Saturday, May 10, 2014

text || Lawrence Upton


It is the case      and that is everything     knocked by illusion
take it all    inside    interpreting breeze correctly    and subject
to wind or words    am fleeing     blasts and a little arthritis    nothing
to cause concern     he and he alone      is the case         everything
unless it’s been got up wrong
gust-whipped      making wing over a carpenter’s shop
look down as a gull would      hunting     do you see
one might be blind and still see that          although        perhaps
we do not share language beyond the sibilance

                   The wind

Sawdust, saying (versus showing) scapegoat
scepticism    schematic cube         schlemihl
search seas of language                      reality is comparative
secrecy                 seeds                         seeing

self sensation

sensations sense

sense-data series

shadow twins
wetly together
signs versus symbols
over the discard of our making
following our senses
our state subjective uncertainty
our substance supernatural
our symptoms are synthetic    talking to oneself     vivacity free-willed action
walking desiring wordless thought   swept up
   does not     change without cease     is a riddle solved
say scaffolding     say disbelief       say schema      say science
hierarchies are and must be      independent of reality       abstract similarity
abstract zero-method     co-ordinate critique of language
limit tautology               deal with survival      concatenate oneself
costless eternity          grammar of      the fairy tale
when I am asleep         I am flying       when I am standing
I am walking on air       I am always flying    I never come down
fingers transform into a walk aloft    I observe the world all time
        all ways         my head turns
The wind
He seems much larger than surrounding land and furniture
all head      a head grown out of clumps of trees               indistinct bushes
long-extended branches swaying      a tangle underneath      no way in
crows peering     black clouds      clouds at his head       black clouds          
a ludicrous man on a rearing horse just visible
in the valley         a tall slim woman carrying fruit on her head
and others from some architectural illustrations go after their business
casting long shadows
From between the many branches
black reflective lenses shine, watched by crows
Round his head     a containing harness     possibly torturing
The top of his head’s a quiff of polluted air and carrion birds
His failures are tear off strips
He looks ahead      seeing no thing.
A paddle of levers spins at his skull’s back
he moves in the opposite direction to everyone else

Some one is sleeping on the floor on fine linen
They’re heaped upon themselves a crumpled blanket.
Their clothes bulk them hiding their body shape except for the head
The head is bare
The head is visible
The chair looks at the head
It is a plain wooden kitchen chair      a little damaged
It could do with some attention
but it’s comfortable and safe            and it wants to destroy the head
The head is asleep                          The chair waits

The blade has fallen almost all the way
Behind and around                    high glass buildings
Light bounces within the square          The scaffold
though well-lit                     seems dark
In anticipation           the head breaks into an open landscape
water courses
a tree
things without backbones
things which hate light

                        The head shatters into a smile

The head lets in water and drowns in rising sea
The head flees from that which it senses to be approaching
The head hears the blade and seeks to transform itself
The head is transmogrified to grey scale
to itself
an empty basket
a platter after the meal
It has nobody
It is nobody’s
The head thinks

deep in fizzing ocean clumsiness abandons
that which was a hindrance is now style
fall apart co-ordinating the separations
each of many limbs finds its route away from collective impact
spirals of spiralling

timber by timber
a souterrain collapses
soil spills in
and pebbles and bricks         till        finally
even the decorative capstone accedes unevenly to gravity
I am on the television says a voice
I am on the stove says that voice
Where am I? says the voice
Either way     I’m cooked     the well-known voice is saying
an outgrowth of something else
whity scum in the dark pan
turning the heat up         comes into real existence        an enormous bubble
God’s a monkey and the monkey’s an old man
has many arms     most of them broken
sitting in a broken chair     pointing at the world
and trying to direct it
washed up    sopping     and dried out
One side of him’s hardly finished     the other side’s wrecked.
His cock or a cigar in his hand
The only one within sight
Something rather large    but still wormlike has come to be      beneath us
That is to say within or else inside the round thing we depend from
A street light shakes
A transmitted image
shudders    but    being digital   pixilates                   a low overhead cable
bisecting it          vibrating       the walls of the house creak
and the worm             doing obeisance to some other thing            leers
a greyness flutters
an’ it stretches extremely high            into a roof like a capsized boat
hands clasped pushing beyond what can be known from here
too many legs dance
flabby and rapid                the same fixed smile on every shared face

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