5 parting songsLawrence UptonJog jagged structure sustains fall vehement tic spoil cleaving to squishy essential stuffed apple and a whiff of beer sugar trickle slides down candles and Hawaiian music one plate after another and glasses breaking blurred vision, dear heart, how like you this? hobnobs contiguity with travail, bogus delectation despicable activity Jumpy His gait won't open. Walks pigeon-toed over unlit concourses, hillside interior, spinning globe, wreckage of emporia. Nothing inside. Remains. Materialisations exhaust. He is incensed, he thinks, he smells burning, mistrustful. Season of mellow doubt, upwhelling. Has withered incomparable forms! and is craven; versions of musk out-sewered - his gasp is not contentment - while he detaches himself from alarms, unjustifiably footloose, his present foreparts whitish in his own organs of sight, while the strong wind blows, to his hearing, clank of desirous longing, cash, the attaché submitting, languorous, ague a counterpoise, "Let me relieve you", secures a mellifluous flow and smears - his kisser senses himself ungodly, upriver of fright; begins to oscillate - desire forms a musty fusion he feels his travail luxuriance has become animated. He flickers. Tracking the sound he makes. Jumpy. Kicks Art kick.1 start.2 it's all nonsense, you know, he said.3 Alice moved her pawn though she really had little idea what it meant to do so. She waited to be told she had made a mistake; but, instead, Morgana seemed greatly troubled. Meanwhile, outside, the silly man was pacing up and down. Alice determined to go up to him and say "You're a wanker" as she left although, she told herself, she was less than clear what those words meant. Morgana moved listlessly. Her eye twitched but her limbs were languorous. An image of the board became uncertain and then dissolved. It was Alice's image, not her competitor's. "Checkmate," said Morgana. Mannequins clapped. "You're not following the rules at all," shouted the poor child. "It isn't fair!" It had all been a fiction but she was not a narrator even if she had imagined the witch; and the silly man still wanted his photographs. Look at the way he looks at me, thought Alice. 1i.e. the child was kicking the table the way that children do, says the witch 2i.e. the witch gave her consent for the process to commence; she seemed to be in charge; the child was, after all, only a child, no matter how famous she might think herself and whatever the wittering childish man in the street might say 3just who he is, or was, is not vouchsafed to us Punish me claws curve out of a concentration heap, augmented raving, tough and shaky, on the insides of a charged ball of holes; intrinsic construction it is singular, consummation a pounding interest sense, on soft by-ways, disjuncts from dismay, capitulation unruly, giddily leading gadgets of recognition, hearing epidemic impacts of mercurial images, permissible fragility the inferior gives way, wintry contrivance uttered as questioning what's executed lolls -- get driving -- purely unreal -- no devil scents him hereafter in this lifeless substance -- he cannot proffer credit Worlds torn up. Let the book write you. Like Saint Paul on roads to fame, a world spirit interpenetrating deepened leaves, my roots reading into wet warm soil. I conceive us. Drunk. Spunky. Quick as a ship's cat and as cautious. Drool round a turning fire. Full of fat. I listen and we both are waves. I give it all back. Stroke me; stroke my brain. I say only a half of it and that disordered. Such is the way the land's been rent into large particles and parcelled, uncovered in the act of killing, disgraced corpse disguised that no one sees. Copyright © Lawrence Upton
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