Or how was it that the cohort were caught 

in a slow storm
of ectoplasm
and gravitational reverse
the institute’s agenda

The gesture solidified makes type.

The figure of type reduced to mark is an alphabet.

An alphabet traversing word is

a mouthed gesture.

A mouthed gesture tracking the breath

dissolving type as it returns to gesture.

Shaped to shape, a kiss;

can this belong to a sentence?

Our rowdy typology eludes 

punctuation and alphabet, solidifying

into an open basin of dream.

Lifted fire
twisted around this fallen knowing
of forgetting a candle. 

Neither fire nor smouldering
just the gathering

in anticipation of together.

Another note of repose

enthusiasm prodded toward meeting in the future.

Life is life is
life all the way down.

For life not to be found, 
there can be no life

yet here is living seeking living,
here is life peering toward the possibility
of no life,

being therefore,
seeking, all the way down.

One wonders at how a combination of death
may produce the seeking life
who investigates its own vestigial absence.

The rooms of the narrator get written in.

Language blockades: what is the external situation of going to conflict?

In the midst of their social being
which is also a mist
they write up the quality and quanta of exile
and describe a rootlessness as the world.

The narrator dwells in this room.

Their story is in another


or the beaten situation.

One listens through the wall and all is recounted propely,

Doing as he is told
in this country 

we expect commerce and industry, local and national government
to take account of the differing needs 
and tastes 
and opinions of the people.

We expect
those who influence the lives of 64.1 million citizens to base their work

on facts

to find out
what people really think and feel and prefer

to help people
in management
make decisions

never appear to be bored by anything a respondent says
nothing is more likely to irritate a respondent than the suspicion that

you are uninterested in their opinions.

Obtaining a full answer
to an apparently straightforward question
is not always the simple matter it may seem.

Respondents tend to answer questions
indirectly or go off
at a tangent

give answers so vague that they hardly qualify 
as answers
or be so hesitant about expressing a definite 
opinion that
they will say don’t know  rather than say what they really think.

They may also say don’t know out of apathy
or laziness
use vague ambiguous 
like nice or  good
or say
                          I like it
and give no reason
as to why they like it.

In all these cases make another attempt to get a fuller answer.

Every tree dreams of being a forest
We are that dream. 
We are that tree, dreaming a forest. The wood is felled and hewn into the side of a great ship. The ship is launched quietly, in the night, and now ears are listening for a wind.

A deflated void has an impossible weight. 

The mute language of onion skins is trying to tell me things.

In a meaningful universe one desperately seeks out nonsense.
Then, in a meaningless universe, one desperately seeks meaning, hunting it out from wherever it may be found. An infinite tide of greener grass on an equally infinite retreat.
Sinuous sputum, spectacular spatula, baroque stupidity. 
To portion out the oblivion of one’s life.

The forest is not destroyed by a wooden hut – nor will it be harmed by a gingerbread hut – it is the path to that hut which wounds. And if the sugared prison is broken apart by a savoury woodcutter, then the forest will begin to tremble. 

Nonsense is something of a revolving door. 
Anxiety in my ears, the septic build up of years, a waxy re-routing of tears. Not deep thoughts but slow ones.

No wind yet.

There is an injustice in having to be in one place at one time. One suspects that we are creatures destined to be multiple and connected; all points, all places; and then one will be very still.

The concierge says that the key is functioning perfectly. Perhaps it is the door that is causing you problems?

He was writing a novel and had to stop because everything he wrote came true. Someone suggested that he carry on but give the novel a happy ending. And who, he asked, would buy that?
He wrote: Jimmy’s amazing jissom astonishes his gang as it leaps through his blurred fist to dance before them in animated tableaux. His come forms an amazing cartoon into which they enter so as to rescue the Princess. Twice they succeed and twice she is recaptured. Jimmy’s friends are enthralled by this adventure and yet on Jimmy’s third and final orgasm his spunk is done and the vision gone and the gang are horrified for it is all over and the Princess remains locked up and they, although shamed to admit it, feel responsible for this. They suspect they have unconsciously conspired to allow for the easy recapture of the Princess. Jimmy’s balls are aching, spent baubles; all he ever wished of his special juices was that his friends would appreciate them. Instead those friends now turn on him, and ridicule him so as to cover up their shame for the failures of their inglorious adventure. 

The liquidity of thought will erode or otherwise attack any concrete expression. Through the dumping ground of brain and mineral heart this fluid, disallowed from common or open flow, is a leachate of dissolved magnificence and terror.

Eroded like a frozen lake skated upon, the mind has a regular pattern of grooves around its edge. In the middle it is empty apart from a gradually frosting over crack, a hole that opened briefly and then shut on top of a child.

The Skating Minister by Henry Raeburn
Go conk me pan: Waiting on the stupid inside of you like a classroom caught agog at the sight of a pile of books precariously held aloft by ajar door and door-frame
A spray of glitter, pillow stuffing for a prison existence. 

When digging a hole keep digging but ensure that one changes direction. Now one is tunnelling.

Beyond its stretch marks this universe is satiated with the love of its own conception. Stars and void suffer from a sense of loss. 
In separation anxiety there is a deep seated desire for connection simultaneously linked to an oft destructive wariness of intimacy. 
We are all twins of the broken bond, our better sibling abandoned in the womb.
We are both jealous of and saddened by this absence. 
We are frightened of the unspoken knowledge of how questions posed in one nebula may be immediately answered in another. If this is allowed, so will hurt felt in one place be immediately experienced by the entire body.

I lift my head above the parapet, a crown appears upon my head. I think it is a crown at first but it turns out to be a fortified wall.
I lift my head above the parapet.
I am crowned, the crown turns into a wall which make me safe, although my kingdom is small.
I lift my head above the parapet; the sight is astonishing, as if all the world were mine. From out my brow there grows a crown; it turns into a fortress.
I lift my head above the parapet.

Anxiety in my ears, septic build up of years, a waxy re-routing of tears.
Not deep thoughts but slow ones.

The estuary beats out its own time and we, at last, are quiet for a while.

Now we dare hold it, make a shape of it, and even dredge it for the untainted sun. 

The key works fine, do you have the right door?

A new half-life awakens, stimulated by its vanity

but otherwise, anxiety dying makes anxiety anxious. 

Its vain persistence is the only assurance anxiety may find.

The abysmal nothing is known as a huge transfer of energy.

Our fear is sent down to suck this up.

From nothing to nothing to appearing.

This energetic presence known through its abyss.

I am known from absence unto absence.

Vain frittery, this scuttling half of a half of a half

a life of gesticulation

whose failure will guarantee the anxious stimulation

of anxiety, who is set to live



I met the broken man yesterday. He said he was a shadow of the whole, yet when I looked at all of the shadow it was surely and wholly black. An abyss of an abyss is nothing.

The broken man was laughing, weakly, and bleeding all over the pillow. 

I said half life quartered is still anxiety dying. And blood on the sheets is still a stain, he replied. The smallness or otherwise of unease is no hindrance to the leverage of uneasiness. Once it has a gesture, it will trip you.

It was then that I invited the broken man into the wholeness of the shadow. It darkness will seep between your shattered parts, I smiled.

It was then that he asked of how, if this were shadow of the whole, and from where did the light come by which the black could be spilt? Surely, he reasoned, if this is the whole then the light also is of the whole, and can it ever be possible that the source of illumination is also its own dark terminus?

Is what is in between whole or is the wholeness only that which holds the between?

I asked then if a ripped and shattered body made it easier to talk. I was not threatening, I was simply pressing my finger through the already existing gaps.

He was silent.

People talk about shopping a lot.

People talk a great deal about television and DVDs.

People talk often of their holidays.

The elsewhere moments line up between my broken flesh, the cast shadow, and the unseen illumination on the far side of an object I cannot comprehend.




The simple line to be walked as nous.

The knowing line to be walked simply.

The walking line, simply.

The walking nous, simple line.

What is the abyss but nothing?

At the end of the line; the drop



The abysmal nothing is known as a huge transfer of energy.

From nothing to nothing to appearing.

This energetic presence known through its abyss.

I am known from absence unto absence.

Woe to the one’s who bring harm to these little ones; better a millstone be tied around their neck and they be thrown into the abyssal depths.

Here is the millstone.

Here is the void and the weight worn by all.

Even so, even so; a smallness will grant access through this hole. Wriggle through and drag through, you bring an immensity of light into this dead depth.

A simple line. A knitted together line. An energetic transforming line, neither nous nor knowing, and not not knowing. Ours is the cold seep community. Ours is the broken open mantle, a steaming vent of fecund mineral.

The key 
to transformation seems to be 

experience experienced in the process.

Where is caught experience?
Where it is transforming.

Inhering potential is received as change and change is received as an inheritance. Our wealth is of an inherent probability weighted toward change.

Thought process itself will be subject to process.

I have built a grilled fish as if it were an abstracting machine. 
But I have not built the fish.
I have burnt fish on occasion.

The abstracting machine is also a tasting machine. 
Here in my mouth it goes to work.

Transformation is indeed tasty but when I bite down on the key I break my tooth.