flying
Flying
It is
the case and that is everything knocked by illusion
take it
all inside interpreting breeze correctly and subject
to wind or
words am fleeing blasts and a little arthritis nothing
to cause
concern he and he alone is the case everything
unless it’s
been got up wrong
gust-whipped making wing over a carpenter’s shop
look down as
a gull would hunting do you see
one might be
blind and still see that
although perhaps
we do not
share language beyond the sibilance
The wind
Sawdust,
saying (versus showing) scapegoat
scepticism schematic cube schlemihl
search seas
of language reality
is comparative
secrecy seeds seeing
self sensation
sensations sense
sense-data series
shadow twins
wetly
together
signs versus
symbols
over the discard
of our making
following
our senses
growing
our state
subjective uncertainty
our substance
supernatural
our symptoms
are synthetic talking to oneself vivacity free-willed action
walking
desiring wordless thought swept up
does not
change without cease is a
riddle solved
say
scaffolding say disbelief say schema say science
hierarchies
are and must be independent of
reality abstract similarity
abstract
zero-method co-ordinate critique of
language
limit
tautology deal with
survival concatenate oneself
costless
eternity grammar of the fairy tale
when I am
asleep I am flying when I am standing
I am walking
on air I am always flying I never come down
fingers
transform into a walk aloft I observe
the world all time
all ways my head turns
The wind
He seems much
larger than surrounding land and furniture
all
head a head grown out of clumps of
trees indistinct bushes
long-extended
branches swaying a tangle
underneath no way in
crows
peering black clouds clouds at his head black clouds
a ludicrous
man on a rearing horse just visible
in the
valley a tall slim woman carrying
fruit on her head
and
others from some architectural illustrations go after their business
casting
long shadows
From between
the many branches
black
reflective lenses shine, watched by crows
Round his
head a containing harness possibly torturing
The top of
his head’s a quiff of polluted air and carrion birds
His failures
are tear off strips
He looks
ahead seeing no thing.
A paddle of
levers spins at his skull’s back
he moves in
the opposite direction to everyone else
Some one is
sleeping on the floor on fine linen
They’re
heaped upon themselves a crumpled blanket.
Their
clothes bulk them hiding their body shape except for the head
The head is
bare
The head is
visible
The chair
looks at the head
It is a
plain wooden kitchen chair a little
damaged
It could do
with some attention
but it’s
comfortable and safe and it
wants to destroy the head
The head is
asleep The chair
waits
The blade
has fallen almost all the way
Behind and
around high glass
buildings
Light
bounces within the square The
scaffold
though
well-lit seems dark
In anticipation the head breaks into an open
landscape
valleys
water courses
crevices
a tree
amphibians
mammals
things without backbones
things which hate light
grasses
flowers
worms
The head shatters into a smile
The head
lets in water and drowns in rising sea
The head
flees from that which it senses to be approaching
The head
hears the blade and seeks to transform itself
The head is
transmogrified to grey scale
to itself
an empty
basket
a platter
after the meal
It has
nobody
It is nobody’s
The head
thinks
deep in
fizzing ocean clumsiness abandons
that which
was a hindrance is now style
fall apart
co-ordinating the separations
each of many
limbs finds its route away from collective impact
spirals of
spiralling
timber by
timber
a souterrain
collapses
soil spills
in
and pebbles
and bricks till finally
even the
decorative capstone accedes unevenly to gravity
I am on the
television says a voice
I am on the
stove says that voice
Where am I?
says the voice
Either
way I’m cooked the well-known voice is saying
an outgrowth
of something else
whity scum
in the dark pan
turning the
heat up comes into real
existence an enormous bubble
God’s a
monkey and the monkey’s an old man
has many
arms most of them broken
sitting in a
broken chair pointing at the world
and trying
to direct it
washed
up sopping and dried out
One side of
him’s hardly finished the other side’s
wrecked.
His cock or
a cigar in his hand
The only one
within sight
Something
rather large but still wormlike has
come to be beneath us
That is to
say within or else inside the round thing we depend from
A street
light shakes
A
transmitted image
shudders but
being digital pixilates a low overhead cable
bisecting
it vibrating the walls of the house creak
and the
worm doing obeisance to some
other thing leers
a greyness
flutters
an’ it
stretches extremely high into
a roof like a capsized boat
hands
clasped pushing beyond what can be known from here
too many
legs dance
flabby and
rapid the same fixed smile
on every shared face
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