One is much
They get so weighed
down with the weight of the things acquired, they don't know where to put
corporealities.
Dead people most of
them in one way or another.
One day's like
another, some days more than similar, days that collide and merge.
From the other side
of the unused and cluttered room, you can see joins, if you look out of the
open window. A full room crammed.
Mice get into boxes.
Rats and spiders.
Shifting in small
spaces in the middle of the night, or the depth of day, it's dark, from room to
room, scratching over scar tissue divisions of time strips cut off and left
here.
One window one
picture zap from uncomfortable position to lack of comfort. Never changes.
Never changes. Lie
down and dream among drowned heads in heaps of things, cellar trap in the
middle of courtesy with no one to aim at.
Too much warmth, too
much cold: that's trouble.
Variation?
There is no comfort
or the comfort leads on to discomfort.
Constantly changing
decay, unchanging mediocrity.
Eventually a body
even the body you live in becomes a too big weight, something pinning you on
the mattress, too much; the breathlessness part.
One has to live,
sunrise any time now, not yet, hard turning, kind of change, flesh pink, unkind
physical and chemical effect; but not
life or life becoming.
Don't need to be
alive to change. You need to change to be alive. If you don't change it doesn't
stop; you slow it up, that's all.
One night much like
another night, any night you name, any night you want.
The walls conspire,
the light conspires, the little insects broadcasting to each other with
miniature transmitters, the documents in the lines of sight conspire and are
part of the evidence;
when they have
acquired sufficient functionality to be part of the conspiracy themselves, they
will be part of the conspiracy; and then perhaps we shall acknowledge
that they are intelligent;
and they may get a
sense of what we're doing, join to us, looking out the window, if it is really
a window, not just a painted wall, looking out for ourselves, motes in the dark
light, to obstruct the enemy long awaited, downladen, turning for Famagusta and
the hidden sun.
They put traps in the
words they speak; so that, when they speak, commands jump out and start to
alter everything and dig in as swiftly and smoothly as sappers so you think you
are at home.
The ambient
temperature is corrected, the light strength, a warm touch swells out to the
right level of dampness and pressure, heart beat in the living room, heart beat
in the kitchen, especially in the bedroom
live
die
live
die
put barbs in words so
they can never be withdrawn without tearing flesh; and the wounds fester.
The main theme comes
to an end without resolution and something else starts. The main sales pitch.
It flies about, warm, with feathers. My love desists.
The rest of the
musicians fall silently; the one chosen to make the kill plays as well as he
can, wailing into the winged sky while his body drops and drops.
My hands are avian,
my responses queue.
I smell the dank
odour of my crotch through worn trousers.
Weak man. Loose fat.
Thin hair. Eyes aching a little in the back room behind the eye balls where
cables feed into routers wired from tense observation centres.
Begins to break down
what he is saying into fragments; jokes to himself how far can he go towards
saying I am lying to you without the mark saying I think you are lying.
Danger in a safe
environment. Lying and living.
The theme picks
itself up, drives forward , drums joining in,
earth falls back
around the narrow grave
he beats downwards,
bass, trumpet, all the boys together, it's good, give me another drink,
turn up the volume,
that's it, not too much, like that, keep your hand steady, keep your head down,
listen to the piano.
It's a kind of
humour, sailing on dark sea, imagining what in others is remembered, trying to
forget what in others would hardly be experienced.
They say, you want to
believe out of your sentimentality, listen, it's all in the phrasing, can make
you agree to anything, lack of consent is not defence.
The sail is close and
closing.
Aboard the ship: We
may be shipping water but we shall make it; and except for excitement in the
wind and spray, all else dead, switched off, silent running.
Me: I'm on the beach,
blow back of sea wave, salt taste dismembered, handshake of enjoyment but not
the enjoyment itself; that comes later; comes later; shirt sticky-wet, shoes
leaking, out of condition; later.
Sign here, signs,
banging a finger down on the piece of paper he proffers, had proffered, all of
everything is on fast wind
or is it wynde,
it makes it hard to
stand, hard to hear and be heard, who is signing, who is holding, question, ask
all you want, foot on the hot pedal, twisting the controls on the deck, the
room fills with light and sound, someone a record of someone they're taking
off.
Sign or don't sign,
it doesn't matter. You're damned already.
This is exactly the
point.
There has been a
transfer.
The central task,
therefore, is to demonstrate a causal link.
The result is a
deterioration, but you are in somebody else's body and you are somebody else
and it is entirely likely that this is not even your own planet.
Have another drink.
He takes me by the
arm and leads me out of the room. Packet switching.
I am not in control.
Someone else is in control.
I know how to speak
but something in my body cannot quite remember how to regain the imitation.
Feet shuffling. I would like to go home now please.
