Friday, 18 February 2005

who we are

Rumours are appearing like bruises! Hide your thighs! We should get to know each other better if we are to continue.

To continue, recent discussions as to my consciousness have been greatly exaggerated. Those unsubstantiated rumours that I am not alive are indeed unsubstantiated. I may have been residing in a grave of sorts but none, and none again, has mentioned dead to me. The next-of-kin know nothing of it, and they would be sure to tell me. They have a vested interest.


So. Let us begin.
I am your barrier to learning.

Despite keyboard’s current balletic rhythms, I have not written well for a week. If you actually knew me you would realise the bathos of recent posts is exponentially linked to antibiotics and the numbing of white tablets, numbered in biro on the pack. I draw the numbers myself, in careful BIC curls, so that I don’t forget to swallow at the appointed hour.

Focus upon the nightmare of receivership, I dare you. Which of these applied sentences is/are real? I don’t believe in inverted commas, but I am willing to place faith in the forward stroke and the italicised.

Focus upon relationship, the shaping of attachment. Where does the bond need to be denied? Grasp the link you feel with me, the leash of my words and feel its coarse intent with your palms. I am the midpoint, the coloured flag halfway down the tug-of-war rope, hungry for a marker, I am hungry for a marker. You turn away, always away.

Focus upon age. The fireworks of time. Do you long for a reproach, a shattering of juvenility, the rising of a voice above winds, the gulping of sound down into throat as challenge approaches? We think not, but we is invariably wrong.

Focus upon aphorism? Ridiculous. The hate you receive from me is fuel for love.

Focus upon journeys. I feel that you wish to walk with me. A camera for the long trail, between parallels, across bridges, postcards of industry and commerce, a new city centre. You decide upon me as guide, a taxi out of the town centre, a cigarette-lit walk into it. You find the train station immediately with me by your side. The rest is committed to memory, condensed literary categorisations, filed away, ready to plagiarise.

Focus upon focus. Do you look for an emotional resonance? The drift of a knowledgeable hand? Connection to the diary ethics of society’s hopelessly unaffected neutral? An unsuccessful dialogue, without doubt.


These are mainly questions. Talk of role is redundant, like talk of the morning in the afternoon. We are remote from our creations. I refuse to die, but I shall not hear acknowledgement of my existence either. Content deals in recognised forms, not actual content. Process is the passage, is the reason and the antidote.

My, how dark it has become in here all of a sudden. We are bored.

If you must know, I think you look for a timetable, or for a pretty girl to hold hands with.

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