Friday, February 14, 2014

text || Lawrence Upton

What is all the world

Letters, swinging on their axles, break into which is poorly illuminated. What light in a still sound!
It exists, right angles; leaves, as states of old; it's the sheet of black there is drawn out any response.
Death, gets back its home, in loan; some marks of one - went blind, pressure of an image.
A man wearing glasses makes confusing reflections, promise falling into hand in pieces from his lover.
Don't answer. Roads are replacing gold. Distress flares. A sigh. Some years of sunlight.
In the centre, there is some expectation. There is cheap heroin.
You invisible.
Peripheral vision recollections. The photo of the alarm clock sea. Moon among gulls - on the room, glimmering darkness; space all this world, trodden positive - a strong inverse. It does not dazzle. Purpose recreates it. We pass it momentarily. Light defers itself, attenuated, shut off.
Is all this world filled up? His body spheres almost empty space of the baby bent over clapping sheep - bleat sheep bleat sheep bleat unconsciously.
Consciously, it all exists. Somewhere.
There are a few with my idea... abandon hope... abandon tides - will again flood - let's break the banks! fire on the author! - you singing it, completely white.
A white stands up in a curve, some wider universe inferred but not this wonder. Give names including special ones. You see my look. Here is the hand. Take you. See my surface making sounds. Much ambient information. A broken lens is replaced by snow all over the alive and gathering together. A train passing gets back its shape. The window makes all this: materials, and artefact, bringing things to death.
The water's rising. Almost dawn. Lift the rainbow. Passing the knives, unready, packed. Shore moon. Vapour gull. On the window, the same. Wind forces. Water broken in your head.
Today, wondrous, marvellous blow. That hair across your wealth disappearing at a slightly different picture. The skull making sounds like rain into fiery speeding white. Less strong voice wavering in a cellar some years before. Hysteria is a gateway. Javelins of sunlight in their fingers... a rhythm issues from no pictures, the story house of passion, passion's in the distance; only light... imbibe dust mounting while they lift self-evident hands, explosions shining on display. Don't answer breeze, modifying dazzle.
Home amiability variable, but the eye keeps steady within its habitation - flaming and smile offer - circle the police, staring bored; fixing his trousers after a cold night and regards me inside for my pass. Suspect. Incorrectly rich. It is drawn out, swelling not taken care of.
Still this is more space. A poetry found it exists. And it exists in distortion, speed blurred; but she wobbles on the window; on the window the room, but not...
Small things wink at you, crosshatching a goddess' head, in the alive. The room in my idea.
Tides will take us away... Earth in air is more space to maintain itself, an empty helm light with doubtful songs.
Carte blanche squares dance over a game, missed article on stormy currents, in the centre of the world.
At sunset, blue becomes shadowy
fragile waves
codes of modifying reality
to be enlarged upon
She drinks the face of the earth
look up
what is all the world
bringing things becoming uninterrupted
some expectation that they found his skin today
He slips on a still curve. She gets back home in silence. Clock movements. Photo of danger. Bedclothes good as a poetry. It is really black...
menage bifurcation, amiss, resourced
Unabbreviated white, in a look into the fire, trying to go amiability; beneficent siege. Compulsion; rattle of wind. Love me. Don't wash me away.
There are seasons and sea, possessions tinker a slightly different picture. One connection remains.

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