1

Floating mountains |      | Those days’ large words | shrank | but there were new days | with new large words |      | and there were new people to say them

Lumps of |     | Parts of

The truth came back | It had been in exile for years |     | Lies came with it | many of them | big crowds, actually |      | Then the limousines | Famous hands, waving from motorcades

Cuts of |     | The Complete Works of

The streets were on the move | after so long sleeping |      | Poor boys learned new words, and taught | the rich those new words |     | The years passed, and with the years | a transparent maze fitted over the city |      | For a while it was hard | to tell the chauffeurs from their employers

It isn’t a story | and it doesn’t make sense | Cloud mountains | and gnawing on diamonds | through the winter |      | They chase the truth out of town again | and the small words | meant more, this time

2

Remains of |     | The glory and the red sense of the fire-engine | in a seizure or a small dose | the siren | shaved back to a | wisp of lullaby | in the background, and then the background | like a gigantic wave | glimpsed out the corner of your eye as you | wonder about romance on the beach |      | starts to fill the mid-ground | and your foreground | begins to recede |      | On a moped | so warm that night in the city | and the heat | a place you put your spirit | leave it on the step | like a lily in a milk bottle |      | Most of

Nearly all of

A sublime grinding sound | the sound | of ideas being crushed and mulched and grated | of children’s names | being forgotten | of mothers | losing their necklaces | of lovers |      | becoming strangers |      | the sound | of Hondas and Fords | without drivers | leaving their parking spaces, their porches, their garages | and the sound, too, of the garages | leaving | and the famous hands | falling from limousines |      | the sound | of addenda | of trade surpluses | of minutiae | having the atoms | sucked out of them | and then spat | in graceful fumes | into the clear, postcard air | of

Rival truths were clashing | nearly all of |     | the time

We felt safer | with it all collected | in the past tense |      | and we decided to exclude | the oddities | the doll made of semen | the tiny murmur with even tinier | echoes | the bag full of skulls | the sapphire bear

3

Virtually everything | except |     | A synopsis of

Then that grinding sound | comes back in | the sound | of the simultaneous shattering | of hundreds of plate glass windows | of young punks | with their knives and speed | their bits of Jesus | their scraps of God’s hump | their constrained | vision and their |      | old large words |     | and we took | another pathway | which wasn’t the actual pathway | we could see that pathway, the actual one, but somehow | we couldn’t place ourselves upon it | and we were diverted | through translucence | to a home | which wasn’t our actual home | and we slumped down | on what was not | our actual sofa | and tried to | make a list of it | but then | the inevitable, the diffuse, the grand | overwhelming | distraction | took us, just as | dear reader | it is taking you | nearly all of

|      | The lies | surrounded us | there were so many | they hustled and pressed against us | we wanted to hurry away | but got bumped and buffeted | and the grinding sound |     | like the parched, rusting roar of scrap metal | being sent down a rickety chute | the champing | of the tons and tons | of an industrial compactor | insisted on its | pertinence | and the lies | began to make | the very same sound

The sound | was in those days | when rival truths | were clashing

When the truths | stopped clashing

we waited for rival silences | to end

We made our gestures | We cast our shadows | We had our taste | We liked our music

The core of |     | The essence of

Soon we began to doubt | if the fable would | be there when we | got back |     | The crowd |     | of virtually everyone, except

We grew confused | Not only the fable | but mostly the fable | for a while | began to whine | like a | sick child |      | like a limping cur |      | and the lies |     | became stars | each one…

You knew a lot, back in those days

I couldn’t find where you were |     | The sound | had changed the streets

I wandered | Where could I start?

I didn’t know much, but I knew | from the peaked | cap in my hand | that I was a chauffeur

Untext |     | A pressing at the window, a bowing of the glass

Untext |     | She whispered |     | She didn’t catch it |     | No one mentioned to him

Not this line

A graveyard of signs |      | This line has the | fashionable attitude

The ghosts of limousines | another inaugural motorcade passing by |      | Untext

Eyes, unpicking |     | the text’s | delicate thread | look | can you see?

Like a Gothic story, a Romantic tale | fevered, hectic, something out of | Gogol or Dostoyevsky |     | the crowd, the army of rumours marching

White words | on a white page, once | black words

Very modest |      | Very sane |     | Eyes, unpicking

The text’s |     | fragile

Digging | up | in the graveyard

Chromium ghosts | of black limousines | another inaugural

Untext

Depends on how you see it, I guess

It is a maze you sow, like a crop

One reads |      | One doesn’t read

One comes to | the turning in the road |      | One comes to |      | the field full of ambulances and fire engines

The turning in the road, and then | after the turning in the road | another road, then the drive | and then

The field full of paramedics and firefighters | the glittering wreckage strewn | the appeal to the myths | to the gods | to the science

One doesn’t read about the disaster |      | One reads | about coming home | after a long day at work

Loneliness in each vehicle passing by |       | in the figures staring into screens in Starbucks or reflected in the windows | of department stores |       | the lilac cyclone |       | the fates of the heroes |       | catastrophic failure of materials

It is a maze you pack in a bag, and take with you

It is a maze you conjure from a mirror and an eye

One reads | into the maze |      | Another comes | to the turning in the road

Scorch marks from the burning debris | a path | from the woolen giraffe to the collapsed night

It is lush, impossibly complex, even before | you arrive on the scene, dragging a forest

It is detailed, infinitely crinkled, one adds in | a pinch of suffering |       | one adds in | sleep in the back as the road | drones and drones…

The plane begins to | reassemble | to compile its wings | from the imploded silence | of the “much later, by the river in the mist” |      | starts to not crash downwards |       | asks its passengers back | into the cabin

One misses | their book |      | One turns off | at the wrong turning

Depends on how you see it, I guess

Finite hack | of an infinite wood

Like a crop

One sees |      | One does not see

Then they swap round | One sees |      | One does not see

The car turns back towards trees, exhaust of oak root |      | Just darkness

Then they swap round

One wakes |      | One doesn’t wake

Black river, vertically held by its tail, from the womb | falls a spew of herring | starfish on the rocks | heavy traffic on the orbital |      | dumb weight |      | One sees the truck | parked out under bright electric light | mud on the underside

One does not see

One dies |      | One does not die |      | Then they swap round | One wakes |      | One does not wake

Just darkness

Mountains melted down, dissolved in water |     | floating

The mountaineers lost in an echo |     | caught in the whorl of a shell | Goats

A path that only ascends |     | the “unbeknownst” |     | Victorian

Sumptuous military brass, full snarl | vaporised |     | Weep helplessly, then die

Knapsacks and stout boots, English jackets | walking sticks |     | Projects for the harnessing of the power of water |     | Months in the studio | and near the peak of the mountain |     | the incompleteness

Swirling clouds of Mahler and Wagner

Climbing up, into the water |     | the lake, the temperature | chill | the air | super-clear |     | the scent of the forest | all around us | pervasive |      | a small sprite, of the primitive sort, glimpsed sitting on a boulder | wings | flicking like a housefly’s

Returning even before |     | we’d set out

Above the snowline, climbing |     | into the Giant’s Sword |     | trudge of tubas | bier | of horns |     | a diadem of flowers |      | Stench | of the dragon |     | reminded of a steam engine | but also of putrescent meat | the breath | like wet embers, rotting mushrooms | soaked in gasoline | and hot | difficult not to vomit | but the dragon’s eye | scarlet, and the pupil | a vertical, slender ovaline | slit |      | like a hole in space | such blackness | a black before black began |     | and in the reflections of the pool | a slither of lizard gold

Drinking alp

Diluted stone |      | Choosing a different route | up | up…     …     … up!

Super-clear, with no |      | faint admixture of dust |     | above the pollution |     | climbing

Cracked open an acorn | out fell | a tiny pixie | glistening with fluids from the womb |     | picked up, as gently as we could |     | had to keep the dogs away

Gas of ravines, bluffs, melted | water…

They had told us | if we reached the peak | and looked down from the summit | then all that would be left for us to do | would be to weep helplessly, and die

Mist of strings |     | romance disintegrating |      | Ahead of us | the glacier began to rise

We had to climb…

Block of silence |     | Block of silence |     | Block of silence

Sounds, contained | Tweets, pings, clunks and chimes | The pad of Mbuti people along a jungle path | the clear liquors of the forest | the temple bells of Gion Shoja | echoing the impermanence of all things | A stoppering and bottlement | Echoes across space and time | strung out like the clacking of pearls | from a broken necklace | dropping on a walnut table-top | or like the scrape of a fallen feather | on the tiled floor | of a quiet kitchen | in a dozing genie’s dream | the shhhhfffff when a zephyr stirs and sends | the feather sliding across the room towards | the precipice, the ledge | where the genie will awake | beside a busy motorway | as a crusher is obliterating the wrecked | remains of cars | In a vessel of fine glass | echoes preserved like precious fruits | or specimens of iridescent birds |———————

———————| when FOLDING takes place | and one reverses | the polarity of the perception | the flask is contained | within the sound | and the child’s cry | begins as an echo | and only later | becomes a voice: it is like flowers | going back towards their seeds | and like lightnings | going back towards their clouds | Crashes, too

Block of silence |     | Block of silence |     | Block of silence