Katie Allen: Reason the lake-pit

Reason the lake-pit

.

Never.

Never.

Never, alas.

Never work – alas.

Never work. Alas – gilt gems.

Never work – alas, be hung with gilt gems.

Never work. At reason, alas. Be hung with gilt gems, until skulking thereafter.

Never work at reason – alas, you shall again be hung with gilt, until skulking behind morgues and often hidden gems thereafter.

Never work at reason – alas, you shall again be hung with gilt, until skulking behind morgues and often hidden gems, there shall be no mitigation thereafter. There shall be no mitigation thereafter. Hunger lagged.

Never work at reason – alas, you shall again be hung with gilt, until skulking behind morgues and often hidden gems, there shall be no mitigation thereafter. Some tidings shall languish; there shall be no mitigation thereafter. Hunger lagged on the gravel, whirling in regret; skate on over the lake-pit, there to lurch under the rocks.

Never work at reason – alas, you shall again be hung with gilt, until skulking behind morgues and often hidden gems, there shall be no mitigation thereafter. Some tidings shall languish; there shall be no mitigation thereafter. Hunger lagged on the gravel, whirling in a sack that refused it, gilded itself in regret; hunger, hunger, come, sigh at altitudes, sift behind desks, hand over fodder from the store, and skate on, on over the lake-pit of vipers and geckos, there to lurch under the rocks. Hunger, make a den beneath.

Never work at reason – alas, you shall again be hung with gilt, until skulking behind morgues and often hidden gems, there shall be no mitigation thereafter. Some tidings shall languish; there shall be no mitigation thereafter. Hunger lagged on the gravel, whirling in a sack that refused it, gilded itself in regret; hunger, hunger, come, sigh at altitudes, sift behind desks, hand over fodder from the store, and skate on, on over the lake-pit of vipers and geckos, there to lurch under the rocks. Hunger, skate on, make a den for yourself beneath the ice. Hunger, skate without end in sight, hand over nothing and never parody sans serif. Dash skittishly amid the henchmen of the nearby gardens, these too hung with gilt. Some tidings are once more tugging towards a den; solemn in its lull, it observes as a brown hind shoots past.

Never work at reason – alas, you shall again be hung with gilt, until skulking behind morgues and often hidden gems, there shall be no mitigation thereafter. Some tidings shall languish; there shall be no mitigation thereafter. Hunger lagged, whirling in a sack that refused it, gilded itself in regret; hunger, hunger, come, sigh, sift behind desks, hand over fodder from the store, and skate on, on over the lake-pit of vipers and geckos. Hunger, skate on, make a den for yourself beneath the ice. It is the task of scholars to hang out on the edge above soldered skulls, or dash skittishly amid the henchmen of the nearby gardens, these too hung with gilt. Some tidings are once more tugging towards a den; it observes as a brown hind shoots past and skits across the viper lake-pit, tugging at hunger, as hunters with tusks, hunters who track its den, blend carefully among the flotsam of the viper pit. Pave over flotsam, for by the setting of the ink this dirt remains unachieved. Gross handlers of the earth! Halt your tidings, in case a motley crowd more able than you stand beneath a Batik sin. Hear the descant. The light touching. Mankind skates past like ice. Bleeds wherever. That is hell alike for the Blood Guild. Man at fault. The Flame. Cut through reason. Contradict. ‘Reason! Reason lives!’ Hurry. Striving, singing. The angels alone.

Never work at reason – you shall again be hung with gilt, until skulking behind morgues, there shall be no mitigation thereafter, whirling in a sack that refused it, gilded itself in regret; hunger, hunger, come, sigh at altitudes, sift behind desks, hand over fodder, and skate on, on over the lake-pit of vipers and geckos, there to lurch under the rocks. Hunger, skate on, make a den for yourself beneath the ice. Hunger, skate without end in sight, hand over nothing and never parody sans serif. Hang out on the edge above soldered skulls, or dash skittishly amid the henchmen of the nearby gardens. Some tidings are once more tugging towards a den, a trapped den surviving after the siege; it observes as a brown hind shoots past and skits across the viper lake-pit, tugging at hunger, as hunters with tusks, hunters who track its den, blend carefully among the flotsam of the viper pit. The setting ink remains unachieved. Gross handlers of the earth! A Batik sin, which is foresworn against petted cats and the hand of reason right up to the spur of the moment, and ever after that. Alike for the Blood Guild, that species of man at fault, for they gave the world the Flame, though saddest hopes never thought of it. So steamed the falling hand. Some tidings stand to contradict this, singing in chorus: ‘Reason lives! Reason lives!’ Reason skates legally above the rabble. Some hurry nearer to the source like sieves blowing for metre upon metre, striving to hover over the singing quartet. Men hue their blood red just to find the meaning of ‘Hail! Life!’ and track each other over laboured cliff tops, each man skating, skating to free himself from tender homage. ‘Cease!’ sing the men, wending their botched way to the altar. At the last stile, the slaughtered heifers up rise, skinned of vitality, mangy things of omen. Hugged decades give up. Give them everything. Now men have another sinning skillet. Men hunger like whirling gravel, like flotsam sacrificed. Knifing, the heart consumes itself. No one has extorted for nothing, forfeiting delight; the kind one has after escaping the sand and sea that pass a man by, the angels alone, men sagging and saddened with old age.