to understand what things meant would be tragic. A failure
of nervousness. I can't gesticulate enough. Ape me you. Thus I.
Disastrous. A bolt. About this time the green and blue music
entered on harrying tip toe to a grandstand cacophony
as if a nation had been slaughtered. Reality kept on: we
couldn't fix that, but there were pressing intrusions. I want you: you
want. He wants, she wants, they want. Everyone wants. There is a heaviness blacks the land. What is it with you? It's...Christ it's getting hot. Plant something. Are they caming? Will they be caming? What's that? Who's this? And so on as a thousand vermilion vermin settled in. Ours of course to laud and chuckle over as the chairs rock unattended and vacant of personas. The wind, apropos of nowt, whips the air and all become involved in the drama with the chilling fingers and maybe the Laocoon. The death that young men yearn for. They keep wandering. A hundred thousand died last week and things are everywhere. And they flash or wink in a violent opposition of clangs, bangs, and clashes of shatter-light. All this and more: and still more, setting store and we are thus bereft to consider the clammy cells and the days of April: the days of yore when petrol pingle pangled out of Big Tree Cans until you fucked with various heads, fucker.

But all this is much more than it is. In fact it is much more than more than what it is. Much much more you whore. All this being more: I being you and you seeking me and us as we seek you and indeed ever shall into endless edges. The great sea turns white. And why shouldn't it? Nothing is. And yet the Thing playing about his frontage had sleight. Some sort of lusty legerdemain. Les Main Sales. They are. It all started with: "You dirty boy." The house leaked like a palindrome; but never completely as if a savage and incomprehensible music (nationality or race unknown or irrelevant) was and did deep-guide her quick hand, and the subject of gluttony shifted, till one, flicking back a strand of hair, scraped back her chair and vanished by virtue of defaulted surprise. We linguists. I, by the way, am that to be and verify.

Richard Taylor