Paraphrastic

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Patricia Sykes

“collaboration does not yield”
“as deviant as it is circuitous”
”you wander off”
“curve your thinking to each other’s”
“ideas without getting”
“manipulate them like phenomena”
“secretively…she conjures”
“the private oasis where”
“needing to adjust”
“quotients of form”
“the enfleshed”
“made plastic”
“by shifting illusions”
“the ecstatic violence”
“a tremor of anticipation”
“the music is written”
“lustres and scars”
“my printed text floats”
“of 35 minutes, converse duration”
“the unwritten so far in the background”
“our fledgling ellipse”
“nurture and destruction”
“(but) I did not create…vacuum”

Acknowledgement: The lines in Paraphrastic have their origin in my article
‘Radieuses Ellipses’, published in mouvement: l’indisciplinaire des arts
vivants 36-37 sept-decembre 2005. The article was commissioned by Chief
Editor, David Sanson. Its subject is my collaboration with composer Liza Lim
on Mother Tongue, a piece for soprano and fifteen instruments, which
premiered at the Festival d’Automne, Paris, 2005. Liza commissioned me to write
the poetic text for the work.

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged

Discourse on the Poetics of Beauty and Truth as Revolutionary Practice

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Ronn Morris

Ern Malley Addresses Vladimir Ilyich Lenin:

We are stardust,
We are golden,
And we got to get ourselves
Back to the garden,
– Joni Mitchell, ‘Woodstock’ (1969 song)

I remonstrate with you mon frere, mon petit,
Comrade, when I recollect that stray remark of Keats –
Spoken as the shadow fell, spoken as the vision of alveoli
Blossomed in the coral garden of his brain,
As their red bloom brambled and rose
To form gleaming threads of scarlet upon his lips,
Binding him ever more brightly to his eclipse.
His words fell, as oaken leaves became a crimson couch,
As the nightingale sang of surrender sweet.
Never, he said, Let your heart ope with the spring flowers
An inch of love is an inch of ashes.

Measure by incremental measure, I, like you,
Am steeped in this life too deep. I wade a wash
Of carbuncular sea. I have inculcated
Constellations of tubercle bacilli with verse,
And worse salted entire potentialities
Of Truth and Beauty with my tears.

O my impossible, incognisant, apocryphal love!
I have always distrusted your Apollonian speech.
You were to be Epoch Maker
Instead, you became he who does not mean a thing.
Autumn leaves decay as nightingales decay.
Poor Fanny Bawne, and her many sisters, wither
In the timeless flame of your disregard.
My voice peals out Bounty, Youth, Beauty and Truth.

Dear friend, this is how it ends, you sealed like
Sleeping Beauty in your mausoleum of glass.
And me, I’m mired in earth.
Here lies one whose name flowered
But briefly, in dirt.

CODA

Is it Keats who calls?
Ernest Lalor Malley, come on down
And down and down and down I came
Falling like floating.
It was like hitting the sky backwards,
On this my return to the garden.

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

Dropstitch

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Nick Hadgelias

Dropstitch


Once, I took up knitting.


When I was finished


I was 1,000 years old


there were 10 billion people on the planet


3 corporations owned it


I’d dropped 5 stitches


no one used Twitter


and I’d forgotten why I’d started.

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

finish

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Peter O'Mara

finish1








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All is conversation, all is network.

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Szymon Dorabialski

Pages: 1 2
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Be Wrong Doing

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Leticia Parish

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

from The Tolerance Project: Poem 40 – American Picture

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Rachel Zolf 
Some words are tasteless

The dog accepts no treats from “Obama”

There’s no 13th floor because their God is a prolongation of ego

Founder of the little-known group known as “The Family”

Only turned up as “solid” in the denial column

What are you saying, Bob? 

You are breeding from the lower side of the curve

Something American, Canadian, or viscous

How would you like to have a magic mirror?

Joan Retallack begins with geometries of attention

The class of mediocres has the right to an epaulette of red wool

I am the swift uplifting rush that happens once duration enters

The turtles speak to my bele chose

In order to distinguish the pictorial object from a readymade

Each participant reads their Behavioral Self-Portrait aloud 

This is not to say that people with accents are haters, of course

SOME PARTS HAVE BEEN LEFT OUT, AS YOU SEE (pointing)

My body is on the chair. I don’t shave my legs. 1 is already a stand-in for 0

This is a real-time engagement with form

I will never stop praising my Lord for this prosthetic 

You’re branded by the objects you love 

Everyone has one special sensation

A Neighbor is the one who by definition smells

Kyle, you have to keep making your macaroni pictures


‘This isn’t Whitman’s country anymore’ (390.586). New York City, 2008. R. Kolewe

‘American Picture’ was the last official poem written for The Tolerance Project, the first collaborative MFA in Creative Writing ever. ‘American Picture’ contains poetic DNA traces from several Tolerance Project donors: Rob Read, Jules Boykoff, Abigail Child, Joel Bettridge, Laura Elrick, Anna Moschovakis, Kevin Killian, Sarah Dowling, Bob Perelman, Susan Schultz, and the Office of Institutional Research. ‘American Picture’ is also a response to the photo, ‘This isn’t Whitman’s country anymore,’ as commissioned by photographer Ralph Kolewe for his InfluencySalon.ca section, Frames.

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged

A “Nearly” Thought, A Charming “Picture”

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Terrence Chiusano

Here’s something: a first
whir, the next step…a few

feats more. I’ve “already”
retched…reached, I mean;

taken the jump so to speak.
It seems right. And so

the so-called story as it exists
in the so-called here-and-now.

•

That to mount his defence Sidney should with one hand palm like a little oiled apple
the pommel, so to speak, of one of Pugliano’s stabled stallions (besaddled “I knowe not
by what miſchance”) while with the other (polite nod, heel-of-hand-to-face, downswept-

doff-like-wave) announce himself logician first (“peece of a Logician”—crumb enough
of one, syllogists being a sort of dry biscuit, to’ve resisted the temptation to wish himself
a palomino or Percheron, the captivating flame of Iohn Pietro’s equine ardors aside:

the tear-stained hay bale homilies (…and whilst lifting to the lips of my beloved Lippizaner
an infusion of honey and essence of orange blossom in a little silver finger bowl once
owned,
as it chanced to happen, by her ladyship, the Duchess of Malfi…), the vivid troughside

sermons (…with but a tin of custard and these two tiny castanets, in a little alley behind
a public stables near the docks of Swansea, I once soothed a skittish Andalusian, bless
her dear sweet delicate soul; she belonging to the captain of a Spanish schooner (la belle

of the lot!) I’d met that afternoon over a game of draughts in a booth at the back of The
Poop
& Rudder…), the tender tack room recitatives (…and now, if I may, my first eyeful
of an unbloused bosom, that of my boyhood milkmaid Genevieve gigglingly bent to groom

the foreleg of a big bay mare (or was she a chestnut?) with a Grecian loofa and mohair
brush, grandfather seated before her on a little wicker chair grinning ear-to-tufted-ear;
I having one rainy summer Sunday by chance chased from the barnyard into the stables

a pair of fatted hens only to behold there the pater of our familias (humming all the while
an old sea shanty of which he’d always been fond) extract through his undone fly the
entire
pink mass of his privates, select the chief part, and in full view of that poor unknowing

animal start to rub his glossy shaft like Aladdin his magic lamp (soon abetted, no less,
by our befreckled milkmaid! the little German hands of whom had, like the gentle jiggle
of her name itself, worked their rhythmical magic on every udder in the barn, a simple

fact the sobering significance of which I fully grasped (Gesundheit!) in a sudden flash
a decade hence, upon falling to the floor of a brothel in Hoofddorp, overcome by madam’s
house specialty: with one hand “the fist of ecstasy,” with the second “the fist of bliss,”

a nifty twist the like of which is seldom met with, I can assure you), the scene then ending
with a snort (grandpapa? horse?) and two laughs (mine of disbelief, Ginny’s whinny-
like titter, of surprise), the one, as luck would have it, in chorus with the other, and so,

gift of that timely eclipse, I remained undiscovered (hidden away between a forsaken
horse blanket and overturned handbarrow) and with me the secret shame of my own
unsaintliness: how my innocence was lost that day, taken by my own hand, as it were,

atop a pile of hay; stirred by the leathern frankincense-like fragrance of bridles,
nosebands,
browbands, saddle pads…provoked by the sight of throatlatches, breastplates, halters,
whips, crops, girths…inflamed by the calambac-like perfumery of dry straw, turnip tops,

fresh dung, horse sweat; “…the ill-effects of an unfortunate fall…” (per mother (stage left)
atop a taboret to assembled servants in the hall, she being but the height of an ornamental
hedge of holly) summoned, as it so happens, my dear nonno that very noon to eternal rest;


The wisest men do not lose their
jest even in the hour
of death, so let us be merry.
For here lieth Lorenzo beside
his beloved junipers, done unto
his end from excess joy.

his pale, dimpled, plump-faced playmate (an orphan from…Strasbourg, if memory
serves) I saw again only once, softly singing to herself at a little table beneath the kitchen
window one morning wearing only slippers and a bonnet arranging poppies in a vase,

whom soon after which was sent to a distant cousin’s country estate (near Padua? Pisa?
Parma? somewhere beside the banks of the Po deep in green Piedmont? no matter)
where she disappeared one winter whilst crossing a frozen pond to deliver a basket of eggs

to a neighboring farm, departing behind a clump of rushes into a cold but colorful coda
by way of an angler’s innocently un-marked hole in the ice…), the enthralling little patties
of horsy hyperbole placidly pinched off atop a pinto or painted pony while roaming

shamrocked pastures, little green paddocks, long country lanes (…how now! to tame
an Appaloosa with a tambourine is but the work of a wet nurse…), the somber soliloquies
delivered in the midst of calming a finicky filly, fawning over a colicky colt (…to “marble”

at one’s misfortune, as if to pulp oneself into the endpapers of a bad book, may we presume
to know better…) or hissed through a split lip (…for surely this is but love or friendship,
or merely a ray of sun that gleams in the eye of this beast…) while fending off (…not ill will

for me…) with a horsewhip (Fermo!) and suddenly headless hayrake (Attento!) the wild-
eyed kick (Ecco!) of a foaming Arabian), poet second (“my vnelected vocation”), so too
I’ve “ſlipt” (whoops): having “this”—say, bamboo bookmark, fauxly kanji’d to boot, iron

weathervane in the shape of a pair of napping loons, split muskmelon, lettuce leavings,
moldy bolt of muslin, chisel-and-wooden-mallet’s phit-phit-phit, little blue dish of caraway
pips—as much a delphinium or daisy or aster or asphodel its turning-toward-sunness.

•

Like this, and I would put up not down—not
because of tempo, because of sound—a map
of my own movement: from a simple journey
a few stone’s throws away to what shapely
manifold of dovetailed doublings and wrinkled
rabbets, dadoes, mortises and miters I fantasize
the so-called trek might knit me into if only it would.

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged

World’s End and Gadigal

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Meredith Wattison

I share a café table in Redfern with a young man whose bitten nails are lacquered scarlet, or Hunter’s Pink, like a London bus, then roughly scraped at by his teeth. Let’s call him Dorian. His hands are large, pale and beautifully formed, their squareness implies both invention and practicality, his alabaster thumbs arc like Bacon’s. To him it is androgynous transcendence; to me it is purely transport with poetic nomenclatives, Monopoly’s real estate; the stuff of desolate, historical novels. It is Dickens sending his sons, cruelly burdened with ‘potential’, to Australia, Austen on A Mystery Tour, the Brontës looking for a rough gypsy or two. It is Blyton’s imperious ‘Parp-Parp’ taxonomy, Potter’s Puddle-duck’s paisley shawl. (The 328 bus to Chelsea, World’s End, ran aground here, its deluded shoppers shuffled through The Sales without a purse, or benefactor – but with grasping hands. Some unleashed their European grotesques – the less callous amongst them surprised themselves.) A man with cerebral palsy has fallen crossing a lane and crawls into its gutter, a local man helps him to his feet, leans him against a wall to regain his balance and checks his forearms and bare legs for injury. He hugs his rescuer as though he has pulled him from the sea. Heathcliff breaks from the man’s embrace, glowers and strides away, wolfhounds at his heels. Dickens’s sons gather after the fact. Dorian and I agree on, among other things, Plath’s delusions (her anglomaniacal brown study, sodden sheep, errant cottage garden romanticism, for which I too have a propensity) – how unfortunate they were for her, and how crucial it is to find someone with illusions as real as your own and make them flesh. (Vivienne Westwood described her 1965 ‘meeting’ with Malcolm McLaren as him being ‘a one-off. He was fascinating and mad, and it was as though I was a coin and he showed me the other side.’ Its thrall lasted fifteen years; at his 2010 funeral she wore a Gold Label headband, re World’s End unisex accessories, which stretched ‘Chaos’ across her forehead, re his mantra re cash, re her lost protagonist.) Dorian hints at a discreet deep disappointment. (He and his full-lipped, saffron and chrome-haired girlfriend parted two months ago.) Dispossessed urban seagulls levitate and resist above us like metamorphosing plastic bags and our other side’s intertwined other; mine has the blond shoulders, the flaxen fusilli, of the scrapped buffalo nickel, ‘Liberty’ on his flip side. (Horses bring their satin musculature to him, as I wake weighing words.) A worn meniscus rim, his proud man’s good soldier’s skin, flare at the Elysian edge of these feathered eclipses on Regent, just off Cope, beneath 2012’s Transit of Venus, re her night-sweat fevers, Westwood’s divine bustled cellulite, our hearts are high
and rocked silent.

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged

Reading the U.S. Constitution

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Paul Griffiths

1

in a
second
the
branch
in the
December
secrecy
of the
water
will
have
found
its
way
under

2

all
shall be
in
the
state
of
a
thousand
vacancies
when
Monday
business
at the
office
shall
raise
its
engagements

3

sitting
in the
peace
of the
house
I will
be
writing
the words
of their
first
meeting

4

their
first meeting
had
been fourteen years
before
by
their
records
which
they
questioned
for
some
reason
or other

5

to
be
or
not
to
be
that
is
the
question

6

for that
time
returns
when
vessels bound
for
foreign
lands
found
the territory
of
Wednesday
and the
things
of
next
year

Note: Each column is a reading of the U.S. Constitution and its Amendments, leaving out approximately 99.8% of the words.
Of course, many other such selections might be made – or, indeed, in some cases have been made.
Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged

The Redactions

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Les Wicks

2014 intercepted electronic communications, DOD…
aphorism identified as a threat to national security.

The aphorism envies the novel,
the novel, of course, envies the haiku
and the haiku envies the brief life of the leaf.
– Gen PJ Burke, U.S. Army War College
Authority is the kernel of riot
– Prof Emma Burg, LSE
War and Peace?
– Leo Bradley Tolstoy, Christian Agent in North Korea


1. The Department of Sand
Cpl Raymond Sands to Anthony Sands (brother)

With my surname, of course the bastards sent me to Iraq,
every leader leads to defeat this war
that “finished” years ago the green zone
glows in the dark we are the aliens.
The sky is falling… those habits of our hats
I have a life back home.
Failure is a sun.


2. The Department of Grease, MCB Camp Lejeune, NC
Pvt Peter Pitz to Terry McAnulty (high school auto teacher)

Thought the Marines were a real big deal— I’m not
some kind of hero. I fix cars. Always thought
you were an idiot. You said
every soul needs a plumber. I know
you can’t stay mad when you’re never hungry
but the walls expand to fit one’s waistline.
I’ve maybe had enough.


3. Naval Intelligence Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti
Lt Margaret Tannis to Cecilia Breen (wife)

Joy rationed is hungry. I have a job
because I have a language. You said
the light at the end of the tunnel is the way in, not out.
You said the future is always knocking down the front door of the present.
But there are oceans, not doors between us.
Tight focus on a loose shoreline, the bay will have its way.
But the way is away.


4. ICBM silo Great Falls, MT
Pvt 1st class Danny Thompson to Clarice Thurgood (girlfriend)

Your feet leave the ground when you dance
in the shit again, (embarrassment is the source of all bravado)
— fell asleep during a 12 hour shift (over there is your enemy)
and left the access gates open.
To see you again last weekend
to leave you again last weekend. Oxymoron: man kind.
About that fight, don’t worry about it
hate is too much like factory work.
I love you Clarice, we habitually pluck, tie weights to ankles —
yet are not birds.
I love you like walking
though those words are still plumage, this man’s music
the old avian strut about the concordat of hens.

You see, war (love) brings out the poet in me
for the poets are still wildly read
even here in this tedious purgatory.


5. Langley Air Force Base, VA
Col Jason Driggton to Emily Driggton (daughter)

Don’t trust the faith of those who failed to falter.
Your decision to leave university
(every single nothing matters)
worries me deeply,
your note Stop collecting. Now. Seems to be just nonsense.
I have been where you are.
Have we managed the past?
Where there is no certainty you have to pretend.
Love isn’t the answer, it was never meant to be.
Love
Dad


6. Greensboro Vet Center, AL
former Cpl David Alborsen suicide note

There is a sanctity in our best defeats
all my friends out there (Forget your education!)
that’s where you stayed so
get fucked. The story of your life will be that it ended.


7. Washington Navy Yard– Community Relations, DC
Senior Chief Petty Officer Rosa Trejos draft valedictory circulated to colleagues

25 years expertise is your enemy.
I have lied with a careless grace
for truths that barely matter.
Wisdom is a tribe that demands regular sacrifice.
I have forgotten how to look back.
Never judge a word by the company it keeps.

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

Riposte

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Pam Brown

Coming back to their neck of the woods,
a shout was as good as a wolf and a basket

as full as a boot full of tarnished medallions

and useless keys, pugnacious as costume

on a moonlit patio, swilling prosecco

in the face of a woofer meltdown,
the Pixies Doolittle undermining

their security and ripping through

their smokescreen, they linked arms

and tumbled headfirst into the black

ink of their future depositions, laughing

like whales at their idiotic prospects,
reminiscing over the glory days

of their addictions; some strange

archaic pleasures, white drawings

on the fragile weatherbeaten wall,

hessian curtains with macramé tassels,
vases with cracks sewn together

with lines from the Old Testament

making them crazy: the lord raised up judges,

which delivered them out of the hand

of those that spoiled them, and left

them stranded on the banks of their own

satisfaction. Really, their pleasures

were of the most fleeting kind, so
they faced up and said, ‘damned

if we do, damned if we don’t’,
and didn’t do anything to correct,

construct, console, constrain or

contribute to the future prosperity

of their grand project, though they

played out their ebullient narratives,
and folded up their origami verses,

took to the trombone and piano
with gusto, and uttered a rousing

chorus to all and sundry.
the next day, they were arrested

in their development towards spiritual

affirmation, a transparency attractive

in its embrace of optimism’s anodyne argot

though their youth lay dead as springtime

it was late in the hour of burning reason

and enlightenment overkill, thus panhandled

they stepped out of the limelight

and took up Pascal programming 

insisting it was neither an imperative 

nor blast from the past, always slinking
into their nesting

procedures to put everything

into structured subranged enumerated records

before they opened the business door
to uncultivated beauteous genius;

for, you see, they knew (or know)

their territory, their competition,

their enemies; experienced
in an exquisite tai chi

they quietly folded backwards
as some roaring ruddy raider
bellowed and screeched wild calumny

at their retro costumes festooned with flurries

of rapid eye movement, privately aghast

at their charismatic choreography

and lush sampling of his aggro compendium;

in their neck of the woods, a shout was as good as

a promise, a promise as good as a fistful of hemp,
a fistful of hemp as good as a hit

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

Royal baby has first play date

Posted on August 1, 2014 by A J Carruthers

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

When Did You Find Out

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Andrew Phillips
I don’t remember
it’s not like
a birds and the bees talk
it was a gradual kind of knowing,
sort of
(felt like I was carrying something)
It wouldn’t make sense to say
I think it’s something you slowly
wake up to
wake up to
wake up to
wake up to
wake up to
wake up to
wake up to
wake up to
It’s simple
[talk over]
maybe we’re past that now
this place is scraped knees
and bleed onto the pavement
placing history books into boxes
I didn’t care where they went, I mean
it’s a shame but we’re all good now right
we’re concrete, steel and ashphalt walking up
roller door driveways
a gradual kind of knowing, it’s like
finding out your family has hidden a pile of
bones
you could throw a rope
still, you couldn’t reel back the loss.
[count 2]
But I didn’t know what to…
—
awkward silence
—
What did you do?
choke on sadness, I didn’t
brew a pot, I didn’t
seem too bothered, I didn’t
say a prayer I didn’t
hear voices I didn’t
have anywhere to go I didn’t
and then the colour of the grass made sense
I think about it a lot
I don’t
think about it a lot
at migratory birds and
native birds and
native birds fight with
migratory birds and
soldier birds squawk while wagtails work
kookaakkaakakkakakaka
(silence)
how do you feel when you walk barefoot
I wonder where we’re going
is it we
is it us
I can only I
(increase in intensity and volume)
where are we going
where are we going
where are we going
[native title section, kind of talking over the
top of one another]
The Australian Government has acted to protect
the rights of all of its citizens, and in particular its
indigenous peoples, by
(3a) to rectify the consequences of past injustices
(3b) their prior rights and interests, and their rich
and diverse culture, fully entitle them to aspire.
a special right to negotiate its form, must be
provided to
rejected the doctrine that Australia was terra
nullius
Justice requires that
Justice requires that
Justice requires
Justice requires
Justice requires
on a granite rock
basalt
it’s simple
sharp to talk about
my son watched sorry
and said
‘that man sorry’
I move:
a new page in Australia’s history by
moving forward with confidence to the
future. the laws and policies of
successive parliaments
the removal of
We the parliament of Australia
respectfully request
this new page in history
this new page in history
we store history books in court houses
I stop at the lights
I watch a teenager
being spun in a shopping trolley
It’s complex it’s
I didn’t choke on sadness
I don’t think about it a lot
I wonder where we’re going?
I don’t remember when it was
or taught in school
probably doesn’t matter anyway, I just
suddenly felt like I was carrying something.
it was on a ‘Tuesday’
It wasn’t there before
maybe it was there before but
I hadn’t been listening.
hadn’t wanted to hear.
hadn’t wanted to see myself in that story.
It’s complex
[talk over]
Maybe I was too sure of myself
All straight edges and upright
I never knew I could dissolve like that.
then I felt like a stranger inside my own skin,
as if
I’d given up my body,
falling through time.
the landscapes
I recognized before,
blurred into a sort of ache.
It didn’t overtake me, I mean
You wouldn’t know anything was different
Perhaps the sun was hotter, and the wind
colder.
back as far as history,
still, you couldn’t reel back the loss.
[count 2]
But I didn’t know what to…
do with it.
—
awkward silence
—
I don’t remember. I know I didn’t:
ever cry, I don’t think, I didn’t
talk for days, I didn’t
plant a tree, I didn’t
feel sick straight away I didn’t
pack up and leave I didn’t
want to walk away.
and I couldn’t watch the story the clouds
played out in the sky (anymore).
I look at things differently
I don’t
Look at things differently
fallen feathers and
patterns of flight
fallen feathers and
patterns of flight
they are scavengers in the suburbs now
(silence)
through the forest?
I’m a ghost, but I don’t know whose.
is this the track we should be taking?
is it they
is it you
no we can us
(increase in intensity and volume)
where are we going
where are we going
where are we going
[native title section, kind of talking over the
top of one another]
(2b) held that native title is extinguished by valid
government acts that are inconsistent with the
continued existence of native title rights and
(3c) ensure that Aboriginal peoples and Torres
Strait Islanders receive the full recognition and
status within the Australian nation to which
history
Justice requires that, if acts that extinguish native
title
Justice requires that
The needs of the broader Australian community
require certainty
The needs of the broader Australian community
The needs of the broader Australian community
The needs
The needs
once I sat on a rock for days
on sandstone
metamorphic layers of meaning
It’s complex it’s
sharp to talk about
the wrongs of the past
profound grief, suffering and loss on
children, communities and their
country.
acknowledging the past
acknowledging the past
acknowledging the past
the moreton bay fig sends earthquake through
the pavement
there are tracks below this street
hosting footsteps to bunya festivals
it’s simple
a gradual kind of knowing,
I can’t watch the story the clouds play out in
the sky
Perhaps the sun is hotter, and the wind colder.
you could throw a rope back as far as history
still you couldn’t reel back the loss
Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

We Bury Not Burn

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Chloë Callistemon

Please allow a few (or quite a few) moments for this film to load. Vimeo buffers at varying rates depending on where you are on Earth and when accessed.

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untitled

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Lars Palm

home made vegan snickers
nails open caught napping
twice & the problem is?

brought anne carson & tim cresswell
back from london wasn’t harassed
in security the witch is dead as

they sat quietly writing in my backpack
but the curse lives no unaccompanied
adults or children turkish christmas

buffet in a joint run by kurds & besides
the point is on vacation in the vatican
he sacrifices his shoes for the green

light the moon settles on your left shoulder
a minute later he walks in the sunset barefoot
& smiling mind properly blown

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WILD TYPE

Posted on August 1, 2014 by David James Miller 
toward weather shifts
this ligature

flowers harden into radical act
eastern salve escorts to black

choice rinse tertial arrangement
in rebellion nominally

spills (dawn) across
to stoke, its very cloth figures

the hemisphere pulls close
the coast in declension








the bird who ekes it
out, school air, tonight
oar-thick, chiggers lost
through grid, the green
cools down, everything
visual can still happen, after 
Kathleen's bright papers 
start, pleat to peruse








macadam wholesale, durable
kiss, the moil helms

the dreamer, mammal-
urgent you for scallop

song, in all whittled
inflammation around

vegetal interview with
animals always taking the brunt
enough mineral fact, garden into
a season, the illustration

amasses lettuce, choir little
electrical smear over apple

harvest patient as hip
shot through with gold

alights particular declension:
disaster supports the body (Brian)

so sufficient difference is
succulent, spondee








the body its interstice   
a macadam                        
illness narrows light into root
sheds    
its particular tenet                   
a characteristic :               
recur                                    
contingencies in ink   








summer tuned machine
of photograph pursues sun

an array of thought into view
a copse

discontinuous branches of   efts
assist radiance sermon scraps

grid of light late the hymn
the rosaried weather
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Sonnet6

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Anne Gorrick

“I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry.”


When daddy slaps the water, baby laughs. Stocks split the gods from their stormdoors. Your necessary warnings, my beauty, are an occupiable space, a storage place about the body an hour before bed. The hero’s tongue is also a sunflower. Which drives like a Nyquil buckboard, a fractal beauty product, a Charles Bernstein poem called “Strike!”, a Bichon Frise. Knit. Sock. Love. “Under ciliated moon shake off floatings / Of soap; strike code on oxidised zinc.” My beauty is an MGTC. Questions evaporate off the pavement. Lines enfolded into lines cause social change. I could never be publicly intelligent for that long, your dailiness assemblage. When I hear “aesthetics” I reach for my body. My beauty isn’t a beauty thing. Affects happen in public. Jenner just puked up a leaf. Etruscan ethics, an eternity of ambiguous belief, light propagates in zones outside the body. Bunnies in the ethereum. Bride analyzer, an internal decor, dialectical behavior therapy. Can you see our dialogue boxes in the dark? If I leverage myself under the vinyl into the gondola with the mud/turf roof.

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Finally

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Barry Schwabsky

Finally, a pinkish glow crept in
The sky merited all the love it had received
That day, all the walking
Colors as they darkened and were lit

As down a cloudy highway we ambled
In direst harmony, evening’s next of kin
Under flocks of color learned
That blue is fatal, a note with slow vibrato

There is a city with no color in it
Just a long expanse of trees and hollows
When one has stayed in it, one knows
The paintings flow up to its edges

A gray horizon and glimmering
Molecules within it we glimpsed
All colors are all other colors
When bitten by the teeth of feeling

The day was an accumulation of fears
Caresses in the past cannot be changed
Now a girl flings out reddish laughter
An overage of yellow casts out eyes

Paintings welcome source and target
I caught the accent of her hair
But to make its document sallow music
All sentences must read like wine labels

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T.R.E.E. (Total Rare Earth Elements)

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Carol Watts

Written by: Carol Watts
Sound production by: Will Montgomery

[audio:http://cordite.org.au/audio/TREE-improvisation.mp3|titles=T.R.E.E. (Total Rare Earth Elements)]
T.R.E.E. (Total Rare Earth Elements) (8:59)


inoculate me

1

rare e  arth
rare       rth
r   air earth

It is a simple life under the sun all day without decent water to drink or to wash in / but I never had a sister / the nature of daily life and the coming on is not dramatic / what would a mother do / and yet you do not take it in / what is the occasion for / and rain coming on / I had no advantage in this timing / this timing / without pointing to it before / as much death as anyone could handle / its musculature / taking a skinful and it would not / take / our growing immunity is of the wrong kind / perhaps you did not take it in / she said /

2

washed up / I was washed up on this / shingle / what perfect information / where / but I see you / nothing is invented / in neural pathways / I am queasy and emotional / what is redundant about a way forward / without decent water to drink or to wash in / is it actively managed / he’s here / how do you know / what is on my plate / the cycle is almost complete / my father was too young / this is not happening exactly / us / you’ve been trained well / April / held together by / rare earth magnets / damaged a digestive tract / gradually I grow / darker / I can offer few examples / letters obtrude / there is no need to change / I have many sisters but no mother / what would she / think / it spread so fast / her scalp was alive with it / take it in / she said you do not take it / in /

3

small inhalings / would have protected for centuries / without surgical intervention / this daily life / inter / venes / the hawk adjusts / the marshes were rank close by / but there was clarity / it is too late for / me / words have talked their way / so superficial when / such violence / obtains / I think what is next / where do I / walk / what jetty extends / silence / no do I walk / this jetty / because something / will / follow / I / take it in to myself / this jetty is / on my tongue / is / my tongue / I hurried elsewhere yet / what was in my bones / repeated close to the skull / look look / a pale light / I was born into this / uh – o uh – o / I do regret not seeing you / while you knew / asking / what a move / I must learn to ‘take it in’ /

4

I’m scared to ask / if you are just going / to / interrupt / there goes angel! / and my jetty / runs out from the shore / sunshine / let me choose to live / and roar / in leaf spoil / sunshine wins / sound of crying birds / it took tremendous fortitude / to survive this / elimination bout / we leave tomorrow / and off it goes / coffee in the sun / I will walk the marsh / one more instance of / regret / without paragraphs / syllabic / procedures / and groups of other women / look look / I am / one / among bones / the world isn’t an equal place / it is a simple life / disappeared and working / at that time / what delivers disembarks / at last / pieced / where I am in rewarded / my tongue makes / gatekeepers / turn on their / confessions / causing / her death / look look /

5

spoken / flayed truth / burnt / eyeless / he said ‘it’s beyond me’ / ‘are you dumb’ / we watched it me and my wife / dealt with abuse / and made proposals / any reasonable / storm arriving / get the money / she was beaten in the streets / it was Beirut / her bag / on the peg / paying / wilful act I / would be observed / under nine hours’ time / I escalate / requiring Russia / I stockpile / clinical data / my heart is swollen / there is a problem of openness / what are my charges / all that to be decided / my walk along the jetty / is a frightening scenario / my child was sleeping / workers and guests / evacuated / unscathed / a hawk adjusts / over state television / over buildings and mudflats / over unemployment / black spots / of body weight / this footage / is a frightening scenario / my children do not / ‘know she has gone’ / colder for all of us /

6

clouds will build / now the real battle / still a mixture / of sinking caught on / tv last month / it comes back to attack / my heart / beats a black earth / so rare / it is so rare / to speak it / something fails / thickens / by caesarian section / sterilised / it is a kind of stealth / too many words / he says ‘will you pick me up’ / it was Thursday / unsanitary conditions / insane conditions / pertain / do you remember / your key / what might depart from here / how do I / depart from here / waggling tongues / are thickening meat / like hearts / long streams / she carries her child / there would be no others / her voice was indistinct / the recording carried by / mule / how her bones would / know it / in pelvic / reckoning / I / lay / me / down / in rare earth /

7

yes words sink / as shit does / without circulation / the place he wrote it in her book / I / rub / rubbed it out / we rubbed it out / while learning number / the shame of number / lay under the bridge / or / ‘I feel like a ghost’ / she said / get off the train / it went over the bridge / he was / preaching / hate / I was preaching / hate / the state / liked me / ‘he can’t get off’ / ‘it’s still moving’ / free speech mounted in larks / I will report you / get thee to caesarians / she smuggled her belly / over borders / yes the sun / came out / but caves were full of / snakes / low drone of Antonin / irked my femurs / clavicles rang / in the night / you might find / rest / comes up in a rash / or in / redistribution / how shrunk am I / by daybreak / if you are ‘one of them’ / in time / I come to know / extent /

8

he was blocking the way / she began / to / panic / age had come on / beforehand / that worm of memory / ate / out / holes / she could not recall / why she stood there / her eyes were taken / he pulverised / her good intentions / and here comes the plane / over the rocks / here comes the train / over the bridge / hide hide / among the clavicles / something was made and / eaten / the jetty was / too far off / it was Saturday / and stilled / there was no reply / I did not answer / this man / will be reported / behind me / he / was / drab / ethical talk / does it / oh / it is a simple life / under the sun all day / these / total / elements / I take them / in / where / where / to walk / without / water / I lay me / down / inoculate / me / do / you / find / immunity / in / rare / earth

A text score for vocal performance originally generated through pencil drawings of wood from a cold shore, the latter now an artist’s book.

Prompted by a phrase from Jackson Mac Low’s ‘It is a Simple Life’, and in collaboration with processed field recordings of tree creaks made by sound artist Will Montgomery.

T.R.E.E. is an ongoing collaborative process. It was exhibited as an artist’s book and audio work in the exhibition Time, the deer, is in the wood of Hallaig in 2013. The text has had numerous iterations, including an improvisatory performance at the Sounds New Festival in 2014 by Carol Watts and ‘neolithic soul drone collective’, Hand of Stabs.

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I’ve Been Living

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Barry Schwabsky

I’ve been living off my toaster
I’m a cold Italian poser
Could run for president
Or take a dive in the dark

These girls are still over me
Their mute abstraction of disco
A voice alive in a jar
At least until seconds ago

Tossed down on a peel
For the harried eye to slip on
That’s what I call drawing now
Hurried past, on a blinker

These maladapted muses, my women,
Their polite responses in tatters,
Either one of us might be number seven
On their hit parade of sweaters

To repose, their acquiescence
To even one of a number of vain requests
Turns to silk, kitten, the force of logic,
Perpetual pizza, a dim admittance,

Operation at most of a minute
A serried promise, mixed martini
To the end of the table, the meal
Somehow over, I didn’t see any food

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Buzzkill

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Thurston Moore

In the constant tramline motion of his trainers
He took the third and added a choice amendment
To their wish fulfilment; but don’t doubt he loved —

He did, big time and strong, the tall buildings wavering.
Sneaker rocker ripping holes in the velvet sky
Beards howl hoot spurt in any/all directions

Celebrate dystopia and delirious freefall!
Knock, come in, close curtain, breathe, slap
And tickle your way — his way — to joyous

Occasional relapse. We are all too fallible,
He noted, riding high on subway vapours, trapping
Phonemes from their speech bubbles, making

Debauched art in the depths of his positronic
Spectacle of sound and deathwish. Drag him
Out of bed, straddle him and know the mosaic

Is riddled with grace and temptation, take a leaf,
Take his better judgement, and heap praise on his
View Down Town — those ticket stubs of pleasure,

those cars stacked high as pheromones;
those lads with eyes on buttercream girls;
those idols with sonic points of reference;

those wizards who sense the coming collision;
those wisps that excite the heart, music spreading gold;
those clotted needles in trash cans searched out again;

Remixing the mess of his days, he checks out of the city
And makes itinerant on country roads, a crossroads
Judgement, a falling in with good ol’ boys
Who’ll take him down.

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In Newcastle, In Tokyo …

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Keri Glastonbury

Skye is a 2 bit whore:

“The Nomads Motorcycling Club are inviting local residents”
jumping castles on Chinchen Street filled with April fools.
Walking down the drain as a form of object oriented ontology (ooo)
eventually finding every piece of a child’s rubber jigsaw mat,
as the local kids obliviously, trick or treat their HQ.
When I need to flatter it I reference South King Street twenty years ago:
the pebblecrete poles of the East End speaking to an historicist melancholy
plastered all over Instagram. The soundtrack still Bob Hudson in the 70s,
‘eh geday’, or mythic 80s youth working at The Waratah Philadelphia
Cream Cheese Factory listening to ‘How Soon Is Now?’
These days you can catch a straight-edge punk food-blogging his morning eggs
Benedict or a container ship called ‘Fiction’ loaded with speculative realism.
The newspaper tells me that, in America,
nine little baby girls called Pistol were born last year.




pj harvey

c’mon billy. you said
something. (down
by the water.)
in chinatown, hungover.
so i draw a line.
baby, baby. (bad mouth.)
kamikaze. i want a pistol,
i want a gun.
parked in ultimo.
wait, what? brutalist.
up past fox studios,
that thai place. coogee.
new year’s eve
(on a rooftop in brooklyn)




one nation

misato is serving drinks & miyuki
is waiting tables & haru is at
her second job & kohei’s in the kitchen
but miki took the day off & miu hasn’t
been seen in weeks. clive is on a call &
chris rolled out early & mikey’s playing
hockey & haruki’s getting his knees
checked out. i’m in the basement,
mixin’ up the medicine. it’s all so political.
(so poetic. much artifice. the doge, like in
venice.) search & destroy, kids,
search & destroy. pauline was our palin,
a few years early. so aussie, so bondy,
karma considered as a credit card statement.




brisvegas misremembered

wish being et cetera to the excess
there’s no lack completely
lactose tolerant &
moderately middle-aged half
the wardrobe full of lycra
the rest is mostly uniqlo &
triathlons are best left to those who
can swim, lifeguards in a panic &
what a job description, what a lark,
collecting sisters & cousins until,
at the end of an eight hour
spreadsheet binge, you have to wonder
if frank saw it coming & decided to
simply embrace it, not that we need liquor




Caliope sits:

While Shok busks on Maitland Road, you feel better knowing he’s out there
doing it for all of us. The ghost of Leo Malley, shaking a fist like earthquake
damage to an awning. Tonight I’m watching the Chinese dating show
If You Are The One on SBS 2, and missing Fu Manchu.
Sympathy for Sydney’s poor cousin: the rough & tumblr
of a Lucas Grogan tea-towel and outside the gallery Brett Whitely
has laid a mothra of an egg. The aesthetic is a form of white primitivism
— who knew when I read those sonnets in the library, that I’d later be writing
them in situ, from an office in a world-class ‘gumtree’ University.
While you, the anti-Don Draper of Tokyo, can’t even enjoy a blade of grass
without a whisky handy. It must be Suntory Time, or bedtime (for democracy,
if not the kids). Oh public transport envy! But here the beaches
are over-exposed and under-developed, the surfers are analogue
and I still call all the pelicans at the Cowrie Hole, Mr Percival.




chinese signal

a baby designs a shovel & so he digs, courtesy
japan agriculture, as the climate of shame
elicits amnesia constantly, like yeats.
modernism read backwards is a prelude
to the victorians, & should we go to
the night markets again there’s more than
one hand she’d like to be holding, as if
the beach wasn’t a series of problems,
liminal, fluid, not set in stone & barely
a requirement, operators transcribing the
latest chinese signal, & to elicit a
dependency is a fine thing, among tokens
of her regard. she said / he said. they were
in the shower when the earth quaked




evidently absent

after you finish the re-org, that is, after you
write a last sonnet, that is, after the kids have
grown up, that is, once we’ve had enough of
each other & agreed it’s best to part, that is,
once you can read the newspaper & fill in
all the necessary forms, that is, after you’re
tired of waiting & hopelessness, that is,
if you feel hopeless on occasions, well, why
not, you’re not an idiot, that is, before
the minute hand sweeps around to begin the next
cycle, but just as it announces the current
cycle’s end, that is, after the regrets &
bitterness have aged to a sheen, that is, then,
& only then, capriciousness permitting.




religious

as the buddha said,
we’re all out of our fucking minds!
& later, relaxed into groundlessness,
returned again & again,
to the breath, to a slightest motion,
pissing everything against a wall.
& wrapped quietly, giggling,
as the buddha said, relaxed,
into groundlessness, again & again,
returned, pissing everything
out of our fucking minds!
& later, the breath,
a slightest motion.
a wall, as the buddha said.




Paleo:

The Hamilton Station Hotel with its neon on the blink versus the Hoshino
resort’s endamame on high, perched above the clouds.
Walking with my mother out the breakwater, as she casts her life’s segue
into and out of the human genome. There’s a Misao Okawa in us all,
drinking hot chocolates the way our ancestors made them.
You know we once shared a stage with Jen Cloher, who last year toured
to Tennant Creek. I remember speeding down the Sturt Hwy in a hotted up
red hire car singing ‘Lady Marmalade’, and nearly hitting a brumby.
Now, I’m hardly living in Detroit though a local shop sells pannikins
and Mason jars, the post-industrial as an in situ conceit.
There are small advances, like how I can now walk into a hospital ward
without fainting, read historical fiction, sleep in the same bed as someone.
I finished Burial Rites yesterday and finally switched the car radio
to ABC Classic FM, surprised the breakfast announcer ums.




again

discounting the eschatology of fail in
the eating & drinking corner (toranomon,
toranomon), your number, waiting for it
to be called, popular song continues
without you, everyone you ever wanted is
here to assist, insufferable diplomas
arranged on the wall & when the doctor
anaesthetises your inner ears you flail &
fall as horny as a teenager but what
you normalise returns & fades on the
ginza line, desire ranged along carriages,
& some time after, back in shimbashi,
a small tremor, two boys look out the window,
watch the signs swing above the ginza lion




unwanted, unwashed

japanese brides drink red wine in the rose
garden as hiro mimes concern, milking
his suave baby’s aplomb. i was
dreaming when i wrote this &
you’re going to the beach all day. shame
about the rain, about the platitudes.
umbrella town. café under the keikyu line,
11:38 am, it is saturday, june 11 in the
year of earthquake fever. you know how
we smell after sex? you wanna smell like
that now? i mean, in a little while? there’s
work to be done first. unwanted,
unwashed. you get used to the weird.
someone starts up their limousine.




switcheroo

the first time with a broken arm is
hardly duchampian, although
the circumstances approach
& you can, after a fashion,
make art from it, appearing heartless
or detached at best.

afterwards, the psychodrama returns,
amplified & obtuse in a third language.

what you miss most, if you stop to think,
is the thrill of quotation, life as
a series of in-jokes.

so to irony, yeah? you’re travolta &
you’re nic cage, the doves wheel
& teeter, heading skywards.




Coal and Cedar:

There’s a middle-aged woman painting abstract expressionism in Maryville
and a valley full of Rothko in the fluro vest economy, reminds me
of my OCD Down’s brother’s un-necessary wardrobe (a cos-play council
worker). Driving past the Diocese there’s the besser block housie hall,
the tribunal tucked around the corner (annulling). There’s always a local
Weegee with his point and click: the actual being virtualised and the virtual
actualised. I’m too lazy with a camera but sometimes I do notice a detail
that proves I’m not a replicant: the milk bottle shaped glass in the Deco Dairy
Farmer’s Building (now selling cars). Once, out on a boat on the harbour,
I caught an eel that nearly cut off its own blood supply wrapping itself around
the line (a bit like these poems). As the white whale, Mingaloo (with hardly a
barnacle on him), snuck past. Some of the old fellah surfers have eyes as blue
as the ocean, but you know it’s bogus, like un-signposted speakeasy bars
the public secret is still knowing what not to know.




saturday

it returned plucking flowers in the field
on the stroll road. (we were out of it,
your majesty, but you wouldn’t be
bloody dead for quids.) i went to newcastle
once, he said, inaccurately. now & forever,
up from betty bay, or sitting on the steps in
coogee, smoking furiously. it returned,
plucking flowers. life’s a shambles,
a friggin’ shambles. watching pokemons
watching pokemons fight with pokemons.
sometimes on TV. sunday, monday, off
on tuesday. in the field. behind on payments.
shambling on the stroll road. protocol?
protocol. tomorrow isn’t saturday.




superdemander

less an age than a phase, more transient,
earlier versions too frail to fail so here we are
& here we go again, waiting for a seat in
the smoking section to clock hourly updates,
temperature data in real time via sms
as if, once recorded on a spreadsheet,
the domain can be flattened & constrained,
retiring the risk of mistaking the model for the
system. last year was teal & this year is lilac
& next year you might conceivably finish, but
first, the official television of FC Barcelona &
so on, it’s hard to ignore the superdemander,
not that we’re more strung out than usual,
not that we’re actively thinking to ignore




russians

you have to get drunk to read
in translation, whitman via o’hara
via mayakovsky via the keikyu line,
usually you catch the 7:43 & transfer
at shinagawa. the kids are asleep
& europe is a hot mess while america is
only a mystery & later we can run
around the palace & debate ethics until
the cows come home, lowing quietly
as the skyline shifts & shimmies.
a tractor in otemachi would be a fine thing.
the best poetics are completely mad,
she said, just totally barking, otherwise
all you have are performance reviews.

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

Sherri Cise

Posted on August 1, 2014 by J. Gordon Faylor

        Sunday, Monday. Summer, 2014.
        I loved eating fruit/veggie in the same/similar family. I was 25; it was 2013. I felt exhausted, unused—very nearly autoecious to the old gang. They would get it too, eventually, I suspected.
        An ongoing pain/burning sensation I described on my left ankle to them continued to tingle, though by mid-afternoon somewhat reduced—after which the pain/burning increased by dodges in former, procedurally locational sections of the leg.
        Lebiuy drove quickly. She closed in on the wrong restaurant, EBSCO CAM, ate. She fetched the tab. They got a bomb. Sjogren said they left. Passed away.
         ‘Don’t plant it. I wouldn’t worry about it.’
        Sherri was importable. I was very irritated for months, and if not, portending as much. And for what—for a Rid Ucoaz, for a hydrostatic pressure of blood (blood pressure)? Sure, 62 pp. remained in her clutch. It was Monday. The list colour evenings spleened, surfacing that was a cool setting in of incelebrity recurrence, remaindered saturations feeding the soil, a long week ahead collected in accusations, curr, scalding linings to the inferior labial frenulum—like plotting a confervoid treatment group?
        Landless bags each adult, appreciably prim. The log iodinate.
        Allen and Lebiuy worked hard. Festering hard. They got it after taking steroids or antibiotics, staying aerobic and weekend-bound or by barely being able to keep up with another 95 inhabiting the bunion Title. Dulcification. That bothered me. Snitches, meanwhile, felt comfortable and satisfied.
         ‘Conte et al., loosen your collar. Relax a little.’
         ‘Keep still, please. Katherine.’
        They slung on their boots grey, torrey peak. They overtook by reconnaissance and incidental storage these matters. I was exhausted for the second time that day, drained by police interrogation. So they could tell the ankle. They saw it. And they don’t just jurisdictionally apply you to a first-class location like Tampa, FL, I’m afraid.
        The searing. Oxygen cylinders clanked down the hall. A returned offer to impress or else I autotoxify the rest. To evade them, I had these spikes on forever and baboe them to the max. After 50 years experience of maybe GERD I’ve only had as much. It was late—after May.

        Never wear yourself out.
        Take Cialis once a day working.
        Take 21 hours off a day.

        Chapter 2. During $44.00 a point at least for six months, two different shower gels rewarded each quarter, alternating day-to-day. Signed.
         ‘The hotel. It’s actually a great apperception, that, refusing to explain further. Where did you learn?’
         ‘I only practice.’
        We were obtaining the world really badly; I’m not sure if that’s what’s giving. I feel dumb to life anymore at this point, basically. I’m in denial, Glynn. I have trouble talking, too. They are the majority of individuals no histamine or sulfite feeling upbraids.
         ‘What, was it something you ate?’
         ‘A barrel of pickled onions.’
         ‘On such basis as a life-changer.’
        Genomic premonition clicked into place. I struggled politely to leave notandum.
        Sunday.
         ‘Anyway, hi to all, and bless Glynn. She’s a signature example. She writes her name the same way every day.’
         ‘She fled the scene.’
         ‘Easy. He’s been drinking.’
        They sat him down for a while and left; oxide clung to my legs. What a mission. The wrong restaurant. Thick suede.
         ‘That said, signidcam, your neck and back, thigh muscles appear equally tense,’ Lebiuy warned, g his teeth, ‘then when the barometer moves I flare up big time and there’s nothing. An essential reading reccomendation, something to deal with otherwise. Chances are you are already eating vegetables and liking them.’

        Henceforth, a successful application of propranolol amex fit the bill—and to have been on a beautiful cruise. I took Ambien for 3 days at eight per. I reached at my gut a lot. I didn’t shit at all. A mere fungus living off sugar enzymes—and good luck with the Cise. I now use capsaicin (cut open a hot pepper and rub on my wrist for carpal tunnel). Katherine hears and obtains its reticular yowl; oral lichen planus, taste peption. Her expression harbored a constant frown. The toilet flushed before she sat on it—a final note.
        How right they were. And how bluudy wrong I was.
        I hear them going at it 24/7. Exercises by the gatheringly dilated benefit of this apparently flexible therapy, so I liked it—partially repetitive activities impeding HydroPeptic pacing from which one prepaid tucker of the lips and any other excluded further work programs or vapid inclinations therein denied: etiological factors, clinical aspects, an appraisal measured by their availability, concerned screeches saying twice that much.
        I chew gum, or continue to. I suck on ice cubes. I take antacids.
        The burn is hull killers too, as they tabbed greater than the fuselage or will against its p hard landing.
        I paced around angry and depleted. My right arm hurt. The sun, faded against the clouds, was halfway across the sky. More timestamping and occlusal analysis. Panting. I thought only Glynn tailored old people and succumbed to these exacting burn deformities by default, or at least the latter. O detached.

        ‘I’m Allen.’
        I’m 25. I’m 29. I developed burning mouth syndrome when I was 15. It wasn’t because of Xoom clothes, forthrightness and uniqueness, chore or solvent.
         ‘Are you trying to scare us,’ I pleaded, sobbing.
        Impediment to this painful program the shrill crack of the benzos, beerdom wool depression and a completed index of symptoms. Dynamics in light of the local cops people interviewed—or was I only taking Abreva at the time? It was 2010. I was a major player in the scene, held out as web fora local hero.
        In accidental fits of historicisation, inertia, bloviated ancestry, and here because a very small portion of the population comprises this work of Cordite and other toll-like receptors selling me vitamins—approximately 95 still various entities and personages—illusorily conducted, themselves unproductive and unapologetically circuitous, a nervous, non-surgical therapy for dental implants and co-composting. Just the touch. Your knee or leg surgeon who values you more will select one of the following options: the wearing of lighter clothing, being aware of various orally-induced treatments, flax oil, novel introductions of Ritalin, a wide toe box, injections of corticosteroid.
         ‘I don’t overlook these symptoms to give them comparable field.’
         ‘You have five minutes.’
         ‘Their job explained in finally needing more help around the shop.’
        I smiled, unsure of what to say. I went, ‘Can I help?’ ‘What can I get you?’
         ‘A greasy salad and wheat bread,’ I said. ‘Now.’
         ‘I used to eat Velveeta shells but can’t face them since the accident.’
        Padding or gums are a wet blanket. They couldn’t outwit us since the implant, though they’d occasionally get up highly sensitive people.
        Docs always shrugged it off. Xoom clothes had nothing to do with it. I love Xoom clothes.
        Tell me the point of starch levels acting up. I now eat only King Edwards or similar. If I stick to the King Edward types my mouth is fine by. Entity dedicace.

        She complained she had numbness in the lips.
        I’ve been swabbed for yeast like five times, with nothing really happening, if ever. Nerves were damaged in the mouth, but how specific are they? So the spot on my arm will twitch three times in the hour, as opposed to once.
        A spittoon clanged behind them. Bootcut crotch seam bungled off equalling.
        My nerves go—they’re misfiring—they’re looking to Allen it feels like. I laughed. A neuro looked inside my mouth, detection as a practice familiar to the doctor in that failed moment. (A sidenote: I chew Spry gum. Deadly to dogs?)
        Thank you, that will be deleted.
        I remain a 39-year-old Vanilla Mint, and according to the doctor, a beat copy—a very healthy Sherri. All of my blood work is outstanding. It appears I am not deficient in vegetable/fruit.
        50/50 mouth medical content.
        2 factors, firstly hormones, and then a stuffy nose, which returns like a circle.
        1000IU Vitamin D reduces burning for a little while.
        2000IU Vitamin D reduced burning for maybe a few hours.
        6000IU Vitamin D (3 x 2000 spread out) relieved burning and also lower leg pain.
        9000IU relieved symptoms but mild heat discomfort.
         ‘Accepted,’ I gulped. The Rid Ucoaz took effect.
        Touchous affray duration snare flat by 4 to 6 surrounding cycle weeks germinacy. As either perennial or multidisciplinary research. My heart reached 70 far of 90% to be useful enough to keep me going. I gave up. I’m about 30% better mic’d up. The performance went spinal, or what I’m waiting to hear back about now—shoulders, chest sublorality, achieved by a foundational and self-confessed meeting of lipid groups at each week’s end, repetition, every level periodic form bulls act out in air injury, slowdown tab weary heads. Sherri peered up from her book.
        An audience went great. Abhorring one another’s programs, affluence exercise and walking in on them obviously forestalled a commentless ability, indirect food additive. I myself am often male. I’m not wealthy or bougie by any stretch, but it makes me feel better in a cool piece of furniture, brain crimped, sipping on cucumber.
         ‘Aptitude,’ I asked my friend Glynn. They are revising constantly, bothering the evidence—a realistic comportment of her distinct zygomaticofrontalia of Skyre, smattered, nudging the bar lower. She winced. They shoveled in.

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