conspicuous, in that it belonged there & must have arrived

at the end of some itinerary—une pièce de résistance—in a park

beside a fountain, the laughter of remote spires

assembling to no good purpose (what they divulge is neither

an explanation nor an inventory)—in a shaft

of blue light their mouths corolla upwards, even

the sun cannot go on breaking over new ground

(indefinitely?)—a tract, spelled out in paragraphs & capitals

the “solemnities” of each late harvest stripped

of the identity imposed upon it (the breast

his mother refused him, carved from old fists) or deep down

in the live culture, strange penicillins give form to a brief

     & tender incest—a single irrational symbol whose features belie

                   the uniform field—because of it—the same regimen of

                                         nothing to say, everything said: a brown

     paper bag in which he sought a way back, long ago (destination

                     not indicated but sensed from things passed or seen

                 en route)—the same impressions laid one upon another

                                            simultaneously the beginnings of long

                        chains of thought & their ends—dividing each time

     by a subtle integer we never remembered the key to, reluctantly

stretching out a hand on the scarred river ice (to stave off

another separation?)—the rest

is statistical, metaphor like target silhouettes, strung out in a sub-

urb or desert (the high atlas, for example, or a housing

project in x)—the outskirts redolent & la pensée sauvage as pre-

fabrication, modular, resolving the inner primitive

in studied conjugations (i clench my teeth, it doesn’t work

no matter how hard), prompted by thoughts

mostly of other places but sometimes not—or casting back to the

undamaged wall & well-trodden path that lead up to it:

                       when the last stone fell, you had a hand in that also



it is in the same way theoretically understandable that mental illness may,

in its own turn, be linked with some bodily accident


these elucidations: “the world is still the vague

theatre of all experience”—… scripting dis-

location, an interminable middle, without

beginning or end—playing & replaying a scenario of “strange interludes,” im-

pedimenta (in which everything must be

exposed to view)—this moment is crucial: the door is ajar, the cell

no longer closes off—already the walls

are only bars (or the distance from one

of two intersecting lines to the other increases

beyond all bounds as we recede

from their common point)—approximations demand

a plenum: “more room desire to winter”—a radius, to thicken it

into a body—derived, by trial & error, its hard

edges, a view into another interior (yet distant—as if

blurred or in weather), invisible as letters printed far apart on a con-

tour map, haunting its periphery—“continuation is re-

assuring” she says—a present

& nameless concern who “unlacks” (the letter x, for instance,

which is a variable, in a place somewhere else, on the last

or next page, collapsed under the effort) …

the old fears: however many messages we send (we’ll never get through)—

channels, ridges, walls, tendons, bridges: something

splayed, available for use—or a mouth

gapes at one side of the stage, belabouring it—each figure

divided ruinously in the outlying & remote space which is

sometimes called the nave—a

movement to foreclosure, idealised

as an object or an objectile slipped through the vowel, onerously—“as i look up

or it falls apart”






“it is therefore the imagination that makes the reflection of the emotions

possible”—or someone calls in the middle of the night

& asks about the war & public opinion, although

sooner or later everything becomes habit—the short-wave hissing

in several languages at once

 “autochthonous selves”—a clockface slumping in the heat


impossible to tell what time of year it is—looking down

at the page with printed words & partially

impaired vision (the shadow of an

aeroplane flying low over

water), something which could be an emblem, not of endurance

but of congruence in flux—events currently taking place in x: he tries

to think his eyes wide open, to say

in this sense reflection & extension are one & the

same, as slow-moving silhouettes

   in a calibrated range of ...


distance by time: to see the approach

in exact detail—citing

        turbulence, agitation, intruding upon the calculated

“loss of faith” & other derogations—it had to be spoken of

though in words re-learnt & re-

forgotten—by presentiment, conscience separating the idea [of power?]

from its actual exercise in the world—which means: to go on

for as long as you can endure it


immunology, among other preventatives (“the principals of nature

being the detour of human observation”)—a too-general

anæsthesia, lessening the flow, slowed down, almost to a stop “for all

intents & purposes”—or jamb

the body deep into a hole (to repel ghosts) & speak of it only

in the past tense




an ambiguous response: caution no longer

the stone that will provoke him in his task


it was

arranged, somewhere

[else], in winter (leaving

the page cold


a shape like the sky suggesting “absent scenes

& feelings / of severe

randomness”—the gap

between x & y is widening, but


how to precede? i move to a place not

far from here—the ever

invisible meanwhile: grasping one horn

of the dilemma (the film is of a

form of hygiene

                                by other than visual means


bitter taste in the mouth, in silence, speaking otherwise—not

to / sleep & forget


a phrase like “unleavened

bread,” which is also a signpost: the road to

emmaus—that leads us

on (zieht uns

hinan), as goethe says—the demon

of friday

recurring, incidental & con-

tingent: “progress” is the only

clue to this tædium vitæ


each piece

falling / into place—given back, abandoned, over-


no single answer presented itself


to plug the holes

dwelt in, or surmised—the idea of a cyrrhosis (“i eat

my own children”)—the po-faced bride


from strange envelopes arrived by flight, so long kept at bay

the shadows, planted

in the instruction

manual—employed, even, to more practical ends




a beginning always remembered differently—i step forward

& i vanish, the white surface

                                                    devoid of all sentiment


there remains the progress from one point to another

like hyphenation—some problem of density, cast-offs

“why try to give the impression of a consistent &

indivisible personality?”—

                                                 everything is too artificial &

very real, not the sum of its parts, & nothing keeps still


the nervous reflex from synapse to eye

compelling a recognition (“things the mind

already knows”), the mask of an exhibited crime


or plus-&-minus abstractions of the sea at scheveningen—

a grey undifferentiated sky & roof-

                line with broken


                                like “stumps of teeth”

                                                                 black gums


the air tastes of salt, human flesh, aftertaste, lips & tongue

(it stretches out into the water, a dark line

anchoring it, keeping the drowned body in place)


the sound of running water persists through several nights,

footfalls in the border passage:

                                a departure, an embarkation, an expedition—


the moorings are broken

& the tide pulls unrelentingly the body near as from afar

a rumour

from some prenatal & anonymous night

                     that won’t disappear, but spreads out “like a stain”





to calculate the amount of oxygen in a given space—how

it could be situated, attached, positioned, dis-

played—the lifecycle of such a personal appliance, something

awkward, like a carelessly discarded shoe waiting

to be tripped over—the inauspicious movement through air,


flung side-ways, hinged between collapse &

flight—a succession of animated right-angles

imitating a procedure: how could it be born of anything but

precedent? some private recourse to first principles—a downfall

of the last phrase, as “inner necessity”: something resembling


a noun & modifier, pitched in rapid

succession (but what is measure when no one part is discrete

from another?) the ever more removable “&”

not what it spoke but de-noted, thrusting into it—sans

gages / of the nearest next ground “c’est à vous de le trouver”


(to dispel the illusion of itself, on such & such a day, when x

comes to take the place of y—not without warning—or a

parenthesis is opened & through it passes “the

disposable body”—a cause for / belief? &c—to write it

down & then commemorate: here, if for no other reason than


to relish its non sequitur—or it went un-

noticed (as they tried to tell the skein from the face): i’ll

come back, there’s someone at the door—but who were you?

a window is lighting up in the sleep of the trained

mind—in the “prone” position, & however slight their


evidence—a gallery of ordinary things: street numbers, names

(in & out of sight, at any time e.g. october, of that

particular year)—the hollow, cut into frost, is a question

of which birth full to its shores does not answer—counting back-

wards from the articles that belong to it, this seemingly


regulated mechanism, shoved up into the womb

of some dark horse—the reassembled marquetry in the museum

foyer, the object relation of false-coincidences in which

something comes to an end, expires—basso profundo? or

sunk in the revolving earth & carried off


from that easy plunder site (archæology), or the

nonlight at the edge of the sea, stripped down

in place of its urgency—as before reversions—& insular, as the

one, towering flesh: but without nature’s aid

even such a “coup” as this could not have been accomplished


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