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.
Showing posts with label Katie Allen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Katie Allen. Show all posts
Sunday, 5 July 2009
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
Katie Allen: Decomposition
Decomposition
.
Roses.
Roses.
Roses erupt.
Roses. Brother, erupt.
Only roses, brother. Well-loved, erupt.
Only roses. The brother. Well-loved, goose bumps erupt.
Only at night. Roses; the summer. The brother is well-loved. Goose bumps erupt.
Only at night – roses. The summer, the brother. Watching the girl. She is well-loved. Goose bumps erupt. Her eyes open, limpid.
Only at night. The roses, the summer. The brother watching the girl. She is beautiful, well-loved, quiet. Goose bumps erupt. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while. Limpid, he thinks.
Only really noticeable at night, the roses. The summer on the patio. The brother, drumming his fingers, watching the girl. She is beautiful, well-loved, quiet. It is morning. Goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while, as ever. Limpid, he thinks of their shared nights.
The orchids – a luminescence, only really noticeable at night. A week later, all the roses. In the house, the summer. On the patio, the brother, drumming his fingers, watching the girl. She is beautiful, well-loved. Those slender fingers. Quiet. It is early morning. She reminds him that he knows. The girl falls. Goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. She drifts. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while. He watches (as ever, he thinks). Limpid, he thinks of their shared nights. Later, he found roses.
One evening, the orchids acquired a luminescence, only really noticeable at night. Then, a week later, all the roses. They had been in the house. The summer on the patio. The brother, drumming his fingers, watching the girl. She is beautiful, certainly. One can only assume well-loved. Those slender fingers. He considers making a statement, but keeps quiet. It is early morning. She reminds him, in that house surrounded by roses: he is a bad hand of cards to be dealt to anyone. He knows it. Inevitably, the girl falls. Goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. She drifts. Resurface. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while. He watches (as ever, he thinks, in self-disgust). Limpid, he thinks again of that other girl, of their shared nights. He had dissuaded her – successfully, he’d thought. Later, he had found rotting roses.
It began one evening when the orchids in the conservatory acquired a luminescence, only really noticeable at night. Then, a week later, all the roses. The next day they had grown back, all of them much larger. They had been previously in the house. Signs started appearing on doors. The summer on the patio. The brother, drumming his fingers, watching the girl on the diving board. She is beautiful, certainly. One can only assume well-loved, with humiliated hearts dripping from those slender fingers. He considers making a statement, but keeps quiet. It is early morning. She reminds him of the other girl, back in that house surrounded by roses. He is a bad hand of cards to be dealt to anyone, now. He knows it, so do they. Inevitably, the girl falls from the ledge. Goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. She drifts, making no move to resurface. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while. He watches (as ever, he thinks, in self-disgust) from the sidelines. He could leap in after her, haul her towards the shallow end like a disappointing catch. But he does not. He knows she will not. The oxygen in her lungs. Limpid, he thinks again of that other girl, of their shared nights. He had dissuaded her – successfully, he’d thought. Foolish. Two days later he had found rotting roses, the colour of rust.
It began one evening when the orchids in the conservatory acquired a pallid luminescence, only really noticeable at night. Then, a week later, all the roses died. The next day they had grown back, all of them sickly white and much larger than they had been previously. In the house, signs started appearing on doors that hadn’t been there before. Not the signs, not the doors. The summer guests grew nervous, and increasingly, lost. On the patio, the brother sipped tea and watched events flower open, drumming his fingers as he does now, watching the girl on the diving board. She is beautiful, certainly. One can only assume that she is well-loved, with more than her fair share of humiliated hearts dripping from those slender fingers. The white of her swimming costume makes a statement against the turquoise tiles. He considers making a statement himself, but keeps quiet. It is early morning. She reminds him of the other girl he tried to save all those years ago, back in that house surrounded by roses, back when he was a different person. A better person, most would agree. He is a bad hand of cards to be dealt to anyone, now. He knows it, so do they. Inevitably, the girl falls from the ledge. As she plunges into the chilled water, goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. She drifts along the bottom, making no move to resurface. Does chlorine do anything to preserve corpses? he wonders for a moment. Will she die with her eyes open? Will the chlorine dissolve them after a while? He watches (as ever, he thinks, in self-disgust) from the sidelines. He could leap in after her, haul her towards the shallow end like a disappointing catch. But he does not. He knows she will not die this way. The oxygen in her lungs refuses such limpid suicide. He thinks again of that other girl, of their shared cups of tea on the patio, of their shared nights. The horrors of that house coming between them, her escalating despair. The cyanide attempt. Just her cup, of course. He had dissuaded her – successfully, he’d thought. Foolish. Two days later he had found her rotting among the new roses, her eyes the colour of rust.
.
Roses.
Roses.
Roses erupt.
Roses. Brother, erupt.
Only roses, brother. Well-loved, erupt.
Only roses. The brother. Well-loved, goose bumps erupt.
Only at night. Roses; the summer. The brother is well-loved. Goose bumps erupt.
Only at night – roses. The summer, the brother. Watching the girl. She is well-loved. Goose bumps erupt. Her eyes open, limpid.
Only at night. The roses, the summer. The brother watching the girl. She is beautiful, well-loved, quiet. Goose bumps erupt. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while. Limpid, he thinks.
Only really noticeable at night, the roses. The summer on the patio. The brother, drumming his fingers, watching the girl. She is beautiful, well-loved, quiet. It is morning. Goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while, as ever. Limpid, he thinks of their shared nights.
The orchids – a luminescence, only really noticeable at night. A week later, all the roses. In the house, the summer. On the patio, the brother, drumming his fingers, watching the girl. She is beautiful, well-loved. Those slender fingers. Quiet. It is early morning. She reminds him that he knows. The girl falls. Goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. She drifts. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while. He watches (as ever, he thinks). Limpid, he thinks of their shared nights. Later, he found roses.
One evening, the orchids acquired a luminescence, only really noticeable at night. Then, a week later, all the roses. They had been in the house. The summer on the patio. The brother, drumming his fingers, watching the girl. She is beautiful, certainly. One can only assume well-loved. Those slender fingers. He considers making a statement, but keeps quiet. It is early morning. She reminds him, in that house surrounded by roses: he is a bad hand of cards to be dealt to anyone. He knows it. Inevitably, the girl falls. Goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. She drifts. Resurface. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while. He watches (as ever, he thinks, in self-disgust). Limpid, he thinks again of that other girl, of their shared nights. He had dissuaded her – successfully, he’d thought. Later, he had found rotting roses.
It began one evening when the orchids in the conservatory acquired a luminescence, only really noticeable at night. Then, a week later, all the roses. The next day they had grown back, all of them much larger. They had been previously in the house. Signs started appearing on doors. The summer on the patio. The brother, drumming his fingers, watching the girl on the diving board. She is beautiful, certainly. One can only assume well-loved, with humiliated hearts dripping from those slender fingers. He considers making a statement, but keeps quiet. It is early morning. She reminds him of the other girl, back in that house surrounded by roses. He is a bad hand of cards to be dealt to anyone, now. He knows it, so do they. Inevitably, the girl falls from the ledge. Goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. She drifts, making no move to resurface. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while. He watches (as ever, he thinks, in self-disgust) from the sidelines. He could leap in after her, haul her towards the shallow end like a disappointing catch. But he does not. He knows she will not. The oxygen in her lungs. Limpid, he thinks again of that other girl, of their shared nights. He had dissuaded her – successfully, he’d thought. Foolish. Two days later he had found rotting roses, the colour of rust.
It began one evening when the orchids in the conservatory acquired a pallid luminescence, only really noticeable at night. Then, a week later, all the roses died. The next day they had grown back, all of them sickly white and much larger than they had been previously. In the house, signs started appearing on doors that hadn’t been there before. Not the signs, not the doors. The summer guests grew nervous, and increasingly, lost. On the patio, the brother sipped tea and watched events flower open, drumming his fingers as he does now, watching the girl on the diving board. She is beautiful, certainly. One can only assume that she is well-loved, with more than her fair share of humiliated hearts dripping from those slender fingers. The white of her swimming costume makes a statement against the turquoise tiles. He considers making a statement himself, but keeps quiet. It is early morning. She reminds him of the other girl he tried to save all those years ago, back in that house surrounded by roses, back when he was a different person. A better person, most would agree. He is a bad hand of cards to be dealt to anyone, now. He knows it, so do they. Inevitably, the girl falls from the ledge. As she plunges into the chilled water, goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. She drifts along the bottom, making no move to resurface. Does chlorine do anything to preserve corpses? he wonders for a moment. Will she die with her eyes open? Will the chlorine dissolve them after a while? He watches (as ever, he thinks, in self-disgust) from the sidelines. He could leap in after her, haul her towards the shallow end like a disappointing catch. But he does not. He knows she will not die this way. The oxygen in her lungs refuses such limpid suicide. He thinks again of that other girl, of their shared cups of tea on the patio, of their shared nights. The horrors of that house coming between them, her escalating despair. The cyanide attempt. Just her cup, of course. He had dissuaded her – successfully, he’d thought. Foolish. Two days later he had found her rotting among the new roses, her eyes the colour of rust.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
The Nutshell Philosophies of Katie Allen
#3
Out of the bus-load of people on that dark night, not a one survived. Each died in tragic circumstances, each one worse than the last. Are you horrified yet? I am. Is there any chance that we can convert this sorry tale at the last moment into a love story?
#4
“Biccy?”
“No.”
“Biscuit?”
“No.”
“Go to park?”
“No. Go to bed.”
“Please may I have a biscuit?”
“No.”
“Forgive me, but why do you insist on such negativity at all times of day and night? I’m sick of it. You make me look a complete fool.”
“Biscuit?”
“Oh, fuck off.”
#5
It is my duty to announce to you, reader, that, however hard you and I both try, we know we’re kidding no one, in that by the time we have hurtled to the end of this rather elaborate and unnecessarily long sentence, our relationship will be over forever – goodbye!
#7
She noticed him at the supermarket, selecting mangoes. At the cheese counter, he asked if she believed in love at first sight; she said no, but when she got home she painted an oil-on-canvas that later sold for a lot of money. He wasn’t in it, but mangoes featured prominently.
#10
There was once a famous writer who wrote brilliant novels and won all the prizes. This writer’s wife could not read a word; she was an illiterate peasant. She took her husband’s books and built an ark so big from the paper it became wood again, and off she sailed.
#14
She waited behind the hedge. Who were they? Men in bowler hats, pink A4 files tucked underarm. Why pink? (Well, it was unsettling... less unsettling than the fact that they were, without question, following her.) They walked past her, heading further into the maze. She breathed a sigh of relief.
#15
No, no, I can’t, I simply can’t, I refuse in fact. I’m tired and my psychiatrist said I’m not to put up with this anymore. I mean, it’s getting out of hand, it really is. It’s got to stop. You know where the machine is. Make your own Goddamn cappuccino.
#17
The couple smiled into each other’s eyes. The boy kissed her gently, laughed a little. Why did he laugh? Was he happy? Was he cheating, trying to hide it behind an open mouth? Why ‘laugh’? Why not ‘chuckle’? Why are they so happy? Why can I have none of this?
#18
In Lucy’s bedroom, the giggles subsided. The girls were bored. ‘Not to worry,’ Lucy said. ‘Let’s analyse boys now.’ This did the trick; they all grinned. Boy-language was serious business. What did Ben’s raised eyebrow signify? They stared at Lucy’s open notebook where she had pinned it down, still twitching.
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