ÂŠ Iliya Ansky
I. set carefully the waning of inner workings to this level. remote evidence of company at threshold. remote credentials for the giddiness of refinement deny you the inversion. but you soon apologize that you have to leave, not this very moment, just leave. II. penile matter was touched upon. the conduits of regression seen trivially through the questioning of litanies. the love life of several typified innocence in memorial chains. could break. and here by the arresting powers of those scruples, could not be done & hastened to a gasp. despite the weakest of decisions. the saintliness of sequences desired you alone. you bore the framing of condition, of moisture for the farthest sight. that which plucks hearts from all the mysteries. III. The gaseous savagery of closed compartments. Drilling subtle holes didnâ€™t do the trick. Some of it was left. They will notice. Best dress provided, obviously. Best summaries made. Loved ones invited. Unruffled and dry. Honorary rest admitted and agreed with. But the dewy eyes are getting leery. The placating mode of the situation though. Complaints not in it. Grievances, grudges and cruel jokes.
Out of place. Must have been expensive, all this. Having a congregation of flowers that cannot be named by this much of the attendees. More leery by the minute. Somebody with a heart condition. Sometimes a pill goes in. Sometimes it doesnâ€™t. Or a valve. On which side are the side effects? Most of them remembered him slim. Not lanky. Not stout. But the bulging, vesuvian and ominous under his favorite dinner jacket. (Under every secret â€“ superstition of blunt reasoning). Still in tact with the ceremony, nonetheless. Shifty. Steady. Leering in anticipation of the Proustian whiff to interrupt the accepted thrust of ideals. To and from consciousness at the moral plateau. A muffled clearing of the throat. When does it finish? What did he eat? IV. talent grows around small towns. thieves attend closet dramas. hatching plans to smuggle crudity into art. naivety wants to get rid of me. a careless newborn at a service station, strapped with windows closed. wipers motionless with wakes of dirt. ineluctable brandishing of small hands in mute space. prone to figuring out the odds in november. simpson's paradox. the possibility of my speculations combined with the possibility of the spectacle may diminish the possibility
of the spectacle, paradoxically. heisenberg says don't tamper with velocity and location at once. lowell says the painter's vision is not a lens, it trembles to caress the light. faith is not hiding that you're hoping for something better. V. I’m on holiday, so why can’t I play with myself. I admit that I have hardly read anything on the end of history. I can’t get to it. There’s this list of things I would like to try first. New things. Old things. Incunabula. It is in the way. How does it feel, entering a dark age? Everything is on the surface and nothing is known. Orgasms and smokes give you short-lived sentiments of detachment in hours of consciousness. (Not detachment itself. That’s Out of Body). You and your partner, you try on new positions. Change them. Change them because that is what you want. No, you don’t want that. But you want trying. No, that doesn’t change. The attitude. The payoff. Funny bones electrocute with every Nth bump. I had wringing in my stomach as I helped carry a carriaged baby down the underground stairs. There was no elevator. I wasn’t in a hurry. In the photo processing shop, where she and I go to develop film, sepia pregnancy is on the wall.
VI. you wonder here whether the world itself is here to serve a strange destiny. you wonder here whether the world itself is here to serve a strange destiny. you wonder here whether the world itself is here to serve a strange destiny. VII. open the sluice, quote unquote, be maddened by primroses. make a clean sweep of them. anticipate the curveballs of unexpected children. gleeful moms cutting corners around noon. park talk. airy midnights that don't direct you because you're inside. institutions want to get a statistical hold of you. you who settled down. you learn about it through the mail in the morning. you know that their numbers won't come out right. falsely add up. since private plastic folders contain the galley proofs of your existence. paperwork of the movement of your currency. flat engravings of jet ink. these are your plastic folders. they may require access to them. don't be paranoid.
VIII. the cocky bastards of moonlight. reeking of campfire. where can you find them? strumming, lean and burning as they are. claws of temperance in somber overview today. IX. excellent conversation. deep conversion. what i want from a companion in a companion. friend or foe. i don't dare. i think of asteroid belts when i'm locked with those cries. bombard curiosity. black holes is on. beta blockers next. X. 14:04, identity crisis. you need stronger authentication. longer passwords for the shortest commitments. what you do is important. don't worry if it takes only five minutes. (your time is their time.) if it's well encrypted you will be recognized. XI. Efforts are invested into machine responses to our words. We want them to listen, to our disembodied tones and stops. Our words
will grow meanings then. They will not be equivocal. Numbers will be dialed. Favorite stations and channels turned on. Pages read. Things that we can’t see hear or touch will be spelled nudging softly against us. And we could rest assured. XII. In synthetic affairs. Forbearance flushes a turnkey cheek. Salience of sparse words gradually denies anything but credulity. The less spoken by the other, the more verbose echoes of compunction in your head. You are now registered. I love you, I love you, too. One of the most archaic constructs. Passive collaborators in one of society’s momentums. Giddy up. Alphabetical suggestions? Coup. (d’etat) stroke of state. (d’oeil) stroke of the eye. (de foudre) lightning flash. (de grace) blow of mercy. (de main) blow with the hand. (de theatre) stroke of the theatre. I’ll take that blow, the streetwalker said. World as stage. World. Stage. Center. Cruel, literal picks. Transference for the old ball and chain. Snatch. Inoculation. Set free for the masses. Gratuitous pansying of protest, ex libris. What for? If gleeful mums engage in perennial shuffle with prammed progeny toward dads in superconstructs of metal and glass. The lineaments of gratified desire. The tradeoffs. And for the dads,
venereal foam laps the vaginal shore, elsewhere. XIII. rife with codes, we stalemate. the cries of the damned reborn in the crib by my side. by the other side, in the sack at night… how am i better?... lights out. we pretend to forget who we are to enjoy it. galvanizing the flanks. togetherness. phew phew phew. the possibility of impossibility. fervor of desertion in a cage. we do it because we can’t explain ourselves. tug o’ war. will o’ the wisp. what have you. the postmoist stickiness was the proof that it had to be on its way. XIV. long term, we need a way to clean up this dead space. space for space’s sake. for it has found its reasons to ingratiate itself with us in our minds, with what it holds. plurality kills all the mystery. and so if space is plural, for there are things in it that do not have an aught in common, then it is safe to swipe it clean, as a whole. but once, a thing is ripe, it will fall and claim its place in it …he takes her number and puts it down on the form…
burnlike slobber stains on the pillow when the case is removed. slobber stains, indicators of what could be. XV. yonder simmering. here, chatteled. in a few decades, what prospects? dance like writhing of lumbago. exotic coupling of solitude and surges for the lower nerves. a slow decline in crucibles. yonder simmering. captain ahab in dense mascara in front of decorative waves, ballet-tense like the foam of gales in the open. the human element transmits veracity of yonder simmering to landlubbers, engaged to any means of expression because it falls on deaf ears. the ancient marinerâ€™s undertow runs stale over pints, even in unscripted coastal dives. his story is not interesting. prefab. this is not the age of ships. but welcome aboard. here is your seat. take off. land. check-in â€“ the most natural thing in the world. totenturismo. look there, a family unit. the wonderfully possessive admiration of children. clinging to objects. always fresh out of the plane of immanence. totemism. mom and dad get a little nervous, now with the luggage again on their hands. she and I, can we be there? stupid how the grass is always greener. XVI. Channel ___. Potent patents, crosshairs of faith at ground level. Aim fast, die faster. Fasting. Fastening. Incontinent philosophy. But there is one, one who wears ___ and becomes
invisible, indivisible. Listless. The intentions of ___ conceal one. Doesnâ€™t give a sharp eye of recognition to be in control though. No. Meanwhile, the virgins of ideas get a tic, sputtering volleys of discontent: when will they stop shooting into the air! Meanwhile, the one gets cloaked and daggered. Stay tuned. XVII. western standard: behind every bathroom mirror, a pillbox, like chekhov's gun. mother - a fifth column, absorbing the invisible pressure around the house since the hydrogen 50s. trying to smile and get ready for the build-up of prescribed hegemony. you've been very brave up till now, don't go to pieces. doctor's words. winning smile. gecko folds. this was all very new across the pond. so new it was forbidden. but it's not so new when you're choking from the light. where are your hands? where are your hands? demonized! how could you get past this pickle. a history of no history. behind every decade, the writer is a dying breed. XVIII. either you or i wish to pluck those promising aconites at night. you look at me. i at you. i know you
are there. imagination is a ghastly show stopper during daytime when so much can happen at night, its inactivity directing our future life. plans galore. when did it become our life? when did two lives become a life? this is bastardly rhetorical. what i should be concerned about would be how to imbue your enveloping, better forms. get that job. XIX. the days when iâ€™d have a stripling whom i could make attic notes of are predictable goners. forbearance. forbearance. a tabernacle of suspense. your supple actualization. easy stubble. an understanding of you. a stripling whom i could take attic notes of. your instrument in fealty to endorsed stereotypes about youth. the stuff of life racing up from you with a groan. you will have your nameless flowers. followers. you will be their invention. the stuff of buried bibliophages. XX. When nothing is new, we are glad to hear the songs of conclusion. New songs of conclusion, too. Faith
is visible in the evening. Restorable toward night. Immured in the dawn. It is going back in the world that makes the world split into parallels. Childhood and what happened somewhere else, at about the same time; reminisced on from the vantage point of much later. Childhood and that other place, in time. World parallels. Parable worlds. Search. It was romance. Non seq. luck. Wishing. Riding the letter. XXI. parties don't change a thing, but they make us feel good. even if we suffer proudly in the noise. singling ourselves out by signals of silence. undertow. undercurrent. under world if we met or if not. as we get closer, we foresee tongue twisters. shortcomings 21 things that can go wrong in your partner. gap fillers or solutions in the womb, if you will. if we had it between us or not. it's there. best of all possible worlds, someone said.