Playlist: July 2019

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Ariana Reines has this poem called ‘Glasgow’ that features the lines: ‘We wanted life now / But not “real” life / We wanted the exact science / Fiction / We were living in / We didn’t want it’. I keep thinking that just living is so often this contradiction, or Eileen Myles declaring ‘a poem says I want’ and knowing how right they are, Ariana and Eileen, and where are we when we come to this knowing. I mean, why does such philosophising happen in a poem called ‘Glasgow’. It’s clearly set in Finnieston, I mean there’s ‘Berkeley Street’ and ‘the Sandyford / Hotel’. I wonder if Ariana knows the pawn shop is not really a pawn shop, or if she ever bought poppers or condoms or candy from the 24hr place near the Hidden Lane. Here I am with americanisms again. I mean I wonder if my idea of Ariana would bother nipping from her hotel room to replenish the tobacco she ran out of. Would she bauk at UK prices? Does she even smoke? My idea is always a she here and she likes to go into contingent nightclubs more than the store. It’s what we give away. Finnieston used to be not-expensive. I once wrote a poem called ‘Finnieston’, I was younger, it was kind of bad. It was about this release you get from finishing something, crossing a bridge. I used to go through the park to get to my friend’s house or the 78 and every other time the shops and bars along the strip would be different. A kind of fantasy district, reinventing itself coolly around me. Someone in the world is having the gentrification blues and listening to Courtney Barnett’s ‘Depreston’. Like sometimes I just sit and think, oh how about that whimsy! It’s hers, but you can borrow it with a jangle tone. Bottle it like Tango. And we shriek the world percolator into the dark, fizzing stars of etcetera. In the morning order lattes. Goodness sake is this what it is to write now, I love it.

Slowly, slowly. I measure out my life in Scotrail tickets. Walking around cities and trying to carve them into a poem, I mean that’s not what any of us are doing but it happens. Just comes, like orange. This month I spent a lot of time outside of my usual quadratic existence; I didn’t have to count the change in the leaves, there was already so much that was different. Things sped up. Once we live in it, do we not want it? Orange curls at the edge. That feels like a worded conundrum of someone who’s spent awhile on the streets, in some capacity. Not necessarily without home. I was counting the crisp packets from my perch on Uni Avenue, overlooking the construction works. Is it that nothing online is real as well, if you can have as real a nothing as the something of life? We don’t want this and yet it’s what we built, what we live in; we crave the ‘outside’ still, as though it were possible. It’s all in process. The station goes on a real bright tangent. 

I like to just say, Ariana Reines wrote a poem about Glasgow. I feel honoured on behalf of my adopted city. It ends ‘Way out’. This consideration of exits, secret passages under the Clyde, riding bridge-wise towards the April I had to trudge hungover from tea-room to tea-room, listening. Hey. I saw Ariana read last summer at the Poetry Club (thanks Colin!), I think she was wearing a white dress and she said she might menstruate at any minute, she said something beautiful about the sun and the moon, synchronicity, and it was exactly what we needed. I mean her sultry voice filling the room, release. I mean I felt validated in my cramps and misery.

Tiny red spots appear like a migraine painting my belly. 

There’s the rain now. The rain broke the heatwave. Is it Cetirizine causing my headache, this marathon pain like a marble rolling between my temples? When I go see Iceage play Broadcast, the room is sweltering. There’s a general jostling and adoration of bodies, like this guy is Scandinavian divine and just one lick of his sweat would cure your ills. The ills of a lack of a life. When we are living between. Catch It. I like to use the phrase ‘out west’ as a general euphemism for escape. Like sorry I gotta go, there’s a meeting out west, something happening out west, I’m owed time back west like the sky’s owed snow. A Sand Book (Reines, 2019). If you close it too fast the grains fall out. As though I could make of Kelvingrove the savanna that takes us out of my dreams. In the novella I wrote last year, there’s a whole childhood set there. It’s somewhere in America that you’d find in a song, but it crackles with violence and the fat-spitting fry ups of diners. Or does it at all. Who did she wait for.

Cherubic sleeping face.
Sketches of rooms.
Seafoam teal & mustard yellow.

There was a whole Monday morning in London I filled alone. It was strange to come close to a cacophony of accents you only usually heard on the telly, the city accenting its vowels to deliver things quickly. And yet we’d roll like beads in jelly, very slowly towards ourselves. I walked along Regent’s Canal with the flowers spilling out around me, cyclists slipping past and women smoking fags from canal boats, smiling their air of propriety. ‘Way out’ I could not go here. I knew if I stuck to the water it would all be fine, follow the line that was not the Tube. In London Field Park, someone had chalked XR slogans everywhere. ‘Rise Up’ was the order of the day in green and sorbet yellow. I tried to recount what had happened in a slim black notebook; I sat there on a bench for an hour and a half, just writing. A man asked me if he’d seen ‘a gaggle of unruly school kids’ come past. I answered in negative. There was only the other man on his phone, securing deals, pacing. Hot desking now meant you’d conduct interviews with iPads in parks, squinting against the light. I saw that also. I was at a gig where the band had a song about hot-desking. The drummer was also a vocalist, equalling my dilemma in the park: how to co-ordinate melody and rhythm. The runners ran past. Rucksack cutting into my shoulders. The air thickened black soot in my lungs but the buildings were lovely. I nearly left my orange socks behind. They weren’t even mine, originally. 

When the sun sets on Finnieston, you see it spill syrupy gold and pinks, dramatic skies up Argyll Street. 

Rise Up.   [?]

That tree was an ash, the other a sycamore. I found myself in St Pancras Old Churchyard, staring. Supposedly Mary and Percy Shelley would cavort here.

I could drink coffee and be utterly happy, in a New York poet kinda way. Better to be the one who’d been to New York. Just to say this happened, that happened, I like it or not. We live this. There is something we want to get out of. Taking the subway in endless circles. Glassware exotica rimmed with sugar-salt.

All the aloe vera on stage was infinite juice. 

Why the lack of seagulls here. Isn’t the Thames a tidal river?

People come to the gardens to make phone calls in London. Everyone exists in the cellular orbit of this extra life, the telephonic aura that follows them. Can you call my extension. She sits there with sushi on her lap. “Elaine’s not having IVF anymore.” I live off M&S egg and cress sandwiches for days, it’s good. Soon I would watch the land sweep back the sea from the train, heading north, east-coast. There was all this chewed-up rhubarb, but I sat there regardless. The birds were so tiny and tame, with their injured wings, polluted fashions. 

Casual nymph mode: Fairy Pools of Skye and a swim. The car ride singing Joni while the hills just spread their green; we are so deliciously far from Paris. I lie awake with the skylight, listening.

In Dumfries I eat vegan blueberry pie at the start of the month, we talk about American politics. I’d been watching that Years and Years programme and freaking out on a casual basis. When it’s the eve of 2029 and the grandmother makes a speech about the utopianism of thirty years prior, 1999, how we thought we’d sussed it. That got to me, because for the first time so clearly I saw my own lifespan as part of this history. I remember the millennium new year also, of course I do: my hair was crimped for the occasion, I ate pringles and kept my bunny close. Blonde self red-eyed pre-digital. I played Game Boy in lieu of karaoke; it was the latest I’d stayed up in my life. I had nothing to sing; soon I’d be seven. The exact science fiction of this scenario, Years and Years playing out the extension of what was already in motion, terrified because it was imminent, believable, situated here in front of us, the domestic reality of interconnection. But in a way, it felt very English and I realised that was different. Glasgow has its own science fiction and maybe it’s just this or better politics or something more solid that doesn’t result to a haze. I think of everyone jostling at the hothouse gigs. Something we can’t hold still, glass bottle of cider from your bag that might burst. I’m happy. That blueberry pie was so good. I didn’t even care about radiation.

In Sam Riviere’s poem ‘american heaven’ (Kim Kardashian’s Marriage, 2015), ‘the level of heaven we develop within us / is the level it was possible to imagine / of the assorted early 80s, on earth’. Keep reading these articles about local bands sporting eighties outfits, drinking in the same old man pub as the previous feature. A general vacuity coming on like a front, but what can we do, lacking the ‘facsimile architecture’ (Riviere) of a more american heaven? The pie was served without ice cream of course, that was the point. No dairy. I keep five different diaries this month, split across documents, notebooks, assortments of train tickets. Creamy excess of this prose. My purse empties a cascade of rectangular orange. I throw around terms like ‘post-vaporwave poetics’ and mean them sincerely. What if we had to incubate our own heaven first? Lana Del Rey: ‘You’re my religion / You’re how I’m living’ (Honeymoon, 2015). 2015 was a good year for heaven. We hadn’t had 2016 yet; we were almost teenage of a nation. Riot, right?

London is all facsimile architecture. There’s this slime in the canal that’s thicker than lawn turf, extra real. I can’t stop thinking about that. Algaeic esplanade trapping the fishes. Can’t stop listening to that King Gizzard song, the refrain that’s like ‘I’ve let them swum’ and maybe that’s minimal ethics for the anthropocene. You just perform a minor twist in grammar, you make that the way you live: 

Our human responsibility can therefore be described as a form of experiential, corporeal and affective “worlding” in which we produce (knowledge about) the world, seen as a set of relations and tasks. This may involve relating responsibly to other humans, but also to nonhuman beings and processes, including some extremely tiny and extremely complex or even abstract ones (microbes, clouds, climate, global warming). Taking responsibility for something we cannot see is not easy.

(Zylinska, Minimal Ethics for the Anthropocene, p. 97)

You could say the hypothetical fishies. We can fish for other things! Sentiment, care! Wholesome lyrics leading towards charismatic solos. Some kind of upbeat. Magikarp! so nothing happened. Things beneath the orange-green we cannot see. How are we supposed to care for slime? That song is a world, makes over the world. I think of powder and glow, contour, blend, gloss — a process of ‘make up’ or making up that structures Kim Kardashian’s Marriage (from ‘Primer’ to ‘Gloss’), that fashions a map of the face, the frontal location for ethical relations. In the library, the girl beside me writes about South Korean politics while listening to ASMR makeup videos. We all have our imminent fictions; not ‘real’ life, but it’s not always science.

Sometimes I want algaeic to fall into angelic, both pertaining to light. 

We didn’t want to live in the life we made to live in where we might want. 

To walk down the Royal Mile in the rain, bumping tourists, slowly crunching into an apple and letting your hair down into noise, a sort of soundcloud rap of near-distant, muted present. The apple was green and particularly sweet, low volume, like something discovered in the pockets of a pair of jeans you borrowed.

I’m awake at four am again. It doesn’t seem to matter so much. The gulls are morning/mocking. Later I’ll be at the kitchen table, chewing oatcakes with the window open. Reading Peter Sloterdijk’s Foams: Spheres Volume III. Is extinction one kind of what he calls ‘semantic antibodies’? Who is trying to excise that from the conversation? 

Mostly I dwell in vicarious haircuts.
There’s a thought after the thought.
Drink whisky in the park, read fiction.
Your pinstripes lack a fly but still.

We fall asleep five times watching this Will Smith documentary about the planet. We never finish an episode. It seemed to stage the incoherence of a Hollywood sublime set to reverie’s overdose, but only the scene where he’s playing with his dogs in the garden remains. Sepia, sleep better. I slept deeper than a rock at the bottom of everything. June still feels like a dream. 

I only want to get home to write the day. Every entry begins, another sweltering

That’s what…good is?

 

~

 

Slowdive – Sugar for the Pill (Avalon Emerson’s Gilded Escalation remix)

The 1975 — The 1975 feat. Greta Thunberg

Mark Hollis — The Daily Planet 

Grouper — Invisible

Laurel Halo — Out

Joni Mitchell — Rainy Night House

Devendra Banhart — Kantori Ongaku 

Joanna Sternberg — For You

RF Shannon — Angeline

Fionn Regan — Collar of Fur 

Thee Oh Sees — Moon Bog

King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard — Fishing for Fishies

(Sandy) Alex G — Hope

Slow Hollows — Selling Flowers 

Frog — Bones

DIIV — Skin Game

Ibeyi — River 

Blood Orange, Tori y Moi — Dark & Handsome

Aisha Devi — The Favor of Fire 

How to Dress Well — Nonkilling 6 | Hunger

Organ Tapes — Springfield 

black midi — Western

Bon Iver — Faith

TOPS — Sleeptalker

Let’s Eat Grandma — Salt Lakes

Carla dal Forno — Took a Long Time

 

 

 

 

 

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Playlist: June 2019

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This time last year, ‘I would look up, intermittently, through a canopy of light-filled leaves’. The unrealism of a momentary viridian, admitting I could not partake in. The nights went on and on in those days, there was a quality of sorry-not-sorry to the usual erasures. And asking for numbers, and watching shambolic ones fall into chairs and windows; the ceiling tilted.

Serotonin is my friend. I want to invent a character. The pressure front hurts my head.

We enter the gallery and there are the nymphs, the lilypads. You have told me a dream in which you ascended the lilypad stairs to heaven, was it heaven, and each one made a satisfying sound and sway when stepped on. I am thinking of Deku leaves and swirls in the ochre night. Here we go with synonyms. ‘There may be lunch’, Anne Carson says, ‘Or we would eat / many more paintings’. As it stands, I order jasmine tea. The paint drips green from the edge of the lilypad, chromium oxide staining the lake. At some point I refused to live without sleep. I surrendered to what its depth could do. A man told me, every time you blink, you refresh your thoughts. I have my muscles set to Command+R with cool deliberation, but all that fluttering won’t get me served. The rain washed all the mascara away. So I order into warmth again. Tequila Maria, something bloody with spice and celery, black pepper’s vast and negentropic heart. Did I mean to say negative calories. Tom McCarthy has this essay about Toussaint called ‘Stabbing the Olive’: ‘We don’t want plot, depth or content; we want angles, arcs and intervals; we want patterns’. A flat asymmetry of energies. I used my pinkie to lick the rim of red dust from the glass, like the last of a meal. Circumferential intimations of love. I was hungry, the night was not warm. Moments of aloneness. Who is McCarthy’s ‘we’? All these lit-critics, clamouring to borrow the spirographs of the twentieth century. I lose a pen.

Thom Yorke is getting on a subway somewhere. 

I thought that taste itself formed an interval, a thickening of presence. Crocheted objects appear on my wall like the lacery of untranslatable dreams. Red, blue and yellow. These are the primary materials of my current research: 

  • Instagram
  • Gifted books with signatures
  • Colours of sky and cloud
  • Seagull transposition 
  • Conference sandwiches
  • The question of ambience in poetry
  • Oil pastels
  • Clay
  • Absences in friendship
  • Tropical levels 
  • The inbox
  • Scotrail

Paranoia is former. As if I could not align the tulips to the complementary turquoise wall, the lilt, the residual. The animals depart when we start writing, a narcissism for darkest_. 

 

~

 

In the late Tesco he jumped me, the former doorman, halfway through a dj shift with the Haribo fizz and the bottles of whisky. I wondered what music he would play nextdoor. If you could make a vinyl of sunlight, how I would live for the interminable patterns of notches, solarity catching and catching on loop. Fingers tracing sugar dust over the records, a sourness in his mouth. I was wearing this purple-pleated skirt, five years ago, and a man outside Tesco, another Tesco, asked if I was pregnant. I only wanted the placenta of his mean stare and I wanted to salt it and eat it hard. My twenties recede without drop.

She describes the effects of gluten as a sanding down, an erasure; inside her the tangles made desert. We want clustering, sway of villi, performance. I eat bread and think less; my head fills up with fog.

Soreness in coccyx equals aporia. I awoke to the pent-up throb of the washing machine. Let’s talk about the arbitrary constraint of 30 days. Clusters of black tights as the serpentine symbols in Turner.

 

~

 

Something from a solar poem, a thing for the solstice: 

if I go

grassily

drunk in June

it’s just sky

in our lungs

What I meant was, maybe something in the difference between the length of our breaths, and is this a question of the daylight hours, a quantified tiredness, or is it the smoke. My laconic lungs suck in. The grass comes away in tufts where we pull it, like the fluff from a dog’s back in moulting season. I have this dream about reaching the end of a lawn, like I’m staying in a house where the garden is seen from the window only, it looks unreal. You could not exhaust it. Anne Carson says a pilgrim always seeks a horizon, is never satisfied. The dog I had would run round and round, until the grass wore down into dirt. There would be a ring, a halo of ruined earth. She was not looking for anything particular. Instead, she ran around.

I remember the basement party where I sat between two boys, holding a sparkler and watching the smoke trails recede.

I am thinking about foam, immortality, fractal gifs. Coffee opens me up, so I don’t have to look. 

No-one knows. On Fridays I listen to Gardeners’ Question Time, I cut rice cakes into quarters.

 

~

 

There was this girl, she lived in the orange-painted room. Her name sounds something like citrus. A long time ago, I wrote a story about her. I was in the library with a stack of philosophy books. I can’t do it. She skips ballet class to eat blueberry muffins in the local café, to flirt with the waiter. She wears a yellow raincoat, even when it’s sunny, and he calls it her famous raincoat. She never gets the joke but she likes how he twists a smile at the same time as he twists his break-time cigarette into something thin and perfect. He always wears blue, regardless of uniform. She wants to be that cigarette, she wants to be rolled into one straight line, but she likes her sugar too much. His smile, surely, is for her alone;  it looks delicious. She imagines the taste of ash, smouldering in her mouth if she kissed him and the trace of the cigarette and the one before that would glow like the orange in her room. 

Adrianne Lenker sings of ‘fragile orange wind in the garden’. 

Should we go outside? And for what.

There was a time when every story had to end, which was fiction. Poetry is getting to have your loops, to sweeten and eat them profusely with silver spoons: imitation privilege. I could keep stirring and stirring until they melt into milk, this miasma of found words, of nourishing. 

Kathleen Fraser: 

Everything is so agreeable, tangential, so light

of foot.

               Tangerine, all pungent with its leaves intact.

The way the egg yolks look when they split, the shit on a watch face, the intimate pixels of a harp up close, a part song. Selective arpeggio carriage to morning. I’m so grateful I’m basically grapefruit, this single devourable bauble of flesh. My skin is thick and explicit. It’s a time in the month. That there, that’s not me. You can peel off the sticker to see. 

In the park, the weekdays fill up with hormones.

 

~

 

I played Everything. I was a mushroom, a jet-ski, a palm tree, a planet, a hawk and an oil rig. I rolled and shuffled; scale itself became a sort of music. At once, I soared in threes and sevens. My favourite world was streaked with pink, cacti and celadon rivers. Time was a trick of the hard-drive. 

We collect the cherry-chocolate cake. Later he says something like, The ocean is an orca. Which is much better than, We are all Earth; or, I am what I eat. The literalism is looping its way around cornfields and train delays, better to solder the evening with marmalade light and a buttery spread of new messages. 

 

~

 

I have hardly been listening to music at all.

 

~

 

The weather was briefly incidental.
Vague plans to read Plato’s Timaeus
scarpered by the way the roses look
in ache, my dream alarm of cascade
is softened by limbs and transport.
We take a lot of time to take the river
in us, hungering girls in old movies
as though they could speak the end
of a call, prior to numbers. We eat
plainly in several vegetal airs, our
cutlery shines like a weather vane.
The intermediary function of skin
is just this much. You glow inside
a tentative plan, the sparkle of re-
grettable voice. I paint my nails a
venus flytrap green. Who decides
what grows inside you. Should eat. 

 

~

We reply, that it is the receptacle, and in a manner the nurse, of all generation. I have spoken the truth; but I must express myself in clearer language, and this will be an arduous task for many reasons, and in particular because I must first raise questions concerning fire and the other elements, and determine what each of them is; for to say, with any probability or certitude, which of them should be called water rather than fire, and which should be called any of them rather than all or some one of them, is a difficult matter. 

Socrates

The secret mysticism of nicknames
and particle physics. If we are just water.
And what if this water never smells like shame.
And what if the water turns red
like Topshop lipstick, or the gilded cover
of my Kathleen Fraser. Chili flakes assemble
upon the soft lawn of your fruit, a stone
falls out in lieu of the heart. I try particulars:
99p filter coffee, office politics, the milk
chocolate bunnies on campus. I mean they were real
as morning. Star power. When the beach breaks out
to cure, the lovely scrambling of a darkness shared.
Say a soundtrack feels special because it bristles.
I fell asleep in the workshop. My hair all huge
in the hotel mirror. We collect red words for green
and call it geometry. The trad effects of earnestness
and other lyric qualities of indie
I tried to recede like my twenties
I tried halloumi, salt, breakfast vodka.
The longest day of the year
was shorter than anything
I could bother to write. 

 

~

 

On my birthday we visited the island, eight of us on the ferry. Kitsch displays of gifts without crystals, trying to fit ourselves into the minigolf. We shared red wine on a jetty, alas not spiralled; we wrote a poem, according to the economy of one red word for a sip. 

sultry walks seem elusive to those players of croquet taking milliseconds out of capitalism or inducing epilepsy, throwing linguini into darkness and leaving finite symphorophilia to the gannets

The water was cold and clear, the barnacles softened the soles of my feet. The sky broke an almost symmetry of peachy leakings, yellow colours spilled on the sea. Gloria stood with her scarf to the wind; we brushed the horizon on the swings. I sang and sang. We ran for the last ferry, in usual fashion, salt and Tennents. The tide came in. 

We sat on the picnic bench of the terminal, singing ethereal Judee lyrics. Heavy in my throat, a halo; the mists. A pleasurable tiredness.

 

~

A. describes how the glaciers are moving. The surface of the planet rearranges itself, and my impression of the continents sinks like wax. I melt the very edge of a tectonics, craving stories. The citrus girl is so much older and younger, she exists as though only in song. Her raincoat is made of honeybees.

A rushing sound I attributed to rain but then not

She sits in three kinds of tree and fingers her decorative suggestion of dawn, worn as a necklace. I can’t sleep for the gulls and the lines of unmannered flight, the concept of ‘politics’ filling the air of my kitchen. The pearls burst everywhere. I draw a radio silence around each project, I try to choose. 

 

~

 

Never have I ever asked Siri. 

 

 

I get stuck on a train. We move south, but only gradually.

 

~

Pip Blom – Daddy Issues

Holiday Ghosts – Thinking of You

Bat for Lashes – Kids in the Dark

Katie Dey – Solipsisting 

Jay Som – Superbike

Beach Fossils – Be Nothing

Hop Along – Waitress

(Sandy) Alex G – Gretel

Jai Paul – Do You Love Her Now

Thom Yorke – Twist

Gross Net – Gentrification 

Sylvan Esso – Die Young

DOPE LEMON – Salt & Pepper

Crake – Glycerin

Big Thief – Orange 

Silver Jews – The Wild Kindness 

Jessica Pratt – Mother Big River

Claire Cronin – Wolfman 

Yo La Tengo – Green Arrow

Galaxie 500 – Summertime

Kelly Moran – Water Music

Yohuna – Fades to Blue

Karen Dalton – Something on Your Mind

Judee Sill – The Kiss

Manchester Orchestra – My Backwards Walk (Frightened Rabbit cover)

Playlist: May 2019

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“I know I slept then though I can’t remember how I got to sleep & you’ll laugh when I tell you I had a great dream about sex in which it was raining milk because of the snow in a movie & next morning when I saw the sun I knew I remembered something that should fill me with either pleasure or fear but I felt like I do in dreams all the time & I couldnt be scared or notice any other sensations in my body, I just felt even like a body with a mind moving”

(Bernadette Mayer, Utopia).

The cleaving occurred one soft April night, with the Meadows all blossomed and calm, evening smell of other people’s auroras. The year will only be as specific as it will be. It was in the thwack of the tennis players twisting their muscles, the smell of yesterday’s rain. In an instant, I lost a sense of how hungry I was, bound to this sense of unfolding. It was in the air and the grass and the warm, elastic muscles that tightened inside me. There I was, moving forward, around, backwards; I became liquid in the split that tore, slowly, one portion of sky from the next. It was in the peach and the lilac, the reddish tinge of a blood I’d not recognised before, tainting each streak of cirrus. It was a vegetarian feeling, delirious and light; I wanted to taste the air and the grass and the new elastic muscles, which were hardly mine.

It was labyrinthine over, with an extra syllable.

It soon became sore, the raw sensation of this change, this tearing. Like when you start to eat and can’t stop, and the eating becomes something that is done to you, an automatic pull that works by a tensile hunger whose origins refuse to shake or cease. I would fill my mouth with snow and sigh, naming the curious pastel works which shimmered their way from existence. I would be hot then cold.

~

Time passed as it may into May, I forgot the French word for gold and ate less chocolate.

Every pin on the map looks like a jewel, but these destinations aren’t mine. I find myself in the Tower again, lonely and drinking tulsi tea. A false moss wall of a semi-colonic eve, the time before the time I can see you.

The slow train tastes less of its names, we drink things pale & bubbled & tall in the fading eve where everything around us starts to riot. Someone breaks glass, then breaks it again. Why is anything happening.

Mind the gap between paragraphs. She didn’t say please.

What do we think when we cannot think beyond each other.

~

We left all the art in the garden to melt, but wax resists water. Time was measured in sultry smokes. All of the paper became dessicated rainbow, a very good slug line. I was so sure of the day ahead that I drank all day to be further inside it. If you could just swish me around and around, I would spit foam on the grass, a blueish blot of it, like brushing your teeth at festivals.

Brushing the dark with your teeth in UV.

I felt a sort of grief at the edge of my senses, the vaguest outcome of the three-hour workshop in which they implored us to think very quickly in numerous phases. Do your worst to yourself, the woman said. I drew a diagram of knots and whorls and archipelagic clots of line; that was my PhD. Drawing felt more like flicking my wrist for performance’s sake. Okay so there may have been purpose. I saw a man on the Lothian bus, reading a catalogue of diagrams pertaining to pipes. He must’ve been some sort of plumber in training. His long silver ponytail reminded me of cat’s drool and other liquid enthusiasms.

‘I was interested in the silence of writing’, ‘We stopped talking about the poem as though someone were inside it’ (Renee Gladman).

Some of this month was not typed, but written. Especially dreams. This marked a deviation. I bought a new laptop but did not open it, for fear the words would not come within clear windows.

The months before the months that happened, happened.

Afterwards, I went to the waves.

~

The air here smells different. Hyperbole of salt and sand-scrunched toes, a whole new hunger. Short dark coffee of morning, cats around, slinky trees. What did I sketch of the sunset, the clouds you liked?

The month was something of a dream conundrum. I go to see the advanced practitioner.

~

Something happened!

A GLITTERING QUINTET.

Who calls out the lyric word for petrol? & all biodegradable tears and things?

~

All changes saved is the litany I could only respect.

~

This is a story about a girl called Brie. She is the erased one, but all girls tend full pelt towards that status. So anyone said, soft and milky. Brie would shoot holes in the blow-up dolphins to make the children shriek. Her exposed neck, with a fluttering of love-bites. Brie dropped pills in the pond to clear the water, so everyone else could swim in its fizz. Her friends knew all about the marks, the club, the dumb jazz soundtracks. Brie drank strawberry shakes that matched her cheeks; she did not go to the gym. On beautiful, vintage blouses, she’d hemorrhage money. Out on the porch in dragonfly season, the weekend, she was everyone’s hero. Brie could slip off a ring and swallow it. She knew what they meant when they mentioned halos or heros, the neighbourhood kids dealing hash on the side. She could sing the high notes alongside Joni Mitchell. The village green replies with hostile bunting. Everyone lies down by the fountain, regardless. It’s like it never gets warm here. She’s always finding rhymes for cunt and it’s funny. The story bisects with a strip of light, gilded circle that caught my glasses in the library toilets. Sliver of visible lashes, spiderlegs, shortbread of sugary spectral. Deja vu in the palace of plastic trees. It all made Brie want to puke. Let us breathe between neutral errors; Facebook says Create. I had to say sorry about the way I knew this. Anyone could sink their teeth into her, add ten pounds to their bellies. The dolphins existed in lieu of a virus. I mean they insisted. None of the children could actually swim, but they bobbed along in the watery dark like stars. Brie could care less; we all could more.

~

The playlist does not exist. A lavender-coloured succulent instead.

I thought of my body as a nexus of enzymes, a fricative intersection. Many little collisions buoyed the days, and sleep became a pharmakon.

What I dream of is poison or cure for you, or anyone really. There is the limerence I’d scrawl only on the back of an index card, the card to a fruit I could not write.

Some of us wear out the vacuum better.

~

She would soften between bread and ventricles. The yeast creeps into your sleep again, departures of salt and sweat. My nails grow long and strong again.

Brie sings, Sometimes I think you’re a filler. She dyes her hair blue to look like mould.

Why were there oranges all over the table?

Oranges split
full throat of constancy.

One of many several triplets.

~

“I was just so happy.”

My alarm goes off at 09:09.

~

He ate a whole grapefruit on the train, sticky excess of determination. The hills swept green and unreal behind us, I wanted to fuck up the clouds again. Where is my lilac pencil, a lack of regret

(Old friends bond over yonic fruit).

Love is a kind of echolocation.

~

Sometimes what we say or send is only what we could not know.

~

I remember last year when Scott died, A. messaged me a picture of the Finnish sunset, from her forest residency. It was good to know there were other places to be, places where news like this set on ice and spread into beautiful pinks and citruses and tiny changes.

I feel like I glow around you.

There has to be a word for increment, sweetness, immediacy; this 1975 song that uses the word ‘entropy’, why is it always stuck in my head?

~

Sync.sync.sync
Ope(n).

Why are we arguing about the intensity of cinnamon?

~

Futurity looks crinkle-cut, thick and delicious.
It is fucking cold, man. I bleed out
something cardinal and sigh.
I like this, I like this;
maybe just gladness.
You enter a door
and forget the internet.
Every hour devours this sand.
I was sending these messages
like frisbees or something,
pop hooks. The aeroplane
we love ascends from the sea.
You can shake out the salt crumbs,
pour gold on me. Forever is silent
so awkwardly sweet.

~

‘[I]n this time song holds loss. […] It travels as something layered, infiltrated, unconfused’ (Juliana Spahr).

Something to believe is a baritone, a pack of miniature bricks; expensive cigarettes, a crest of summer dawn.

~

So we sucked the sky back together again. It stuck in your teeth. Time hardly even passed. There was this cocktail called ‘Lollipop’, there was this oddly specific green tinge to the light, an almost-velvet, collapsible sleep…

*

Snapped Ankles – I Want My Minutes Back

Metronomy – The Look

Aisha Devi – I’m Not Always Where My Body Is

Lana Del Rey – Doin’ Time

Amen Dunes – Sixteen

Devendra Banhart – Daniel

Cate Le Bon – Daylight Matters

Karen Dalton – Something On your Mind

Frightened Rabbit – Holy

Alexi Murdoch – Orange Sky

Jessica Pratt – Back, Baby

Bob Dylan – I Threw It All Away

Gengahr – I’m So Tired

Elliott Smith – The Biggest Lie

The Pastels – I’m Alright With You

Angie McMahon – Pasta

Joanna Sternberg – This is Not Who I Want To Be

Weyes Blood – Seven Words

Rhye – Save Me

Talk Talk – After the Flood

The 1975 – I Always Wanna Die (Sometimes)

Playlist: April 2019

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I remained on the alert to seize those vagrant moments which seemed to me in quest, as a lost soul is in quest of a body, of a consciousness to register and feel them

— Jean Genet.

 

I’m in a Caffe Nero in Central Manchester, and they’re playing Joni Mitchell’s ‘A Case of You’, a song I love dearly but haven’t heard in a while. People nearby are talking Italian, Portuguese, French; the coffee smells of a job I left behind. I kept dozing on the train heading south, the way you only doze as a teenager, as if falling asleep was its own laconic rebellion. As if your cares were minor enough to warrant a worldly suspension. There is something bittersweet I can’t name, for fact of the secret and something new coursing through me. I forget to spell, to brush my hair. I check in, and then out. I walk until my feet are sore. Along the canal the water glitters, a quintet of goslings tap at the grass. These shoes don’t fit yet. I’m collecting images for later, holding off the impulse to open my phone. Everything good is a little green light, an almost constancy.

There are bits of wax pastel under my nails I can’t scrape out, the blues and greens. Late at night I sketch mountains, undulating lines that mean something unnameable of time and place. This is where we are when we can’t hold it clearly. I need a selection of scenes. As if you could peel the line from the form. I do this over and over when I struggle to write. It all looks kitsch.

Transferable lines betray their futures.

As though you had to draw to think the drawing hand, the soul behind it. I could drink so much more of this thing that we are. Little symbol of something merlot. We talk of luminous substances, cinema.

*

I buy a badass topless postcard of Sappho. I do the splits at a poetry reading.

An elderly man from Cumbria relays a potted history of the railways between Preston and Carlisle. He tips his hat to me upon leaving the carriage; I go back to Clarice, reeling.

Suited lads order Carling till everything stops and we slump back into the city.

Fade out.

*

We do doubles and discuss our thievery; we’re not counting exactly, the hours just melt into amber, slosh after slosh and the sting of it. He says lovely hurt things, plus the syntax of limbs and rhythms. Weeks before, I snap glow-sticks onstage, follow the blue dot flash on the map. April feels sweet and easy. The blossoms are gone from the trees already. We are vaguely north. I want to hand you something precious that can’t be replaced.

We smash his plates at six in the morning, as though the heart were a sacred amphora.

Every few days I flip open Derrida’s Glas at random. I am caught on this gl, this glimmer and glyph. The only good thing we learned on that course was the runes, I see more of the runes in the church in Govan. I want to wrap my hands round a genuine sunstone, we discuss evolution at dusk and somebody is always interrupting us. The weather is clear and mild, like a symbol. Elsewhere I write the phrase, life is just stars refusing to die, and I don’t know why.

*

“We talked of the sun and moon, of what makes an earnest Instagram.”

*

I called it good air and used more cobalt to imply the sky. A man on my train resembled Mark Fisher and later I dreamt I asked him a question. Plexiglass demands a certain click. I scrolled on my iPod to find the playlist with all the rainbows, there was this chat of garage shanty and April showers. I tell your dad about the legendary felling of the lilac tree. Sometimes we think in firewood and catch sparks in the kitchen. If you want me I’ll be in the bar

*

Cixous: ‘It is as if I were a fish and I wondered: “How can I be too much for the sea? How can I drown the sea?”’.

What is it we said of the question itself. ‘We never die enough’, she writes. Currently obsessed with excess, against lack. I die into the writing and it gets so I can’t even write! But that’s beautiful too, because the not-writing is the veer of the pen that leaks on my bed and the sleep that made it happen. I walked so far it was all I could do. Something turned over with pale deliberation; we had to elide the sea from each scene. And the gulls fell away like punctuation.

The fish drowns the sea with interminable shimmer! ABSOLUTE selenium. It is a vodka taste of pearlescent tendrils, it is everywhere you want to go of the road. We trundle into London at minimal expense. The air is mega.

*

Out in the dark, I lost the necklace with the ‘M’ on it, the one I’ve had since I was a child. I bore the loss quietly, which seemed to befit initial extinction. Later, I’d buy a watch with a face of pearl to replace it. I saw there was a value in time again.

*

Sincerely I wished to be a reader of science-fiction, but that was an effect of the store with all  the metallic covers, the pop music. And of Messenger, ever. Some things you can’t parse from a future, but certain emotions grant you investment. There is finally something to want of tomorrow.

The day is all pinstriped and sunny, I can’t see through it.

*

Scientists are finding shrimps that are laced with cocaine. We’re geared up for anything, they scream in journals. I eat my way through loops, wake shiny without comedowns. Something translucent twangs of the skin.

*

I taste a nearly virtual plain, with lavender milk.

*

In her poem ‘April 23rd’, Bernadette Mayer writes of a ‘cardinal’. I keep thinking of that song with the butterfly and the dogwood, the shades drawn down. It just appears, almost without comments excepting the greyness. Cixous notes, ‘The things that happen are too beautiful to be written’. This is all true and maybe why mostly the lines elude, or weigh too rich on the page these days. I am grateful for small indefinite phrases that come, and the pretty ones that even sometimes land. You can cry if you find the right canopy.

*

He wore green velvet.

*

There is all this tender intuition. The expressions of vanishing in Permanent Green Light. The protagonist who lies in a sleeping bag on this soft suburban lawn, a piñata hanging in the tree above him. Prior serenities of sleeping on trampolines through summery twilight. Blinded we’d swipe at the sky to beat the last of the leaves into tinder. Explosion is what happens to the sun all the time. It’s kind of delicious to think of that, like romance as solarity and the space between us. Measured days and days, held breath.  

…What changed?

*

Dream of Sibylle Baier’s colour-green sweater. It’s made of angora and makes me sleep into the sleep of itself, as though sleep were exactly what you drew about your shoulders. And you did.

They were playing Bright Eyes in Nice ‘n’ Sleazy’s, a good omen if ever I know one. First with your hands, then with your mouth

*

Alone on the stairwell, dropping slips of snowy paper. Enjambed cacophony of the neighbours smoking, and a blue light that isn’t mine, the massive tv I pass each night in familiar windows. I love to be alone in hotel rooms, the soft mood of the light. The endless sense of mirror and sleep. When you played, you wanted to see to touch. I tried to remember the beautiful email, to make it better. Little confused thing, said so simple, sorting papers.

Sometime in April a letter I wrote.

Last edit was seven hours ago and boy can you feel it, a critical hit.

*

What I drew had no obvious form. I’d stopped bothering to look for permanence. There’s a new kind of ring to the rain, the smell of green leaves and the river’s illegibility. Most extravagant violet marks, a watched ellipsis. Here.

~

Sibylle Baier — Colour Green

Yohuna — The Moon Hangs in the Sky Like Nothing Hangs in the Sky

Pinegrove — Skylight

Hand Habits — what’s the use

Twain — Solar Pilgrim

Frankie Cosmos — On the Lips

The Bellybuttons — Mannequins, Gr.

Aldous Harding — Fixture Picture

Thee Oh Sees — Island Raiders

Youth Lagoon — 17

Buck Meek — Halo Light

Cate le Bon — Home to You

Joni Mitchell — Little Green

Weyes Blood — Something to Believe

The Cure — Plainsong

Galaxie 500 — Hearing Voices

Four Tet — Teenage Birdsong

Robert Sotelo — Orangerie

King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard — Planet B

PUP — Full Blown Meltdown

Better Oblivion Community Centre — Exception to the Rule

FKA Twigs — Cellophane

Princess Chelsea — I Love My Boyfriend

Sky Ferreira — Voices Carry (‘Til Tuesday cover)

Big Thief — Orange

Talk Talk — New Grass

Yo La Tengo — Green Arrow

Eleven / Cherry / Extinction

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On the 11th of June, 1993, I was born with an extra digit, an eleventh finger. I am told it was a finger, so goes my parents’ mythology, but probably there is some anatomical word which better explains the strange appendage attached to my left pinkie. Resembling a kind of lollipop, a glass candy, my eleventh finger was a long thin vessel of muscle or blood (what I cannot know or ask of that fact) attached to a kind of crimson orb, like a cherry. It wasn’t really a finger at all, but the unfinished potential of what might’ve been one, a mutation. This was accompanied by a strawberry-shaped birthmark on my inner left wrist which, my dad assured me, would fade as I grew older. The cherry finger was lopped off on the day of my birth, and the blood splattered the doctor’s coat, bright red upon starch white. Soon after, I nearly died. A lightning storm raged through the morning. I was placed in an incubator, I had some kind of viral infection. They furnished me with the supplementary khora, until I grew blonde and better. So the story goes, and already I have probably messed up the order.

But I want to say something of the number eleven. Eleven feels like a residue, an extra. The loss of this finger, which I do not write with and yet slyly it makes itself present as absence, constitutes a kind of originary erasure. Years pass in which I forget this secret was mine at all. Eleven, perhaps, is a statement of entropy, a chaos spilling over our familiar limits and even regressing or falling in loops. However we parcel our intake/outtake, our sense of personal energy. I test out images of eleven, of extra. In Tom McCarthy’s novel Remainder, the protagonist wants to claim his free coffee, the remainder, so badly that he buys ten cappuccinos just to get the loyalty card stamped, just to claim the free one, the eleventh beyond the card. A strange caffeination that remains incomplete, to come. Then there’s Eleven from Stranger Things as a kind of genetic extra; the number identifies her as a test subject. The number becomes name. That phrase, turn it up to eleven, when really the system stops at ten. Why is it we make wishes on 11:11, when did I start doing that? The wish constituted itself as extra. Over time, I find myself ‘catching’ this time more and more, glancing at the clock of my laptop when it just happens to be 11:11. And the wishes pile up at the forefront of thought, they take a while to resume as memory. When I am sad, I visit the Kelvingrove fountain. There is water and clarity, the hum of other people’s wishes. Sometimes this is better than poetry, it’s simply potential.  
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I knew someone who named themselves after the sky in Super Mario (with Ayrshire inflection) long before either of us had even heard of Cory Arcangel. We were born on the exact same day, same year, and we called ourselves twins. It took eleven years of our lives to find each other. Speaking to this person, I felt always this chiasmus of consciousnesses, a sense of keeping up, or ongoingness.[1] They were super beautiful with luminous curls and sports jackets. Their nights were spent up with consoles and synthesisers, and we messaged each other until our windows crashed, or our parents needed to use the phone. I will not quash the romance of the dialup connection, for it was real, the frisson of interruption. The sense of a moving into, the attunement that performed itself in the temporal interlude of a radio whistle, blow of white noise that had its sonic continuum, warping and twisting as though all these howls in the wires were coming to life, and we would sing through the modem our deepest thoughts. You would teach me a riff. We were each messaging the others at once. There would come a point where everything was just text in the end, the fragile reminder of each bodily fragility.

You wrote in cyan-coloured Comic Sans, before this was ironical.
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Half of my brain wants a masculine state; the other half a quiet, feminine comedown. What is it to speak or sleep gender. I’d sip cider in the wee hours after the party, but nothing fragmentary said then was as good as it was on the computer. It was like coming to life, discovering what had not yet been told of a love or a taste. I suddenly felt affectionate towards everything, and the aesthetics of a particular website, the trajectory of a song, could startle me into tears. Everything grew fizzy and sugary; it was all too much. What we were supposed to say to each other. I was learning to apply eyeliner, clip bras and shed weight like a grownup. The environment was a diagram we drew at school, a set of names we recited while dipping for critters in rockpools, freezing our brains on polluted beaches. A joke that was told to the air before we could return to our games.

 

***

 

I never learned the word for what happened at my birth, what grew on me, this residue fruit. After a while, it broke away, the fact of it which was a specialness. I was losing that specialness the more I learned language. There was a solvent process of being okay with a long red line that meant mine or anybody else’s ‘I’. (/) A length of energy, a vessel snipped close to the richness. We invent names for ourselves on the internet.

Something constant was the minor chord shard in my heart, when I knew there was a thing awry. I could not put my finger on it, much as I could not remember what I wanted to do with my life, or what passion that had driven me to write as a child. For I had filled documents and jotters with my rambles before. What happened, if you can forgive me for inserting a narrative turn here, was a loss of story. Post-puberty, it seemed there could be no climax in my life. Events I had expected to effect a shock into existence had not occurred so; a long hard drag had occurred instead, slow enough to trick you into passive submission. Resistance became a case of daily withdrawal, decay. It seemed there was nothing to write into, now I understood the mysteries of sex, reproduction, death. I had written these epic fates about unwanted births, woman impregnated against their will in labs buried deep in violet mountains. I had a horror of the body inside the body, which was the same as the body inside the planet or the planet inside you. What grows, regardless.

There was a fragile voice I was waiting to hear on the radio. I had not yet worked out the temporal trick that was poetry, the way it could stop you on the blot of a page, by fact of its shape. What grew charged or tangled. I became interested in the way the body was just a body, something to be seen, something to offer up to bodies beyond you. I wanted to know its limits, its multiplicities, as much as its points of attunement. Like plugging in headphones to the library PC just so I can hear the electrical charge of each scroll as a sonic intensity. There was a time of mark-making, rigging lighters, taking steaming baths. Staring at other people’s ceilings. I practiced lying on concrete, feeling the dark cold of summer’s inversion travel up from my spine. I listened to music so loud that stars began splintering inside my ears, and so I would have tinnitus forever more. I burned my tongue on a minor chord.

And so the same sound would scream back, muted lagoon trapped in my ear a decade later, the splitting sextillion stars of that music. The melody itself was irrelevant. I was drawn to songs where you could fall between verse and chorus, and the space of that slack guitar was far more important, the way a man’s voice could break on a word. For some reason, then, it was always men.

What does it mean to be taught how to feel by the opposite sex? Things tilted and sweetened the weaker I grew. We held hands in west coast impressions of sunset. The word for weather was like whether to say I’m going offline. The fort-da pull of your endless sign-ins. r u okay?

Jean-Luc Nancy: ‘A corpus is not a discourse, and it is not a narrative. A corpus is what is needed [qu’il faudrait] here, then. Here—there is something like a promise that this has to deal with the body, that is going to deal with it—there, almost without waiting […] there is a sort of promise tacitly to hush’.

Thus the body is clearer in machinic absence. Thus this vast proliferation of forgettable text was the logic we gorged on, empty calorific haribo words. There was no vegetarian alternative, we were eating each other. I mean the sway of exchange, this sense to be dealt with. A hunger, sugar rush. I message you later. The pressure of reply, now we’re always online; transmission as love’s endless labour. Isn’t it exquisite just to hush, to disappear mid-conversation and relish the ellipsis for a future hour. In these small ways I was building a tentative next, but its openness was yet clouded by thought itself. I couldn’t think beyond three minutes, and that was depression.

 

***

 

I learned the deformity of my birth was a sign of witchcraft. I bought a bright pink book on the subject when I was very young, and tried to astral travel. I wanted to see things from above, but instead I found myself suffocated by their closeness. Children can smell sorrow, the weight of it dripping from adult expression; the way dogs pick up the mood of the house and embody it through quivering and whimpering. I burned incense and imagined an orb of lilac light spreading over my body, which became the mountain I buried my heroines in as a child writer, an amateur at fantasy. I slept with crystals under my pillow (I still do).

The wrongness of the world was everywhere. The way people spoke to each other. I could not connect. I leapt into situations where voices were just echoes back into the water they came from, where sentences shored up nothing more than the vice of their speaker. I began a long affair with silence. I stopped writing, and later I stopped speaking. For weeks at a time, I would lose my voice. It broke on the shore. I smoked little menthols in wind tunnels, listening to reality talk shit back to me. I was broken inside before I began; that was the feeling. Long walks could not smoulder it off, and the only calm I achieved was from the absolute lack of understanding I experienced in math. Not knowing was a clarity, one I still crave in the space of writing. The absolute sentence as a violence that closes all others.

Later, much later, I would discover this glitch was a crisis far beyond me, a crisis of climate, a crisis of world itself: so huge my child’s mind could hardly have discovered it. And yet, having said that, I was already halfway there. Halfway towards ecocide. As a child, I swore to my mother I would leave the planet on my fifteenth birthday. She almost believed me. Mars beckoned, with its fiery red swirls and its secret knowledge of an evil beyond. I liked the way the name felt ‘full’ in my mouth. When nothing happened, I drank myself into amnesia; I stopped eating. It was a birthday gift to myself, the hope that I might still disappear.

Hungover, I know there will be a point where I go and that is to die. The blank is like a name you forget at the point of recall. It is so much worse than that, as if we’d forgotten our own name and the name of our mothers and the E____ itself. And what it means to see the back of the tapestry and a trypophobic horror where every unloosened stitch, a tiny blank, is the signal of multiple (un)ending worlds. Consider the strawberry seen from inside, with its millioning glowing yellow seeds of light. My wrists replaced originary marks with marks.

There was so much to learn about what was happening. I needed to know what would be okay. It was just this whole impossibility of thinking the future. The word ‘career’ was hilarious. It made me think of falling through time, Scrabble letters tossed into void at light speed. That was the language I wanted, letters at light speed.

 

***

 

Silver foil, the metallic smell on your fingers from playing guitar. The way I could play through brass and acquire an instrumental breath, vibrations that slid out of tune because I had damaged my ears too much to listen.

As promised, the strawberry birthmark faded. It was like somebody had slowly quietened the white noise, so slowly that I could not be sure if what I heard was truth or hallucination. The distinction mattered less over time.

Dream where I can’t sleep, so I wake up to watch Super Mario Clouds on YouTube, so I relive the level without level.

Sometimes I feel twinges of pain in the bump where my finger was. This phantom sensation is strange because I have no working memory of the limb itself, if it can be called a limb. The-cherry-nothing-more-than-a-supplement. Wikipedia tells me that the pain of phantom limbs can be aggravated by ‘stress, anxiety and weather changes’. The supplementary limb, then, its existence as a constant play between presence and absence (I had the limb, and yet no memory of its function; the limb was extra and yet in having it removed I felt less than a ‘normal’ person, I am less than I was and in sameness still more), acts as a site of super-attunement. When the temperature gets weird, the tingles start over. The pain is a drift of cirrus.

If you press very hard on the bump on my hand, I feel a sort of convex nerve pain, akin to the ache of pins and needles, concentrated in this single location. I wonder if this is what happens to a cherry when you slice it in half, when you make of the round fruit a sudden circumference. Something fell out, a long long time ago. The tiniest stone.

The world is wrong. There are only signals. Nothing has even really reached us yet. So why leave?

Wikipedia tells me one explanation for phantom limb pain is ‘the result of “junk” inputs from the peripheral nervous system’. There is an overhaul of arousal just to live now; somehow the waste of this activity is concentrated in this mark of removal. Can it be called a wound if it is not a gap or a hollow, but something in addition to the skin, a geologic feature: a kind of tiny crater, a half-sphere, a mound? I imagine a tangle of thread-like nerves coiled up inside. Nobody has noticed this bump of their own volition. To mention it to someone, I was born with an eleventh finger, is of course to commit an act of confession, a gesture of intimacy.

Like here, you can nearly have my birth back. A gift to the Earth in you.   

Derrida: ‘The wound can have (should only have) just one proper name. I recognise that I love — you — by this: you leave in me a wound I do not want to replace’.

I died when I was born, literally; I was born wrong. But in being born this way, I had to love the world as a child of enchantment. I had to trick myself into existing. It would be an obscenity to look back at those pictures, tiny  baby with this slight extremity, this tuning fork of flesh, so easily severed. Who knew anything of a redheaded future, a salad of spent conditionals and love. And I want you to be free.

 

***

 

So what do we do with this extra? Knowing too much of the world and what the self cannot say of the world in itself. Autoplay is paused for the meantime, by which I mean the time in which we are mean. I remember discovering cruelty in the playground, where a boy would go round and hit us with strong red branches he pulled from a shrub that grew with some abundance around our school. And realising the marks made on the back of our calves were really just marks of a pain this boy had felt; a pain inflicted upon him from elsewhere, so that cruelty was something you transferred, a kind of heraldic ink you wore for your life, for your family. I would not explain these marks to my mother, or to myself, for years. My early experience of inflicting cruelty: throwing Chao against the wall, only to nurse them back into serenity later. Teasing the dog, watching a friend knock his head off a wall, deliberately fucking things up. Then the delirious pleasure: to throw one’s avatar off into starry void, a final sacrificial act. In Sonic Adventure 2 Battle, a game to which I dedicated many hours of pre-adolescent life, the villain Dr Robotnik has programmed his space colony, ARK,[2] to collide with Earth if the chaos emeralds are used. Such annihilation intends vengeance on ‘the government’ for condemning the doctor’s research and killing his daughter, Maria. Her request to Shadow, Sonic the Hedgehog’s Jungian double, is to help mankind. When Shadow plummets back to Earth, following the ultimate battle, ‘the Finalhazard’, he is happy, because he has fulfilled his promise to Maria.

Admittedly, this cosmological battle of heroes is little more than parenthesis here. I want to say something of my entrance into this discourse of annihilation. Shadow was a supplement: Sonic’s ‘double’, but also his genetic extra, his genetic remainder; both hero and villain, his narrative volition was ultimately self-sacrifice to save the world, and yet he was created to conquer the world. He embodies the eerie promise of a kind of living apocalypse, an ‘end’ to the world that does not end. I remember the final book of Garth Nix’s Old Kingdom series, whose blurb used the word cataclysm, or cataclysmic, to describe the events that closed the trilogy. That word lived on in me as a wound, cataclysm: something sharp that had already cut me. It was a word I could not unthink. What actually happened in the book was terrible, was a battle, it involved the loss of life; and yet there was redemption. I knew then that cataclysm was not necessarily apocalypse, because one world of fantasy could open into the new, like a modified species. There were chain reactions.

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But all this is just average Earth. Learning to like the light, to paint a thought with the similar blue, knowing it only exists in dreams, and the way she holds a note.

 

***

 

These days, everything mostly feels like transing times. I listen to a Jason Molina recording and realise that he is gone, he is missing from the world, and yet the warmth of his fingers, these arpeggios; the sound of sirens passing through the windows of his Chicago apartment. These are present but I discover them only after absence. I have to realise this over and over, to register the shock of this or that loss. I close one tab, only to open another window onto extinction: this fact of a text we can’t share, because the text is ourselves, and we have shared unto each other enough of the missing space. And someone else I once loved dies. Data is what’s given, it clots into so much hurt. We just are confusion, the two of us and the planet and what’s opening up.

Everything swells; a cherry-red globe recurs in memory. I drift on a lifelong melancholia that isn’t quite mine. I want to be able to parse this bodily symbology as a something beyond me, of course; I want to look outwards at the felt inequality. So many wounds between us. The word continent crunched sour in my mouth. These histories we can’t unpeel or remain in singular. I want to be able to understand the matheme, but there is a wilderness still. The breath won’t catch up. Scared I’ll fall off the edge of my mind.

What we make difficult for ourselves, these fractures in fact or family. Always a guilt that sticks. It is as though we were speaking underwater, our altered tongues; what we could only bring together as lyric.

I had all these dreams of traffic, and the traffic could only move in the night. I was at the edge of a slip road, but I could not merge. Are we closer, now that you know this?

whatever in the world behind closed eyes the doors whispered. let her be. let her be her. let us be as if we were not forever entwined in that, as if we were not able to unthread the conclusions, deliver ourselves of the plot. at that level she intercedes for you. she cries mercy at the feet of her father. she knows where he is at the far corners of the universe. he has removed himself. he has gone off to sit and brood beyond the pale of light. if not that then this. but we had opened it. the knife that cuts both ways. always. in the centre of it the rose. pure. the flaming heart, an artifact. believe me. this is not a special dispensation. this is a matter of life and death.

(Beverly Dahlen, A Reading)

And why did they give me the middling name of the Rose? There was a world tucked in and still to unfurl, and the rose was a planet with cloud tucked into its darkest heart. Let her be here. That time I set my hair on fire and everything of the world smelt singed for weeks. It happened at the funeral. She was at the mercy of a childhood memory, curled at the window as they came in the night to tip the car. And she remembers the way the oil ran down the road as rainbows. The sound of her parents on the phone and a knife that cut the silence of Sunday. It was a thick gelatine; the boiled fruitmeat of calorific lyric. The cut in the world behind closed doors, closed eyes, the lids we can’t keep on our possible futures. So we swim through; no, it gets stuck in our teeth. How can it be a matter of both?

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Crank the anthropocene up to eleven. I wish we had been sweeter to each other. Like listening to the bees without meaning to. We’ll never know why we are born the way we are born, or whether that matters. And I’m pushing sleep for the pleasure of that stretch of the break: when you say the break of the sky and is it a pink cloud I see, or just blue. The 8-bit troposphere catching nightly. Facebook is blue because Mark Zuckerberg is colourblind. There is the overlay, the twice-lived light of the screen and the sky beyond, which is also contained in a window. At no point do I choose to go outside, as it were; for this is the happening of a necessary containment. I need to be able to switch between tabs, my brain still reeling. There is always extra, the bit we missed and have to pursue.

If I saw you again, and we were the same as we were.

Excoriations of time are like Facebook disavowal; don’t click, don’t react. They rub off on our skin as however many times we surrendered our diaries, only to take them again in our arms, cradling tiny diacritics. The first broadband was the rupture of a secret, something breaking out widescreen and hurting.

Narcissism: this essay. A name comes out the sky(e), its extra e for the isle, for extinction. The Earth is active now, this state of evil, eleven, never even.

We should be kinder to each other, said the tree to the thing that would grind it to pulp. When Justine eats the meatloaf and it turns to ash in her mouth. And you know that all this extraness, extremeness of death is from the other planet that is our planet. Just is. I put a bar through Mars, I pierced its fat red eye with the proto-knowledge of Earth’s erasure. That was my great stupid rebellion. It felt like a dreamwork of futile justice.

The fact is only an identity, a pristine midnight. Land lines of countryside glimpsed in the feed, I know the moon only this way until I leave the library. So sigh, milk silver of gaze. Instinctive descent occurs in dark mode, and we play it over, scrolling and scrolling. The hours between. For all I remember of that night, there is only the simple avocado emoji, and a thank you. You’ve been more than a friend to me.

 

***

 

What do we call for?

It’s like the first time I saw Jane Campion’s Bright Star and thought of something shimmering in the woods, that would not come as powder or song but simply as itself. And yet even that was split. Cancer moon/Pisces rising. I could sense it, and the morning hurt, and the continuum of pain whose fidelity remained still into the half planet smudged on the edge of my hand. The Earth is a cherry that lost its innocent self. You would interrupt our greeting in honour of the end of the album. That was the tempo we stretched for ourselves, syncopating sleep with the lights adorning our names with time’s ongoingness; eleven hours at the end of the wish again, after we stayed up past the chorus of dawn. And the world was shimmering in the woods. Our cut had barely interrupted the story.

 


 

  1. And ongoingness is, as Tim Morton puts it, the temporality of melancholy in the anthropocene, this sense that ‘nothing is determined yet’. This sense that we are not looking towards apocalypse but rather trying to be here, knowing this ‘here’ is not ours or fixed but is a viscous spreading of multiple subjectivities, bodies and times. Ongoingness is to look for pleasure as well as pain, to not look towards loss as imminent or behind us, but rather to appreciate the uncanniness of reality. So this person’s consciousness became for a while another half of my own, their thoughts would echo and remain in me, beyond pathology, warping from something raw and ‘live’ to a gentler articulation of being here, being-with. The enviro-mind, formerly-known-as
  2. Incidentally, the Ark was a youth club I’d frequent as a teenager, beside the sea. The site of many formative drinking experience, it was surrounded by dunes of lawn and behind those dunes I’d learn my first versions of drowning.

Playlist: March 2019

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9 June 1977

Plato wants to emit. Seed, artificially, technically. That devil of a Socrates holds the syringe. To sow the entire earth, to send the same fertile card to everyone.

— Derrida, The Post Card

He goes around sliding things under doors. When I answer the buzzer he coughs through the speaker. Is there something for me? Impossible to tell. He clutches bundles of luminous, anonymous catalogues. But there is mostly paper, less of noise, in my dream. All the colourful paper is folded into neat little butterflies and cast about a room somewhere, a trillion paper butterflies made animate by a ceiling fan. They swirl up and hover and tremble, they display the fact of display. If Damien Hirst were kinder to hyperobjects. The butterflies are destined to live for only a day, but their larvae live on and on, reproducing in squirming punctuation. The home screen was full of these icons, butterfly icons, but the state that I am in…well, I saw them as colours in kaleidoscopic array, you could say formless because they were almost utterly without origin. I tried to click through the butterflies to open a window. The word broadcast has its origins in agriculture. I see him at the edge of things, broadcasting his literature; dreaming of that broadcast whose discourse would finally slip into ‘Stone in Focus’, fully looped for 1:17:10 duration. The butterfly paper of things we were supposed to purchase. Palimpsests of unspent ‘truth’, a kind of solvent tonic for wounded text. What folds is the secret of objects, their identity prior to products. The butterflies fly, land, twist, secrete. They become tiny wedges. I want to gather up quantities of plastic and watch it melt between my fingers, the putty of a capitalist extinction. I kinda wanna call him. One day the fan will stop running and that will be the end of the day. The paper is better than plastic, by a mite.

That is what I write to you. A little shard of a page. I can pinpoint its scene of writing, the place where the walls are real moss and everything is green and utopian blue. The signs are over-scrawled in washable ink: fill up the kettle after finishing. A world slides out of focus when I write to you. No one cares. The point of a sentence is itself the long-tail; maybe I had not converted the file right, maybe I had not stretched this line as far as it wanted. But it broke apart regardless:

 

. . .  . . .. .             . . .

.        . . . .. . . . . .. .. . . . .

 . .     . . . . ..       . . . . .

             . . . . . ….. .   

     . .         .. .

 

I see last year’s city in a flowing grid of water. The artificial channel of departure. I am trying to remember the blue of the plane, the blue of a single window. It seems this journey annihilates the next. The weather is unavailable to me. I was up so late, crunching chocolate eggs between my teeth and reading Dodie Bellamy. Everything said was fibrous, electric, painfully or even exquisitely wired. I was in San Francisco, I was in a flooded New York; I was in my hometown, even more underwater. The prose came in streams but it was hardly mine. I leaned in to suck the smoke from your face. What everyone needed was chamomile, a breath of the air by the river.

At the end of the world, the butterflies drown. We mourn them very quietly, last of our senses stimulated. The muscularity we made of our work is immaterial now. I’m trying to swear myself into a rhythm of perfect sleep. What comprises a wake up call, the fuck fuck fuck of it. Alarms are sent from afar to hold me in the punch of 400 words, Plato’s postcard. I wake to her dreams in WhatsApp messages; I split samples of songs I don’t like into ringtones. Something slips into something and the dark looks different. I walk home and catch variant scents of spring, mixed up with the fumes from the late-night buses. I rub blossoms and leaves between my fingers, trying to intensify the feeling. I am incredibly nostalgic for Chloé perfume, when I hug her goodbye. Magnolia, freesia, honey and cedarwood hidden beneath. Often those moments are so sweet I have to stand there in the street and text myself about it. I have these texts on my phone:

05:12: It’s just sunset, stupid

01:01: My legs are full of equinox

23:42: What if we wrote a line for every hour slept

02:34: Orchid.mpeg remembering futures

In Lars Von Trier’s Melancholia, the only safe place is the cave. But the cave is more like a teepee, it has no walls; it opens out onto the cinematic event which is this massive planet colliding with Earth. So there are no walls, not even ones made of moss, woven with pollen. It is not exactly a place ‘to go’. The cave at the end of the world is a triangulation of lines, a diagram. It points to the sky. The inside of the cave is the outside; it is a geometric skin; it is infinitely double. I think of the cherry red skin of my hotmail; at what point in my life did I choose that? The interior kitsch of human flesh, rendered plastic. Sometime in the month I write: I want everything to be tender but I had no idea it could be this bad. When the hail comes, when they salt the road, when the snow comes, I think it is ending but I wake up as before with the equal ache. Sunlight (?) Statistics lisping the roof of my mouth, as though writing itself would produce an allergy. I lay down my stuff, just as he is walking in, and my tongue in my mouth and the blood in my veins and the thought—indistinct sense of where the year will head. But I am looking instead for the tail. Already curling back into itself, the significant events of January chase me with flickering imagery, they are a personal narcissism. If I could boil them down, attain a clarity; shoot them, syringing…

I roll up my sleeves for airborne beams of vitamins.

She tells me how gorgeous the ghost was. The coast was. I keep thinking about the chestnut taste and the kisses of light, the packet I put back on the shelf. The world was wrong; the supermarket made me soft enough to go, checking the mirrors in financial departure. Incredible sponges, dying at the bottom of oceans. Someone holds the syringe but not for me. Someone holds out for loose change. I lose specialness daily in order to live. I dream I have a daughter who stands by a fireplace while I clip a starfish pin in her hair. She can’t say the word. I perform the tiniest sweep, distracting her gaze. She doesn’t want to go outside, she will scream and clutch the radiator if I tell her. The word is literally unnameable, I wake up with it gone from my lips. But the word exists! There was surely a species. It is only a technicality now. Secretly I write the word down, days later when it returns to me, burning. To write it here would be to violate that, to cheapen its life with a summoning. I realise the daughter is only the version of self that I didn’t fuck up. She exists elsewhere. I swear to her:

Anne of Julia Kristeva’s psychoanalysis:

I dreamt that a little girl came out of my body, the spitting image of my mother, while I have often told you that when I close my eyes I can’t bring her face to mind, as if she had died before I was born and carried me along into that death. And now here I am giving birth and it is she who lives again…

(Kristeva, Black Sun)

The daughter as a twice-lived avatar of futurity, the mask of what comes before as pushing through generative time; mothering and lusting and screaming for our place in their state of absolute melancholy. Be with me and share this pain. In the anthropocene, we accumulate a sense of primitive, foetal lostness (how many times have I curled, cried, questioned); the world is our fragile, amniotic sac. We float, we are starved of good air; we trap the heat. We can’t trust the way we damage it, extract from its boundaries the richest juices; the way we carry it; the way we absorb and are absorbed by it; the way we circulate in the midst of our mutual toxins. But the Earth is nothing so essential to us as mother, and no blood-ridden cloud of cotton could stop the daughter, screaming all through my sleep.  

The longest comedown, the longest night. Where mist is mostly the way of him holding a note, and it is not instant, it is not like the drug or the river that drowned him. It is the name with so many consonants. It could shatter a language with time. My dreams are thick and long but my sleep is short. I like how many times Sophie Robinson mentions her inbox in Rabbit. I check my own and the number surpasses 50,000. Spending the morning in turmoil, wanting to write back to the sunset I missed. Endless proliferation just is. It is something like, hold simultaneity in blockchain. Mathematics achieves a weightlessness. I’m sorry I’m sorry. Pieces of skylight I can hold in my head, granular blue. I’d let myself into the rain again. I need a very tall building, a stairwell to make the blood rush back to my extremities. You tell me not to.

Remembering the summer where all I could do was measure the slenderness of other people’s legs, in a numb, inexorable kind of way. This felt relative to my sense of extinction. It was something about, what do we put in our bodies and where or why do we want to go. I was suffused with the sense of the need elsewhere. How do we blend into a world, make of our souls these chalk pastel auras. If you could terraform Mars with memory only. The drift was the weight of an email, it was rainbow and stretched as far as my childhood. I saw her by the river, holding a piece of glass to the light. She hitched up her skirt and waded in. The voices subside in the rush of the current. The image fades, because she is anyway there, chastising my choice. I wonder how ever we lived without each other.

Heartburn and techno. Reasons I want to fold this away, why I walk along rivers regardless. The latent burn was only as far as the beat could measure. After the movie, I felt a depression so immense it was like I lost touch with each muscle. The doorbell. Friendships fraying like so many neglected threads. Coal emissions are rising like shares or something. I ran and ran in the dream of the land I remembered. I could smell wild garlic along the river. My brother was already home for the match. I ran and ran to get back to the gym with the moths in the showers, stuck to curtains. 91%, 69%, 43%, 1%. Even my phone is dying. Little white eggs in your palms are lyrics. What if the lilac tree were more than or less than life itself? Lilacs symbolise the beginnings of love. Being earnest, accelerationist, plugged into the HEX account of refresh, streaming language. What colour is it that flickers in time? I have been ignoring innumerable messages. I want to dwell in the missing hour, the split that occurs when the clocks go forward. It’s just like the extra cappuccino, the final stamp on a loyalty card. It always resets.

She is no longer there. It was so simple, letting the blood of the thought away. Dark liquids filled my days: cola and Guinness and the black, oozing matter you see in the water in Tarkovsky’s Stalker. Dreams of petroleum slick I saw in the sky. Oily dream of the Essay of the Book of the Essay. Literature seems almost impossible now. I needle myself into the heads of writers. I want them to pierce the myriad empty pores of me, tiny molten residue eggs. This imagination, waning. White cracking liquid black on the page. I was taking pleasure in texture and loops, cutting my tongue on a shout. I don’t know how to write! Mostly I would lie in bed reading D.rida and peeling the skin around my fingers, leaving tiny strips of red underneath. The cherry-rose flavour of Rescue Remedy. I needed something heavy; like an extra river, proplus, nicotine gum.

Transducer: A device that converts one form of energy into another.

I wanted to be online forever and I wanted that status to annihilate the fact, I wanted to erase onlineness from the web and I wanted the result to be world, oblique exchange of realities, and people uploading their papers forever, and a sweetness, whatever it means just to speak. I wanted the spider to eat the fly. I wanted to read behind the lines until I became signal, and my signal was a force behind the language I wanted to speak, and it was prior to me. I went to the Tower and forgot they were having a party. The white wine tasted like sugary air. There was a video I watched, ‘Pyramid Song’ performed in Egypt. What doesn’t care to be sent. The egg won’t open its hatch. The complete terroir of relief in southerly regions where I cram all my life into multiple time zones, the sibylline remainder of day. Mysterious she beckons with fat grapes squashed in the O of her mouth, all rotten fruit I could smell from the train going south. She designed a very careless outrage and I realised there wasn’t a single shout inside me. She twists out the stalks like dead capillaries. I confront the thought of something terrible happening. So many times and I could not shriek. Later, tiny black seeds spill into my palm. I can only cherish them.

Facebook is the broadcast of Earth. I try to straighten the mirror, as though the spatial urge were innate and not just void. It was not the same book that I had ordered, the Book of the Essay. I had already set forth on the impossible project. I struggled to review. I had not even written the fact of it yet. There is value and heat to this project, even in its moments of stretch and collapse. I would put writing through the machine that makes water effervesce, missing the ease of waitressing. When ‘Beyondless’ came on, I felt infinite again on Great Western Road. Short-sighted, I missed the faces of every stranger. I wrote this sestina called ‘Lucozade Blues’, but I had not the stomach for any orange energy. Would you like ice with that?

The cave is a kind of triangle. Facebook is the vending machine, dispensing the glitches and beats of our life. It is as one, invisible crowd of desire. I want to say swarm. I want to say seed, but the burst spent seeds that lie in the dust of the archive. And she does calisthenics just to stream them live, and she lays her beautiful eggs. I am obsessed with the rhythms I can’t keep, lunar cycles for mindless complexion. Someone comes along to clear us west, they have had enough of our westerly airs. Sometimes I long to smash the windows of my local Tesco after midnight, just to boost M&Ms off the shelf, scatter them along the coated floor and crunch their acid colours one by one with my shoes. I want a whole lifetime to tread in my shoes. The pause when you stop in the walk to tie your laces, and you look so lovely with your leg in the air; a kind of ballet occurs in suspended time. Everything about this sentence is soft, it has to be. Plié. It subjects me to a slenderness, elsewhere a song. Bend and taut. Fear of the dark or the light, lilac wiiine. Somebody else is always between us; somebody else is the cavalier world, riding its way through galloping matter to get back to the point at which this becomes anti. And later I stroke your hair in the stable, and later we find him, and later your dream hair is all I can smell and scrunch when I come up for air or salt in the morning. And you are smaller than I ever remembered. We do things we shouldn’t exactly do. As if all this could be written in cafés!

I felt sick all semester with radial thoughts, and when I woke it was spring and the circle made of my mood a halo, it would be the same mood to return forever. Sunshine, caffeine, approximation. A loop the butterfly pages can fly through, and we chase them, baby-fisted, throughout the night. I want to be this clumsy and look at you straight in the eye and smile. Faster, the butterfly pieces of colour and light. Faster the streams of warmth and the morning gulls and something that comes on astrological. Supermoon channel. It is only you that makes me angry. Spring arrives solely in Getty images. I could just download all this weather, I want its data to supplement; I listen to ‘Eudaemonia ’ on repeat and remember the future we were yet to inject, starbright direct to our arteries. I’m sending a sort of word to Socrates, I’ve got this whole card—

~

Drugdealer, Weyes Blood — Honey

Sky Ferreira — Downhill Lullaby

Grimes — REALiTi (Demo)

Ess_Gee — Bubble Queen

Hand Habits — are you serious?

Stella Donnelly — Tricks

Julia Jacklin — Body

Pocket Knife — Custard Cream

Kelly Lee Owens — Lucid

Youth Lagoon — Daydream

Them Are Us Too — Eudaemonia

Tim Hecker — Obsidian Counterpoint

Sarah Davachi — Perfumes III

Logos — Menace

William Basinksi — 4(E+D)4(ER=EPR)

George Clanton — Livin’ Loose

HEALTH — LOSS DELUXE

Bliss Signal — Floodlight

Frankie Cosmos — Eternal

Strawberry Switchblade — Trees and Flowers

Galaxie 500 — Fourth of July

Silver Jews — Trains Across The Sea

Her’s — Under Wraps

Burial — U Hurt Me

The Durutti Column — Love No More

The Walker Brothers — Orpheus

Nico — Somewhere There’s A Feather

Talk Talk — I Believe In You

Crianlarich 2019

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For Patrick and everyone in o.p.s 

This sweetness had not been said before, of powder and dust, how gorgeous perhaps. Perhaps. Remnants to look sharper, look over the tennis court, embrace from faraway, as if he could say he was waiting to enter, as your palm and it hurt. Berrying friction. Possible to collide if not to ruminate, he would be ghost-like. What makes this momentary encounter a landscape; what if only it was crisp like this all the places in your palm where the sleep craters, slosh of white wine yes crisp yes up my eyes, yes to the whites coming off, fir trees sheltering and catch the triangle tips that, crumbling signage is nice that yes he said be there, which is as it is when the cold train noise you were showing me scoop of honey in the centre of the ! and speaking just so, that hesitant drunk speech bottles of varying price, ask how so without summit. Summit about it. Can you imagine him here, to think of him here even impossible; I say it again, yes he said therein, you are climbing a wall and under the dark, which draw themselves in as body. Body of log. What we can’t know, googling maps of googling blue. Considerations of the scent of a seashell, Powdery, illuminations demand attention to muscle, chunk a spiral: elasticity of neck, you showed me a rub of the whites is milk, you lighten, too little, we crossed under the bridge and the coppery stream I could say a true adoration of crackle, powdery beautiful snow, they came between each other we look into, the water in solacing descent not want to exchange, having the sweet point say hello to a stranger, infinity pool; steam rising from that is sheer attention, that shelf’s arousal into plain scraping of surface, the moss comes off, the sleep was possible, it was a possible select a purpose and the making is as ever he was, subtly clicking away, you even if without plans for lunch, the big soup, solace to say, yes therein sweetness, nutmeg and it swills in the glass, you realise there was a theory I nourished but did fennel tea and the streak of blood would be it, turn up with several cumin into your eyelids nicely, bay leaf for girls. In his tangerine hat, imagine the dusk this is pure exclusion, no reason to argue, use this, brokered semi-colonic kind of weather; no degree of flesh. Fresh. The hills here coated in | if he had not entered, very sweet it snow, the moment you relayed to me coated in shoe to climb harder, ascendance is yes pale pink streaking a trace of the eye, adjacent to rain, people were waiting in clear and crispness, mushrooms to compliment everything, more cardamom, more sumptuous; is there a place around here where people arrive. They were green and rosy, he got webs of the pipes which rose all green, speak each to each this way, ground down in snow; a certainty of shame to fill. Imagine he was here and burning up lichen yes where you get the blood in, accidents to reach the end of the day and lifting just is. Icicle treacle. Layers of rice eat bourbon girls. Small label comes off where harmonic lift and another dropped pencil. Sentient crumb. Very sensuous in time; there was such overlap as to the time, if only the powdery blue like landscape, as if it was over there, as way, just hold enough of your body to lie supine, you stay awhile. They kept going here, not there, as if it was then. Then. Of it, dusted just so, moving to short have to nourish it, you have to let up wanting, which fear the light as much body here moving, his figure just entering the around, it wants a certain positing of the window ledge shell and wanting to say so pure, thinness and slender you stay awhile out, mint, expedient kitchens inside the illumine. Autechre farm. Oat cakes and whisky. It is the brain away. Away. Slowness comes over, long the glass whose origins meant nothing, whose origins the haze of shiraz & something about Neil Young on Christmas Day, where the ear just works, and lift, and and that is exactly what break occurs, riverrun, your skin had sloughed off, friction by friction, and clack and we don’t want to return. Fall thru room. What morbid yes waiting for you, time not of the air you said was petrichor; it on a slick perpetuity, you ascend the aquarium just so, we would provide a likeness, the moss softens, it invites us to roll. Roll in bars. The clouds in the photograph went bananas. We’re 75 metres away according to this or that china-white bathroom in your grandmother’s house; the taste is there to catch up on, slide over snow, far away people were meeting in cities with rosy cheeks and we watched the was not was sweet winter air, prior January, dark & sweet. We were so warm in the sun despite happening here, as if it was always to pylon, the lameness of brown-eyed moths which rise a light place, it is a crisp place. Heroin, your best friend vomiting all over the ice, that is all of a break-apart language. Language. Massif you could slip, don’t hold me that ill between fingers; you could reduce to a sort over there, knowing this isn’t the way, dipping as it was on Christmas, you message through with sugar, the sky was sugar on the bread of a sentence, golden pool, nothing we could say weather you could pinch and rub and dissolve rich onion scent, cutting the eyes into weeps. We are to get apart, as if this was happening from which we might see sunset? Sunset? The sky tongue and strain. No rain, like politics. Cherry sleep collapse in the snow. Sky of depleted lozenges, horizontal. Mountain chord. Imagine he was just here is the way as if the way was. Was.