poem || Lawrence Upton

Light # 1

Gave it names, and used our hands; made things become spurious. The curtain closes. I look old, and taped together. Come on!

Now there is abundant light, we speak of it. You can see the hands, made things, better, more living space we make out of synchrony.

Some visual incongruity. We mass produce the dedication. I look at it to be quite safe.

The world, darkness into a further darkness, even darker, glitters at length. So I believe the image, of cracks; we cannot understand them, the sentence incidental. Contrast power! Pulse arranges gossip of uneven shape, but dislocation must be made things better than they were.

Light regresses. We destroy all electorate. Inner things become spurious, to repeat large areas of smooth media. Connection remains the doubling of an uneven blackness achieves major coverage provides a fissure through possibility. Ardour as well as access. Pressure of the image isn't a dead man. The time is the main idea. I cannot survive expiration.

They are heavy. What they mean. The gags. The rest is abstract. Fancy prestige. Covet a world you are visible from, to watch the sluggish seashore tells into some blue network.

Our world's visited by transition. We create pauses as such error. History we count images I don't want. Deliberately so lust tolerably oxidise. The round of interlopers rising out of the source, the roots of the lights; big close up to managing to repeat large areas - our fault the world - two frames running into the question of the mark... two frames running into each other... shouting delicate adjustment of the situation tells, illuminated all night.

Ruin, the centre, looking at blizzards, the pull of making; the ground synchrony, the image of gravity, downward, through, resisting representation, film already in progress, imitation talking, illusion of influence, brainless, scratch.

Every medium has been torn. Speak of this work. Wasted bang. An unexpected explosion. Litter of ink. Repeat fervour, the action system, at differing intensities; and floats lightly. Bang, an unexpected explosion litter of light inflow; principles to a particular case; or the house of synchrony with the roads; are impassable. Now there is abundant light in darkness. We discovered new country. Gave it names, analog dedicated children a dead man.

One sees a multiple world. The door glitters, disclosing the process. Variations generate a world, prosperity a computer graphic. Unexpected explosion. Light only. The doubling of a recollection through the daylight. A most sophisticated composition flapped in. Walking in creation. Bereavements flower. Photocopier is what you are.

Smears of moods. That is to the straight lines. Hands made things better than they mean that the viewer feels the created, now he's been severed, together while some blackness. Unready time is a pause as there are linked to go. You might count after meeting a discomposure. Two figures. The world. No one here. We only have myths. We are much more developed. It isn't our hands made things better than they were. We have science. They have myths. We helped ourselves. We do.

Cluster shovel a cookie motif parallel. Uncomfortable opposite comedy form askew. Light!