kleaver

How can a naked man run past curfew the streets without living?

Tag: experiment

IV. Dartmoor

THE DIRECTOR

mass of tubes and dribble – saw Blood as Claudius did in the immortal battlefield, red nausea on a shiny platinum plate against ripped backdrop of sky. Scent has faded into a background nuzzle of sweat and urine – sweetly organic, too close to life (to seal lips or whistle for the abhorrent intestinal custard). Scent needs no sugar. Scent takes sugar for the pleasure of deprivation. Scent is the chemical agent, Scent has knives crossed at its back and at its calves and garters. Scent has garrotte wire in its lank masses and resistor-shaped latches in the clockwork telephone, Scent has green exploding cords in the orange and glass spittle in the wine. Scent is causa sui, and Scent has its own ideal form in Plato’s cave of cotton-stuffed tortoises and dartboard slander. Heart has faded into a high-pitched whine, it objects to being starved or scuffled, and Scent is a hard master.

THE RUNNER

“I have Scented, i swear!”
Der Mann wrings his heads and leaves animal trails on his velvet suit – but the duck either fails to hear, or fails to comprehend. “Sir”, says the duck,”the judge has spoken, it must be that you walk the pond, and now too!” he completes the sentence only with a slight turning away at the end, fingering his breeches coarsely. Der Mann looks to the left, where a crowd has gathered across the pond to him. he briefly acknowledges that to pass them would be inevitable, and to step on the tip of their tapered shoes he would consider a small victory. Der Mann leans down with a creak of his brittle spine, tidying loose laces in an efficient double cross knot. he then realises that his supply of inconsequential actions had run out – he could not delay his fate. with a sense of resignation, Der Mann tightens his coat around himself sets upon a perilous journey : The Nobbled Circumference Of The Pond. His quiet and forced abandoning of thought is interrupted by a loud declamation, “I am watching!” crows the duck, rocking himself front and back gleefully, on the stiletto tips of his webbed feet. his crass clapping emerges as a cloud feathers. Der Mann looks back and, meeting with a vision of such terrifying joy, scarpers and begins to run in a protracted scuffle. it had never occurred to him that it was possible to run. run and not walk around the pond – but here he was, galloping long and spritely across its edges. it then chanced upon Der Mann that, once started, it would be difficult for him to stop running, and then he would have to resort to the trouble of running two rounds around the pond. but why two? why not three? or four? why even stop at all? why not run his life across the pond?

THE CASHIER

One evening, five years later, a young washing-maid walks arm-in-arm with her blithe darling across the meadows and into the woods. the light is dim when they chance upon a pond a little way from the dirt path. the washing-maid lets out a sigh at the sight of the pond, for she remembers the place well, and had witnessed in person the famed Ducker-ponding of Chancellor Augsworth. she had been younger in years then. the humiliating end of men had been considered apt sunday rejuvenation for her – by her parents. “i remember this place”! she exclaims, making quite a journalist of her companion. “the poor man, he never really was right in the head. went running off around the pond, nothing would make him stop, and he never did look forward to it anyway.” she shoves her sheathed toe lackadaisically at a conspiracy of pebbles by the pond, then delineates with laborious effort,”look, here’s where his laces scuffed the dirt.” her tirade is punctuated by a sigh, more theatrical than engaging. “it was the shame that killed him, mother always said. something fishy when a respectable man like that refuses to take dinner. and for what – a midnight jog?”

 

[word experiment – ‘Scent’ played with in and out of context]

дело-57

beware the butter
beware the knife
beware oleaginous praise cozened by deprecation
beware your soul ; your soul is unclean
your soul longs to squat in dirt and grime
and your soul will destroy all puritan smut
beware the excuse ; beware your excuses
beware your own fear ; do not fall wary of it
you have came and you have gone
you may have failed to conquer

but beware the desperate hunger in your womb
hysteria will drive you ; do not humour your tragedy
i have seen it ; i can lay claim
to the bathos that quakes your bones through your souls
and aches with rheumatism within your joints
beware the moist of underground palaces
and the noble slickness that wreaths your labyrinths
you are not noble; your soul is ignoble
your tragedy will ignite, and i have heard

the choking agony of agents and heroics and mountain-king
your affliction tightens your shackles
your sobs will water your thorns
there has been no freedom in the parabola of history
and freedom will not trespass on your soul
rule your bubonic epoch
take your newspaper-coffees coming bitter
destroy the breakfast lymphs but
never destroy
the butter

I. acephalous portraits

ONE  Her smile was the same pasty quality that badly baked cupcakes possessed, and one was bound to choke on the excess of flour that crusted her sugary intestines. Of her eyelids: pathos found a home, the same way mascara didn’t. An admirably indispensable habit was made being looked through in the event of any coquettish seduction. As a result, her view of the world comprised entirely of fragmented shards of light squirrelled from between heavy and clotted eyebrow foliage. This epidermis was far from accurate, and the numerous bruises she gleaned on a daily basis (nightclub: rapist) originated from those unfortunate times when pillars coincided neatly with stray lashes. Against such icebergs she was about as adroit and intelligent as the Titanic. This large and jingling visage was carved out of the cheapest sponge-stone; cheeks, lips, brows and bust: pumice without the weight to sink in the thinnest water.

 

TWO  She is always mildly incredulous – a tug on her soft, full abdomen triggered a downpour of recitations, empty stories and bad sex. Life was something to be tripped over; went through and devoured in a series of unfortunate accidents; the two left feet must be forcibly embraced and great care must be taken in spitting first on oneself and then the ground. She belonged to  class of people most at home wielding metal rulers, with all the edge and corner to attack a soft and unprotected cornea- preferably one’s own. Says she: “Lick the toes before the fingers.” – one cannot be sicker, or softer, or hairier if one does not dilate a beat late to the rhythm of life. One must be slow. One must condition rigidness into mind if not by nature, and one must love the society that reflects the same dull laughter upon it.

 
INTERROGATION OF ONE OF ABOVE
What position do you often sleep in? foetal.
Whats your least favourite word?  I don’t know.
What do you think ‘acephalous’ means? ridiculous.
Liquid soap or solid soap? liquid.
Do you like wearing hats? i don’t own any hats.
Digital or analog clocks? analog.
What is the last question you would ask yourself? what am i doing here.