a preyer. Listen.

Suddenly his talk left the marish and went leaping up stream

When they caught his words again they found that he had now wandered into a strange region beyond their

memory and beyond their waking thought, into a time when the memory of milkmaidens and hamlet folk has

faded into the grass, and as he spoke they had a vision as it were of a great expanse of years behind them, like a

vast shadow plain over which, as the evening that followed was beginning to fade, a traveller might

have been seen approaching the marshes, a form form from out the ground come fortoward form

out the foregrounded background, as if it climbed the very curve of the earth. A swathe of

shadow stirred the barrow-wights in the hollow toom mounds.

The figure had fallen among strange surroundings, of a peculiar kind, entirely separate from the mere strangeness

of a country where one has never been before, seemed to have come to a uncanny corner of the parish, wandered

into an unfamiliar region beyond where vision melts into waking, like a shadow on the borders of old stories,

where everything seemed almost too pleasant, too perfect, too finely made.

He began to feel that all this seemed to follow on from something that he was dreaming about, that still hovered

on the edge of memory, and that he were stumbling through an ominious dream that led to no awakening

The horizon moved imperceptibly with him, thro e motion, a motile barrier of gloominous twilight, obfusc the

cherished recherché always over the next hillow illimnating the clouds with its numinous limen luminosity, stations

of the nostos of vignette reminiscene.

There then form from nowhere, light, like the misty dimness that flashes upn a hedge when touched by a rainbow

there where it’s end scarcely shows yet, coming toward it was as if he saw a shimmering sliver of silver, a flickering

tide of wandering lights, sweeping in swathes and waves, hitching rucks of stocking, flocks of shadows driven

before it, faint like billowing buffeting breezes breathing before a storm, came the soft soughnd ff a susurrustling

as of rain on leaves, the breastide of a sleeper, silent sighs breathed over again, past lovers’ whispers repeated, ff

leaves tripping hippety-hoppety as in a broose at a fete (so that many a girl leaned from her window, as if in a

loggia overlooking the provisional, provincial, theatre of the street as if it were a living-room, to see what was

enchanting the morning) to rest in pools of shadows at the roots of the hedgerows, as the glimmering border

shining just beyond the curve of the thin visible air, a heavenescent blush touched and altered the edge of the

hedge attired in holyday altar attar of roses, with the weeried languorous language of the eve of great fetes,

making one electric and then another, endowing whatever it touched ~ the pendent raindrop in the hedge,

attended by a phantom, attenuated hedge bent in it, the interpetiolar path, rutted with puddle-bourne pieces of

fallen sky, landed shiny side up, archipelatic clouds anchored by their reflection, mirrored in an equal eithor, the

susurrushing reeds and thin visible rushes, the leafs of grass light dissolved all into one ~ with such beatitude of

beautifixation, as if a warder within went from chamber to chamber, carrying a lamp, a figure, flickering across the

filmy frames of shadows projected on a wall, passing between the lights of the storied windows like flickering

windows of train carriages reflected in an eye like a train of thought, and always the prettier one further beyond

reach, that fade as soon as plucked, and turning into limbs the moment come up to, until the dividing line of

creased cloth was rubbed out, far afield once more.

And well they knew that lure whose homesteads dwelt on the edge of that lore, how it is told if they gaze upon it,

there where the mist, which drew close to the hedge in certain places, run down to the border of the frontier is

thinner and more uncertain than elsewhere, the enchanted twilight that divided these from those ~ upon one side

earth and the haunts of folk, and upon the other another way of time ~ there will remain no joy for them in the

goodly fields or any truth lie secret in the soil, and the familiar things of earth rush swiftly from remembrance, and

their fain faith, in faith, will be far from here with fey things, and who kept the doors of their imagination locked,

but know though you fence yourselves in, the wide world is all about, you cannot for ever fence it out, and only an

enclaved similair remane still of the earth.

His foot was the furthest that stood in the fields we know, against his face the frontier lay like a mist.

It was at this very moment of import, a great hush fell - as when an unnatural silence comes over a company,

represented in natural poses, someone had spoken, and each turned toward their neighbour thinking it were they -

quiet duscended, a tighstatic grain, so fine, lights lifted it, voices crinkled it, the sole sound of a sigh lent

silence a substance, a thin visible form from out the invisibility to which it gave surface, then left it unbroken, lest it offend the hush.

As a page turns, 2"-off, something swayed on the silence, a change of quality come upon the air, against a sudden sense of

motionless through all things, susurrus in urbe, a sigh lent a silent intentness to the teeming silence, the impression of a

swimming lift into a prodigious palpable hushed pause of a ministering moment come upon the prodigious silent veil of the thin

visible air which made every thought stop and go to sleep before it had got thought out, conducing to an overpowering

lethergy, weariness ebbing like a tide retiring over limitless sifting sands, drifting away, becoming ventifact in the languorous

latitudinal lassitude, heavy as a limpuppet, that if once given in one should just lie down and drowse forever, like unto the

pomegranates of persephone, so that if you taste it you cannot ever fully return again to that of which must invariably have a

sufficient sense of knowing to prevent entire abandonment to the raw emotion, there was undoubtedly something in the

chemical composition that each presence altered, something arid and acrid in the volatilisation of a coppery sweet toothsome

taste, in the heady confoundead murmurise, and that seemed to emanate from all those languorous dr ping nutant buds,

heavy-lichen’d apple boughs and paschal flowers and from all that green spongy moss softer than sleep, such a mood as might

lurk by huge dock-leaves in ancient gardens with espalier-crucified walls, the sweet airs of an unusually relaxed

march morning, as they waft through a railway carriage window, carrying fragrances of young green shoots, of wet

muddy ditches, of hazel-copses full of damp moss, and of primroses on warm grassy hedge-banks, an atmosphere

as might record the atoms of tiny moss-spores, sterile bracken-pollen, oak-apple dust, wisps of fluff, feathery husks

from rushes, as they fall, and form the form of tuesday follows monday, then comes wednesday, whose

stone-taped words were almost as faint as the sub-human breathings of a dead branch in an unfrequented

shrubbery at the edge of a forsaken garden, the wind telling tales that have no meaning, they were like the

creakings of chairs after people have left a room, they were like the opening and shutting of a door in an empty

house, they were like the murmurs of forgotten worm-eaten boards, lying under a dark, swift stream, boards that

once were the mossy spokes of some old water-mill, turning to a giant whose errant name (something qui janus

devased, a vide ja, oui, savvy?) I do not care to remember, the moment come to by forking paths, at the end of

exploration (until death it is all life, a derring-do in which, peradventure, only we two are at one) only the

enclaved, dearth recordings remane still, the psychic eidola that radiate forth from all these ancient inanimate substances,

that throbbed through the ooze below the roots of the rushes and reeds, drawing us back and down, to the

beginning of things, the primal presences of mosses and morasses, accumulated an enormous mass of casually imprinted

memories concerning contact with the inorganic surroundings of these animacules and all these touches and casual contacts must

have established between the inmost being and the mystery of matter in these things, deep correspondences which were ready to

rush forth at any summons, leave their embedded resting-place, traverse the echoing spaces, from their lethergy, to be come

aware nowhere with in this unlocalised, timeless place, which conduced to sleep, so deep a sleep that, indifferent to the motions

of this infinitesimal creature advancing into the braken-grown expanses of the heath like a pismire into a flowerpot, an

interpetiolar ant outcropping through a crack in the forking labyrinthine passages mapped in the graven pavement, come to a

larva crystallised into the image of a ?, a glasshouse teardr p on its precipice-brink: met a form of anamorphosis: circumvent or

breast, bluered and slipherintosomethingmoreconduciveformyvicariousprotagonisttoslitheropenherslippery trodden upopen

oozes from its pulpy core, beauterrorful musky mucid mush. An uncleft peach-blown pomegranate oozing nectareous blood.

(The butterfly had been dead for quite some time when the biology-altering shoe came down and crushed it. A stain convulsed

into a ? it’s twin wings now only a ruin of ashen leads and shattered stain-glass windowings. We shall not hear of her again).

Einchanted, he stepped in the moist-seeped silence of a fine mist, to have done with mundane things (lethe me be

unseen, a thinking reed, a spear of summer grass read in the leafy shade of the hedge, rooted in the middle of the

earth, green as a yew tree tinged with rings of red hair of autumn leaves) but as his foot touched the twilight, an

old habit, at the sound of rooks cawing, the dull lowing of cows, a slow cart heaving home, made him turn his

head, and he saw the good brown plough and the pasture and the hedges of earth, further and further drawing

finer the thread between ~ already the image of the familiar was fading, like a delicate erased face seen passing in

a dream, whose lids slowly droop as they glance, as if their gaze was unable to dwell on anything but an inner

world - already they were turning into the ghosts they were to become, as if she were already parted, but

something of her remained, existing somewhere - must he go on living here then, among the objects she touched,

the air she had breathed? In the name of what? - he hoped for nothing and yet that was all that remained - there

was no need of other words, but of mirrors ~ and a drowning pull of regret for the earth and those he had wanted

with the clenched fist of will to set foot again on the earth he was about to leave, dampening any agravic impulse,

that it seemed to him that he returned e’en to the heady earth, allowing himself to subside, coming to the ground

with a gentleness that was itself a sensuous delight, and just when he meant to return to the hearth, it rode him

upon its wavelength, and let the wind answer that the earth that pulls all things down had no hold on him, and it

began to lure and tempt and beckon him till his thoughts went, and now he thought nor heeded nore hear no

more of earthly things, for he’d touched its perfect body with his mind.

Seizing the air, hand-holding a way along the bridging currents, breaststroke striding through the gossamer veiling

mists that dissipate every 101 years, through short times of space through short spaces of time, swept on by the

breath of things, long past and lost, so familiar that they cast no shade, in a no-man’s land zone of memories and

ruins of habit-forming habit, seeing only shadows this side of the hedge, as good as dead to them the other side of

the hedgerow (why o why had he thrust his head (like putting his head through a window and seeing the world

whole) into that hole never wondering how on earth he would get out), earth’s sound dimmed suddenly, he was,

he saw, through the hedge whose edges are not just boundaries but borders between worlds, he found that he

was no longer looking at the world of those whose homesteads dwelt on the edge , a wyrd shadow seemed to

have fallen on the land between them - shadows where no shadow had been before, crept across the field and

approached the houses, as if the natural shades had substance - the shapes that cast shadows refracted in minds,

a sudden shudder shivered through his shoulder, a sliver of silver, and even as he swooned he caught, while all

about receded into a swirling mist, a glimpse, rather, felt, vague shadowy shapes coming toward, that seemed like

black holes in the deep shade behind them, a deeper shade among the shadows, passing into an uneasy dream in

which it seemed to him that he was lifted up, and passing over he saw he was half in the wraith-world himself, at

once in both worlds, he could see them, as they are upon the other side, in the trappings they wear to give shape

to their nothingness when they have dealings with the living, and they could seize him, being already visible on the

threshold of their world, and he would have become like they are, only he turned to sleep again or wandered into

some other unremembered dream, he rubbed his eyes, then rubbed the window, and far below, an oneiric city, made of desires

already memories, just as memory’s images, once they are fixed in words, are erased, its discourse secret as a future not actualised is only a

dead branch of the past, it being not the voice that commands the story, it is the ear, he heard motor-buses and a shout in the street, a seescape

ofskyscrapers, through another window waves of desert fire scorching sterile stunted knotted limbs beneath a sun beating down from a

lemon-coloured sky, from a third, instead of looking outdoors, he stared directly through a series of doors, and could step through the window

(mind the rose-bush though), across which a shadow seemed to pass by, and from a fourth wall, a window looked down into nothing,

and he fell to the floor and grasped at the pattern on the carpet to keep from falling, but a change came over his dreams, queerer and queerer,

curiouser and curiouser, he woke or thought he had waken, to a pair of noises like the fingers of branches scraping wall and window and the

muzhik of a hammering on iron road by someone bent over muttering something to the wheel of a carriage, such that he did not know whether

he slept or waked, and what was it that had played the importunate part of the pained unfortunate in the refraction of

the moment of awakening? merely the rattling of cup and saucer, for behind the window was nothing but a small

cupboard in which were kept tea-things, into which, pushing aside a gossamer web, his outstretched hand faded out from

the light went out into the lengthevening shadows to pull the roundlet of pale fire, the lighted vessel vibrated, the gas-lamp flickered, wΘw, the

fey lingering filament struggled, fadein out, until -“ω”- remain, passing into the darkness like a rustle in the grasses, and as he moved forward,

crunchings and crackling split the buzzhum of the sigh-lent silence, at least he thought he was advancing, but he lacked any reference points,

and sand? or glass? it was raining, no, it’s now snowing, a collapsed packet of Droste Oats, like successive bursts of static came through,

against a roomurmurous background, which seemed the very voice of the field (was it possible for thought to exist without

consciousness?) everywhere, unlocalised, climbing climaxes, unresolved, a pandemonium of panic rustling in the bushes of

something coming, pushed aside as if by a pandiculating hand, eyes peering through focused not on the one who approached but

on something quite close to him, but either in his dream or out of it, he could not tell which, a gentle noise on the edge

of hearing, he seemed to hear or remember hearing, Here, a voice, deep and cold, as should be a-lyin’ in

graveyard, caveyard, paveyard, that seemed to come from a great distance, or from under the earth, I am waiting

for you! I’ve a mind to dine on thee now, as if the suggestion came to him from outside, from someone or

something trying to reveal itself in response to some wish or common that was felt in the room, but it seemed

faint and dim, less clear than the black shadows that stood looking over the hedge.

Yet this shadow which has sat by me,

this mask from which peep two eyes, which has pinioned me, now

leaves me,

goes from me to meet who is this who is coming, to become part of another,

at the end of our exploration, through the unknown, remembered gate, not known because not looked for,

half-seen in the stillness between two heart-beats, home known for the first time, here, now, from which ever

way, always the same, and all the time without you, whorled without ænd

He stood up and seemed suddenly to grow taller, telescopening out. He hid the ring away, and the shadow passed

away

leaving hardly a shred of memory

I have written some more of my book [ie this one - clearly up to here]

[cf nymph step out of the picture]

cf magritte horse rider trees

alice down hole bit

[A tiny dark-brown mole by her pants [ie back to room but from one of men with girl]. [so last “ is ambiguously both end of book bit he reads

and beginning of what he (or he in the story) is going to say which coincides with what one from the room says]

[inc little book by photofunia with first page - copy of book page inc 1st page (need to edit) the photofunia insert

(mis-en-abyme) and then some pics - with perhaps 4th page the out part of this bit page]

alice down hole bit

cf magritte horse rider trees

Font size shrinks into dream sequence - at some point within - a l a r m repeats, with

a llama crossed the zebra crossing was briiiinging a l a r and m in italics within in

various permutations until awakes suddenly with italicised exclamation into italic

sequence of awake but changes out of italics on awakening from dream within dream

temp

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