American Psycho

Find myself next to the man I could have been. He's in the aisle seat. And we get to talking, about this and that. As best we can: the man I never was, sat directly in front, is shouting to the man he never could be next to him. But anyway, reaching a working volume we discover we've lots in common: same school; same parents; same birthday, though my hair is longer than his is, and he owns a crocodile briefcase. He knows everyone I know; and I know (you know the rest). But then he says he has yet to meet the man he is going to be, to which I reply I had dinner with him yesterday. And he gets agitated - he kicks the crocodile briefcase beneath his seat; he starts staring out the window, interrupting our exchange. And so when he speaks I hear myself in conversation with the guy behind, who keeps answering. Turns out he's the man I never want to be, and the reason he keeps replying is, he's trying out ways to avoid the man he never was sat next to him. So I say to him the best thing to do is tell him the man I am is only a phone-call away. And as I do the phone rings.

Design for a Flying Machine

I would cry when I thought. Not just the feel of it - that release that comes when the Ahhh! of a thought drops down to a shape on a page, or out through an ejaculate Yes! up from a great conversation, or when you're looking at your favorite painting again, tenth time this year, and you feel you've seen it at last - no: not just a feeling - an unfeelable awe. That tension connecting you to something sublime that comes from all that isn't there, to leave just thought, right here on the page. Especially a Vinci drawing, the way the humaness of it resonates still, into being right here, out from the ink that over centuries has silently reached into the page. And how he's penned his description beneath the image, allowing it space to hover up; give it room enough to escape out from the top of the page. And take me with it, tears streaming down my cheeks as we launch through a cold page sky untouched.

Matisse

you have no idea what you're doing. yet you persist. without consideration, even for yourself. how do you do it? people watch and ask themselves, how does he do it? I hear them all. and they turn and ask me, how does he do it? and I just turn, and keep watching. it's like you're almost there; it's like what you do is almost there too, offering traces of something gaseous in solid answer. traces that fail a color as it holds on a line; traces of line inventing themselves, issue color into boxes, boxes that wish for nothing other than release. I have a memory of tall sheer blue that has risen as height; I have memory of a view that's making itself, and out of a love for this, it keeps looking on in green; I have a memory of all those people asking here, their voices risen to right up there. how do you do it?

Us Shadow

Where the lines meet in corners. This gathered I, in the corners. I, always there and in corners - you know. That one, over there you'd say. And I know you'd say because I'd see you walk by, me in a corner; me in a corner, and the shadows, you walkin' by and all glancing, and you'd say. You'd be there and you're glancin' and there'd be shadows in cornerin's of lines. That corner across from Lists; that one you can see only if a game was on, floodlights going down and into it; and the one the wind never reaches, with a silence inside it, swallows up noise so you can stop and hear time for a minute. All these and this I know you know; all these lines and all the corners around here I know you've seen, me in these corners and shadows - all day and all night too. Times around the clock and always me in a jacket. But you won't see me now I got caught. 

The Inkling Man

I have an inkling destined to become a chore, for the damn thing just keeps returning: I give it away; I mail it away; I even gave it to the small man, with hands tattooed 'Yes' and 'Yes', but he refuses and gives it back. So I burn it; I build on it - I forget with what; I even arrange for it's double to replace it but no, still, the inkling remains. So I say it once to an old friend in an attempt to let it go. I even say it four times in a phone conversation to a stranger, thinking it might somehow disappear in the strangeness. I even write the damn thing on my hand and walk slow through the rain. But no. It remains. I'm going to call The Inkling Man: he comes in fourteen sizes now, and three different ways: I'll choose the best tomorrow, have him email me the chart, which I consider after lunch.

Worldy Goods

It's not the same here too you know. We have our fare share of the over-here's, over-there's, where's and where? But ours is a brighter chaos: our calamities much easier to see. And as such, their sound is sharp, crisper, to even the dullest ear - important this because there are many here. (Don't get me started....) You'll soon see: where all of yours are clearly the taller and wider, probably older too, ours are yes, bright and sharper, and yes more shallow - liable to blow-away with the next breeze - but our older is ancient, our over-there's vast, and our over-here's beyond even your tallest clock's tick-tock. And to your finest map's detail hear our parrot's chorale

New Yorker

Maybe just the light; recalling how it was - recalling itself into its shimmer, healthy and bright shafts of it. What was New York. The Los Angelesness of it all. Here at the window. How it thickened the view; how it broadened the park. See it fascinate through greens into themselves and out into shadows of trees. Yes, New York - or how it will be. A trembling of place: a once to a once was. As yearly I still walk it here: among the humming of the trapezoids - a honed a barely there; among trapeziums and scalahedrons that speak to themselves in chorales of sometimes 'Yes, - it's you'.

Paster

This is what happened the night - around a week ago now - that I wrote this. I can't vouch for every word I'm about to write of course, because all's from the memory. And he's using a new computer too: that's right, I'm using a new computer - much faster so they say. I mustn't forget also, during the week, he did once or twice lose his memory - only for a flash mind, on the freeway home, blinding sunlight straight into the eyes and whoosh, for about 10 seconds nothing. So there's that. But I feel certain everything I'm about to write about the night he wrote this is absolutely true:

Writing was Pigshit

Writing was pigshit. And then at least had some meaning. But writing - typing, saying, speaking, scrawling, penning, scratching, typing, and typing and typing - these forms of English are wearing out it's ability to do it's one basic job: the transference of meaning. At no time has the English language been so mass-media-ed, so corporatized, so academicized, so spread across banners and billboards and t-shirts and facebook and twitter and facebook and twitter. It's now aligned with the speed and relevance - as far of transference of meaning - of scratching. And anyone concerned about the meaning of scratching, scratching meaning, scratch-meaning, scratched meaning, meaningful scratching etc..., that is, meaning, and isn't engaged in weekly book, newspaper, tablet, kindle, screen dismantlement, destruction, disfiguring, so the wordscomeout anew, is apig

Stutter

In from the out. From the out there. From a Saturday night’s purr of the terrace. Purring as legs like upward milk shooting up from red stilettos into queues of teenage arses cupped in black. Purring as dry-ice billows from Club. Purring as the fights mount in beats, of taxi-driver hand grasps the wheel, of ab-cutting t-shirts flecked with Piss. Purring as tonight’s lies: go out and hear again the sax-player lie to the crowd, another drum machine. The woman near him lie through her laugh, to a man lie back through her shout. Chorale. The pub heaves it; makes molten The Great Nothing That Goes On. Leaving truth again to Our Failures: hear the sax-player splutter twice, sure and doubtlessly; see the liars’ eyes without recognition, hold bewilderment bright as a stone; and watch the girls, walking home, drop their phone, pick it up stutter

Monday A-Stroll

looks askance. learns his head off with looks here, and then looks there. and looks askance. looks askance. as if saying and thinking might do it. looks askance. turns right royal right, and salutes. this travel he says - iss 'ard. turns again. looks askance. turns a right royal right followed by a peering up, followed by a peering up. watched by what he sees he sees the top left-right corner looking. looks askance in response; in as response; in as the response goes on through. looks and sees again by being seen by this top and left-right corner again. walks more again: and seen more; and sees more. trips dream

Saturday Sketch-Echo

you don't - no. you won't - ok, yes - get it. here you will; and here you will; but here, you won't. and here, and here. this being all too much - no. this being to much. and to much more. or less, no - and less. and then to. over there. then over to again. much less. much, (or

Thursday Voce

that voice. not the voice. or a voice - that voice. they tell you it echoes your childhood; they say It tells us who he is. they say, We know him by it; We know who he is. that voice combining all your sundays; all the walking-years down dark and sunny streets; that voice that mists the mirror, and recollects. that voice? that voice? that voice replaced in dreams by dreaming. that voice the morning pulls out and lets into shadows holding walls, carving clouds. that voice becoming a shadow marking the tread of your dreams. that voice I wish she'd listen to and spit

Monday Glas

remember. yes, I remember. that once-a-world-away: certain years amongst certain bookshelves, amongst certain books, certain pages - wrong-ones always best: always the difficultest and wrongest - the ones that spelled university backwards, in long unbroken code, to us that read right, our heads on upside-down: we shafting the library with sunlight; that failed up sweat beading walls; that swim with the remains of a rembrandt torn to pieces

Friday What-Gold

and what? the what folds again? the what turns and returns? the what becomes? in amongst unsaid jeers and the ever-need for jeering - the politics of tailored rags - what holds. vertically the walls, horizontally the ground, and beyond these, walls again, and ground again. and beyond these again, and again. again. untellable gold continuum with laws for its teeth. that will crush the tellable tales down to what.

Thursday (past out

this hole where the is was. this hole where the was was too. this is a hole where the is was, the was was, and where I will be eventually - just need to dig the damn past out.

Wed

 ok: I'm listening

Tuesday You-and-Yours

you come round again. your image coming round again. you coming round again. notice the distinct, unnerving lack of difference here, the unnerving sameness, the unnerving un-presence of any between. you-and-your-image. and round you go, all of you, distinctly, cut clean within the color ochre. definitely not cut from it, you're cut within it. scored, etched, cut - rather like a mechanical cookie-cutter presses down into dough, and presses down firmly to make the image, but releases before it cuts. this is you. there in the ochre. you and your image. or is it mine? we turn the corner. we come around. we get extended by the coming round, and then affirmed by the coming round. long pale thin flags flutter above us, casting not a shadow; tall walls huddle, casting not a shadow; horizontal planes cascade in the distance and press against our feet. this town feels us at its skin, with the feeling of it at our skin. we come around. we are the walking of the town and its ochre-change. we find ourselves, we find us here, sun through the sun

SaSuMonday's Wait

trying hard. always tried hard. once and then once again. once and then once more. and then again. once and then before the last once more. before the once more before the once before. and more. and more. (you must wait here.) tried hard. trying hard tried hard again and once more, (yes, here - wait just here). tried hard too; always trying - always trying, tried hard. (now sit. sit just here.) once before, and once more, and yes of course, once after, and again once after once more. (now, did you wait? and, did you sit? I ask for I do not see anymore: did you sit?) then more trials: always trials. never once; always once more. once, then once again; then once more and again once more. (what did you see sitting there? for how long did you wait - did you have to wait? was it necessary to wait?) no more now though: I have asked; I waited; and I even sat. I sat for years. I sat and waited and was asked by Him, "Did you wait?" I was asked, "Did you sit?" I was asked, "Did you have to wait?" (Well did you?)

Friday Blackt

red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red 
red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red
red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red
red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red
 black black black black black black black black black black black black black black
red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red
red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red
red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red    blacked   red red red
red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red
red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red

Thursday I; I er, er, I

he said slam. she replies thud. to this he argues crack, and then blam. quite undeterred she countered swiftly with thud again, plus a sharp crack-shatter. and then I think I heard his (very quick but wholly mysterious) krak!, followed lightening-quick with her equally mysterious rejoinder, prak! most neighbors in fremantle flats argue with shouts, and even fists, but I've recently worked-out that mine argue with their apartment.... wait: it's the comeback: he's just replied to the crack-shatter with a dense, quite brief smash - the bathroom window I think - a sort of tiny-detonation sound, to which, hang on, a grinding sound in response? yes, it's a grinding sound, from - it sounds like - the kitchen. yes, the kitchen: you can here the unmistakable tinkling and slinging sound of thrown utensils used to reinforce the point, but very unclear who is actually slinging, er speaking at the moment: the utensil use is really quite sloppy - has them talking all over each other. now a pause. seems a readjustment's in order - a redressing of terms perhaps? no: it's the splattering now; splattering and thudding of bits of something small but also hard, steadily against the other-side of my kitchen wall. and now a grinding in brisk retaliation - I think him - adding to the splattering - all a bit unclear now. now a small explosion, followed by another - her I think - followed by a dry, dull, falling sound - quite well sustained - of - it sounds like - falling bricks, to which the classically argumentative small but violent motor whir has just come into play. I; I er, er, I

Wed'day Crap

stop, go, stop, ok: stop. go. and stop? no. ok. er, stop and go, and go, go? no. right then - stop then go then stop. go - go? yes, but also no. alright: ok: stopgo and stop and go? er, no, but nearly. righthen: stopgo andthen stopgo, no? yes. hang on - this is crap. I told you before we started it would be. you told me before we started it would be, hang on, you did say it would be crap. I know. and I heard you say it would be, and I remember you saying, but then I went through with all this. you like crap then? I guess I do. Try again then? ok, stop

Tuesday Night

this that writes the night: corner of this, street of that. tired old closey-shop all dozey neon blink. a tall governor street-light; a tall and cold unmother car-park: both peer down. by the hunker-tree; by a steel bench the shape of boredom. all these things library the night: write the morning at bay. between its lines see me drag my shadow-ink: I, written by this that I see - tonight into a place. where I see other bones of the night; I see bones falling inside shadows, people-tall and thin. bone-skin shadows plunging, crouch, forced to their knees, in corners of ground search for scraps of their names, their shadows long gone. their shadows always gone: cracks into this, the sun comes up, harbinger mess where hiding was, corners them out with too much this, and again, too much that

Monday's Sheet-Red

Failing: failing is recognizing failure as such. So don't use it: use a better word, like hunting, or open road. Look at me and I will hurt you; speak to me, I will leave; touch me I will black your ever: our love is to be pure, sublimest, highest untouchable ignorance. She writes more: ours is which catches silence, winding through open beams. All to my back, with a knife of a silver-nib fountain pen - in reverse: you're reading a copy of our cotton bed-sheet, there on the hotel floor, lined with ink-blacks and longest red. And I am ten feet tall.

Saturday Kissfully

I fall in love. I do so everyday. With her as she walks the street. Perfect shoed; perfect dressed, and perfect hair. Untouched profile, a perfect nose. And I know it's reciprocal: we fall in love; we always fall in love. Amid sunlight, the street's life, and it's songs. We fall, and I catch us with my camera, we fall for 1/500th of a second and it is pure, kissful bliss.

Friday Fun-Gun

Better start this one slow; better start it slowly, let the mouth of the writing filter through slow lines like, here we go now and, now it's time to move to the next line: so I find a gun in the mailbox. Inside one of those, Wow what's this? light-brown padded envelopes. Stuffed tight into the dark-brown mailbox. Takes me 5 minutes to pry it out. I was thinking it was the Nirvana Covers box-set from Subgroup.org, so pulled carefully so as not to besmirch it. And it was snowing hard; and I was standing in my new gold dressing gown and maroon slippers - well I wasn't expecting the delay - but I persevered with my new envelope for 5 minutes, pulling, carefully, in hard snow, like vets pull calfs from laboring arses. Next I know, padded envelope - perfectly - is there on the benchtop, surrounded by breakfast bowls and a coffeepot and cups, all peering in, echoing my own wondering: What's in it? But like I said, it was a gun. Which was loaded

Neverfall Thursday

Local chap, face red with sun or stress or an alcohol absence-presence problem, claims in super-condensed form recent goings on in the flats, which myself and studio now call home: bikie rape; prostitution; guy climbs drain-pipe - 7 floors - to enter window he'd observed open through summer, on the off-chance something might be in there, someone might be not, and that he might be able to escape. Giant guy dismissed from nearby psyche-ward, prison tattooed, when not taking medication, runs naked round the flats, hammering doors, screaming, taken by police. Clothesline near communal laundry favored by local thieves on run from police, needing quick-change of identity. And the security gate out back - just replaced: gang hops fence, steals a car to ram gate, then leaves in another, more preferred. And everybody knows the front gate's always open.

(Wednesday) You lot

So me and The Wizard of Oz are supping pints. I didn't know he was scouse: "Born and bred" he says (more than once); "Made my way to Oz after I fell asleep on the ferry", he tells me, (more than twice). But anyways, we're chatting - scouse-philosophic like: and it's late. He tells me stuff I'd never heard, never even thought of. He uses words I'd never seen to explain - like "atwang" and "orlumula", and, what was it - "lackwahlee". (I've forgot the meanings, but I remember the words.) All this to tell me, you'll be surprised I know, "Today is but a weave of major industry, my son" he says. "Only a few; and then a weave of minor ones - zillions of these. The major one's - drugs, arms, food, language, construction - they infiltrate the others - cars, houses, jobs, etcetera. And, but" he says, by this time standing in the middle of the table, the pub silent to the old man's conviction, "The biggest of the lot", he swallows the pint, "The biggest", a pin drops, "You know what the biggest industry on this here little planet of ours is? You lot".

ne Tuesday O

I realized I didn't have one so I quickly bought one. This time, I bought a new one, even though the old one still works. The thing is, it just doesn't work as well as I think it should - no: actually, that's not true: it doesn't work as well as the one my mate bought last week. He has a brand new one, and an old one, and uses both but swears by the new one. He takes it everywhere. Brought it round yesterday and put it on the table, in the garden, on the dog, even put it on the roof and well, yes, I have to admit it worked well. Really well in fact.... I paid top-dollar for mine - I should have hired one I know but, well, there's nothing like actually owning your own one. Even though the hire-guy back in town said he'd do me a good deal. Given I hired a really good old one last summer. (Weird he remembers, but there you go.) Anyway, here it is: I got one. A brand new one. Just pulled the sticker off. Much better than my old one and I reckon, looking at it here on the table, after trying it on the roof, and the dog, it's better than my mate's

Mondaysuperwhite

I picked out the ice. I did. I was right here when I did it. I stood here, moving sparingly as possible and picked out the ice. Tiptoed, I picked it out with my outstretched fingers. But they say no: they say I wasn't here at all - you were over there they keep on saying. You were over there, and because of the way you waited, and because of the way you were standing, you forced our ice to give itself up to you. Me, they say. I did this. But I simply can't say: I have no bearings in here. This is their white-space. Uncornered, Unedged. Unhorizoned. I know none of the heights or any of the distances in here. I know it's cold, because my blood cells keep on telling me, as does the pale blue color under my skin. I don't even know why I'm here: I'm used to the corners and edges and shadows of the unwhite-space. So they might be right: maybe I did coerce their ice. It would, after all, make sense

Sunday's Chord

But. And you say Yes? And I repeat - stupid word - But. Yes you say again. But, I reply. Again. And then a pause. You look at me, and I look around, searching round inside - I look uncomfortable to you - for a better word; a word for this first conversation: Yes, you implore me; Yes you ask again - you repeat again, I hear tremor in your voice. But feebly I respond: I open my mouth, my eyes say differently but But comes out again. I try. I try. I look round for provocation; something to provoke the right word - I see a line of tall cypress trees, I see caravans of people creating dust-clouds heading west, I see plains full of herding buffalo and great Boeings roar overhead, but only But comes out: No you say finally to me. Yes, I reply

Sat'day Writ

trying to write what happened before. using words that are black, cut into a page, so both can shape a plane into a what happened before. and what happened before was, well, curious - full with blackless anger and dead-blood: an unsheathed thrust that alloyed things: a night of motorized street; sound of trucks screaming loads; and riots on corners of Saturday drunks. and my mouth full of metal-speak; my spine a hard rod fused to the wheel. but how to write what happens before, when such a pure and unassuming page deflects such deceit? how to cut into what gives itself so here and so pure, so brightly and so givingly, with a what happened before, stained with what's happened since? into a page that's here and now-bright: how to cut and make it bleed a black of all-gone; a black of conjure; a black of heresy to the sanctity of this? how to cut this skin soft white; this here of purer than sleep, with a blacklist of word that whispers, This doesn't exist? well:- review this page

Friday ShimmerShaft

I cast my shadow into ancient gold. I stood in one place for seasons watching it carve down deep into the world. and by this watching, and by this carving, all the sun's rays focused in and around me, and they solidified that shadow, fired and burnished it. my shadow made of gold now stands years tall, it cannot be buried, it is thin as I and offers one perfect echo to any ask.

Thursday's Hymna-Hiroshima

nothing compares to you sings Sinead. but what does she know? what about a great big train robbery? what about a 60-vulture circle of vulture-kings and queens circling high over a big hole in a sandy desert somewhere created by, er, the descendents of that guy who built that bomb that wrecked Hiroshima, the hole filled with body-parts and broken limbs and week-old indigestible blood? and what about, 300 double-decker buses staying end to end for a non-stop trip from, say, Paris, to Vladivostok, all passengers highly susceptible to travel sickness, heat and cold, and the color red? and how about Wagner squaring his ring cycle; JK Rowling using her clout to have the Wiggles perform Mein Kampf; or Metallica and The Queen doing a short series of cookery shows for HBC, from the bottom of that desert hole? from where I sit, whoever you are, you'd need to be pretty damn meta-physically incomparable. ahh you are

Wednesday Weaponless

my concerns. my needs. what I crave and what I want... my concerns get in the way; my concerns and my needs - what I want: these are my distraction. and my regrets, and my memories too: I contemplated a memory once and was lost for days. not to mention my ideas - my god: once I held an idea, shaped it with all type of thought for 3 months, and the little bugger had me lost for, I forget how many years; cost me untold dollars, wore out 4 pairs of shoes - dragged me through airports and countries along river and into hotel after hotel after hotel after hotel. but my clothes do not distract me - my shirt; my trousers; my shoes. and my desk too, my one chair. the path beneath my feet, when it holds, does not distract me. and when the sky stays in place, when it remembers for me, and thinks for me, and craves for me and wants for me; when it defends me from I for I is my greatest distraction.

Rothko(ShitCunt)Wednesday

after a Rothko multiform - untitled, 1949 - shit, fuck, cunt (for the greens, yellows, reds) plus punctuation interspersed with certain words for structure - like god or what - to articulate the feeling of waking naked at the center of a gigantic dam wall, middle of day, with nothing to stop your falling but moss and cracks:

oh shit. shit. shit. shit this is - whaaa - shiiit. shiiiit. hold on. whaaaa. shit. no, this, can't be, what? shit. shit. I, er, shit. wheramI? where am I! holy shit this. shit fuck (fuck) oh help me fuck oh, oh, fuck. no - fuck. look down fuck! fuck no. fuck no! look: wait: god if, I. if I just, oh fuck! come on god fuck. fuck. this is (shit) fuck. (this is-can't-be happening) god oh god oh fuck. and what fuck. fuck! what the fuck oh cunt! god cunt! - I'm-slipping - god you cunt! (shitcuntshit - fuck) oh cunt! what-a-cunt what-a-cunt acunt-a. this is (slipping; shitcunt) what-a cunt. slipping. I, I, orange

Monday's Teeth

see-it doo ya? d'ya see it? doo ya see it riggle? see its all its bestparts missing? hacked and battered off? deaf too because it can't hear; dumb too because it cannot speak, a limbless an a-limbless pale, see it drag along there using teeth - but fahow long? its blood's all go: its seeps and pours. it blind. it bag once o' breathing; sack a once was. see it? do ya see it? can yaa? me too

SatSunday Dyscalculia

1 word. 2 more words. 3 words that ask. 4 words want to reply. 5 words going to reply but. 6 words that interrupt what five was. 7 words interrupting the second of two interruptions. 8 words that care not for interruption, introducing nine. 9 words suffer dyscalculia before ten's. 10 words.

Friday Water-When

you know how you pour water, from a jug to the sink. for you to wash. and the jug is big like an 8 made of ceramic and glazed, a neutral pastel, and it's full: not stupid-full, all the way up to the top, but a full that fits the jug. a restrained full stoic and precisely there. and you need both hands and arms to hold the jug and tilt it: not like a baby, more like a small log for the fire. and as you do the feeling is of thrill-wrapped apprehension: is this working? will I splash and spill? will I somehow dishonor this mother-shaped give? and then water comes out a silence; but not silence: it concentrates all sound near within a water-quiet: the tv has a pouring sound now; the street outside has a pouring hushing through it; and that birdsong - it's congealing to a poured quietness. the pour from your arms commands the attention of the here.... then it's a lick, a long lick; a long that licks out the air; a long of air the length of which becomes a pouring only where air licks it. like a long glass tongue. which the sink will destroy: un-shifting sink. solid; unmoving. arms crossed watching the water come, knows the future here, and stays. so the water explodes on contact. an obliteration held in place only by the sound of it's splash, and the sink, which waits for the water to settle, to sigh to itself again, resigned to it's fate as fire

InThursdayOut

curious bastard. always poking your nose in. you - through my window, I see you: curious and nosy and what's worse, even when I sleep you come in; you push your damn way in and I can't hear you. but you come in anyway and change everything:- my bed; my furniture and my stuff; even my clothes you bastard. the hell do I do eh? you even touch me! you come in everyday, you poke around, you change everything. you sunrise. (not sunset.)

Wednesday Is-it

ithaca baulked - a what? and when to what.... (a blanket?) ithaca baulked. run-along. ithaca will be here - come-along. now-now run (tissue?) ahhh. next: wednesday, it will be a fish. a break in procedure yes, a wednesday-odd of fish oh yes. 24 hours replaced by pike, mackerel, cods. next. fire took the shock out from it there. see where the was is now? mast and furlong combining into a right old burny one. next? well: proceed: yes: yearn marks linger betwixt a jodhpur suit and old yoghurt parts. next, no. I've a flight to catch. he's a flight to catch. last passed the wins.... next

Tuesday's Trim

fourteen hours for one line

Monday's Fall

third-floor study, summer’s evening, st. anne's college, oxford. there, at the old big window, warm sunlight shafting through, like a bright-rod set against the dim-distant bookshelf, our student standing naked: smooth as a just-stripped birch to the hand; sharp as a new idea to the mind. asking how. how does it happen - how does…? close-up - student’s left-thigh. I reply, imagination: which is everything:- the everything. I say this before a pause. close-up - student's left-shoulder. see, through the window to that oak, see how it imagines the sky with its leaves? see how its branch imagined the feet of that bird, perfectly down into place? and how its flight imagines the bird now, perfectly to the roof of that church, which will not just imagine the bird down into place, it will imagine the sound of this evening’s hymns into our ears. close-up - student's neck. yes, yes I…. imagine now a fall of legs, down to our dusty rug                                                                                        

Shimmer(Un)Sunday

this end of a less-light. burnish of a ground. fall of once-paraded light, hung from long failed birds. watch it spreading through these lines of dust-for-detail: read here 'yet again' and 'never'. where wander I and track; where I stumble with a pen. to raise from the page: - to form these less-effects and shadows - I write against. the bell of trial's direction through this once of no-more words

Saturday Yes-No-Yes

no sat between two yes. looking ahead and then sheepishly, thinking both had been sufficiently distracted - no exaggeratedly sneezing - it looked at both quickly. and then just as quickly back. for no saw in an instant they were identical: not just the two yes, but all three of them. and this disturbed no to the core, always believing there was only one no. which the yes already knew: what no knew the yes always, always knew, because no's memory was dead: following each, to no it seemed anyway, of no's miraculous discoveries followed an instant forgetting. and so the yes always, always knew what no knew. all three never budging an inch from their bench for some 250 years. for some 250 years they sat side-by-side, so there was nothing no knew the yes didn't. what separated them was no was alone, and thus always forgot, having no-one to confer with, no-one to agree with, no-one to argue with. but the yes being two chatted at each drop of a hat - which no did constantly when sneezing - and so always, always remembered. until no-one returned that is: having conferred, agreed, and argued with no for some 250 years, no-one forced itself back on the bench. next to yes

FriErDay

no; it's no good. it's gone. [what did he say?] (it's gone I think. gone. yes.) yes: I think it's gone. all those years I had it and now - nothing. [now he's saying nothing.] (nothing?) [yes: doesn't look good. he's looking down.] I find myself looking down now. seems the ground is the place for me now. the future once was the distance, but now it's down there. [he's definitely looking down.] (at what?) [at the ground.] (at the ground?) [yes; just the ground: isn't moving a muscle.] now I've no reason to move at all. I just, stand - ground at my feet's the future now. where else is there to go? (can you hear what he's saying?) [something about where else is there to go.] (oh: shall we show him?

Thursday-Power Pissing

all the street-gutters are full with rain.... it dives down and rushes with a thrash-gushing down-sound. into dark concrete mouths all wet-get. from which I hear this speech, eery-hiss and oily: see it ascend through words the new skyscraper tomorrow; hear it hum through words on buses and trains "we make you; and we carve you out. we the medical companies and building companies, we the car company, money and language company, and the mind companies, the body companies...: we make you; we made you: we give you scripts: give you images, to shape and assure your moves, fill your dreams: we give you costumes, and stages too - we call them fashion, the bar, the mall - even give you belief, and challenges, escape - family, house, and holiday. all we want is your flesh a little while and bones; that you keep paying our bills; and that you forget all this about soul, and that you sit when we say, you stand when we say, and you keep quiet until the next you comes along." it was like a pissing sound

Wednesday Wrote-Anna

I knew Anna when she knew me. but I know Anna now. and what I know now isn't what it was. Anna was unlike the what she's becoming; she was amongst the all of the excitement-years of study and travel, purchases and children and love, of having the required, and being the required. she was the story. she lived the line of words. but under these, the page: always white they say. until now. the off-white's showing through she's telling me, though not in so many words. there in the mirror; in the kid's voices too she says. although she won't tell Leonard, his voice the crumpled page now. Anna's finding Anna writ large across the page these days, in letters the decades tried cover. letters we once spoke. letters spelling her name again. so she sits at her table unable to write

TuesNothing-EscapeDay

here in this nothing-escape: all there is is size, area, a long rod of brass and that feeling you get before words come. no - forget it. here in the nothing escape is a hallway: not too long but long enough that you can't see the end, so you have to imagine the end. until you realize the end is something like an end, so imagining is replaced by memory. no - this won't do either. here, in the nothing-escape, are words: scraps of air and day. a bit of woman here; bit of regret there; a hope a vision a sound. all day's cuts molded to letters forming words begging all that happened to say Yes, the words are right, it actually happened as they say, just before what actually happened alights through what is happening now and then out into the what will happen, through yet another nothing-escape

MonPressDayUre

cut me a swastika hole she says. cut it like you was hungry she says. get on your knees and gouge! I held the cutter she'd bought me; I stared at her and her hole on the floor; stared at the cutter and felt her shouts expanding my ears. and then I looked over the edge - I saw myself there with the cutter and her on the floor. I could see I was a meter from her and the hole, and so I shouted to me to get on with it: do as she says, I shout to me, nauseated by the impending mess:- because I was curious what I might do under peer-pressure

Sunday Meat

and. there is no me. there is just the barest I: a glow held by a scatter of details. me is of the mirror. me is of the name-badge. me is of the family album. I? I is the turning of eyes in response to the visual. The moving of the head to follow an odor. The moving of the feet through attraction attuned by the earth. I is shaping need; I is need-moved meat; I is the momentary accumulation of a here and now becoming a there and then. I is here and now, there and then, a gone, a was, a coming site of bliss, perhaps

SatOhUrFriDay

eight more words until the end of this sentence. nine more 'til the end of this one as well. but only six to the end of this one. five to the end of this.... oh; song of the smart-arse, she says. numeric-pretension, she says. you just a typist, she says, no writer. but he is right he argues. and he's got a point too. and he's a right to type whatever he wants here. no he hasn't they shout. and he won't anymore - the punctuation company's moving in with their question mark: look?

Thurfakesday

some fake-bikies come over: they wear fake-boots and fake-patches; use fake-words to describe fake-harley davidson, fake-triumph, fake-bsa bikes. they bring with them fake-friends; proceed to talk loud about fake-plans and fake-intentions for all manner of fake-acts. all of them from the fake-badlands down-south, where fake-weather reeks fake-havoc on their fake-farms and fake-homes. but then things get heated - I speak out of turn. fake-punches are thrown; fake-blood spills across my carpet. fake-bottles smash as they fake-rage and fake-threaten me with all manner of fake-harm. then they fake-leave and set fire to my house. now I'm on the fucking street

Wed(Comes)Thursday

into these words comes a written; into these words comes a rhythm; into these words a moment's coming through. like heat through a flame rises; like heat through a burn sensations; like heat through sound of fire-cracks. like a dream of another coming; like a dream of the other coming; like a dream of a long dead naked other comes.... before fists into punching pushes on; and then a punch into fists of pushing on; into pushes of a punch afists another comer. then through this day a new day rises; into this rise of a day renews; into this page another-one comes coming

Ivory TueWednesday

Peter sat around it. there without delay. Peter sat around it. there was no delay, because there it was as Peter sat. It wasn’t what I expected. as he sat; as it happened. as the rearrangements fell and a split sounded. but still I sat. vertical rods here were all black, holding a silence-white that holds a fall and split. there seemed no end to it. but, Peter sat around it. It just doesn’t move, he’s saying. I see it but it doesn’t move. and as Peter sat round it, and as he said it, it moved. the air of the words his mouth transmits transmitted airs of movement. clouds of words round it, a hovering mist of them round it. a circling of words that circled now, a tiny movement round it. a tininess now, a lowering tiny, an all but was now. now just a place where words once were. a once was. a had been place. A Peter was around it.