(TYPEWRITER CARRIAGE RETURN)
(TYPEWRITER KEYS TAPPING)
The Word comes first.
a common device used in literature
A Heap of Language
starting as a whisper...
These texts are themselves
random lists of disconnected words
details torn or cut from some larger area.
already written in the books
focus is thrown onto the process of gathering information
the discipline is extreme and repetitive.
Hours and hours of preparation
systematically and mechanistically
sifting through options,
word by word or phrase by phrase
each sentence ties one thing to another
and recombines these individual texts to produce a document
fastened together at the correct intervals and sequence
the set-up is reaffirmed with every word.
the script becomes visible
a modification of language
copying or responding in some way to an original
While the source text mutates into the aggressive, misproportioned second version
it breaks up, disturbed, producing new representations
there is more than one voice
o what are the voices saying?
the same thing in a deceptive form.
their polyphonic presence
showing and concealing
linguistic construction
a work steeped in reference:
the conscientious manipulation of form and content
parody and quotation
We are made so completely aware of the language
by presenting it, she encourages us to think
the complex poetics that emerge out of the interaction
an incantation, a script,
some piece of 'creative writing'
Seditious literature.
No Time for Commas
For the purpose of clarity, let's say it's about a man
the story of his murder.
He looked slightly over forty.
muscular in physique,
an acute awareness of his own body,
resolute eye contact
a strong, square jaw
his handlebar moustache crowning a childlike smile.
he'd grown a beard.
a man of wealth and taste,
unselfishly intelligent.
anxious that he should appear educated,
seemingly wholesome in nature,
like a character in an American novel.
dedicated to manners, politeness
restrained and tender
A born leader,
a natural architect and builder
one helluva guy.
No one could imagine the suffering he had endured.
he was okay but a little crazy sometimes
afraid of commitment of being stuck in a relationship.
refuses to settle down and become something familiar.
it would have been easy to embrace it and follow in his father's footsteps
a young maiden
ripe beauty,
trashy but nonetheless
a basic sense of good taste
she lived on the second floor, in the same apartment building
Badly furnished flat.
second-hand furniture,
two chairs and a bench
not much of a domestic being.
a very talented artist.
wild, nomadic
kept herself to herself.
aura of self sufficiency
Damn any man who sympathizes
openhearted and very kind a perennially youthful quality
and ostentatious seductiveness
She's into perversions of intimacy
seething with unconscious and repressed desires
like a caged tigress.
It was like a dream.
an intimate affair
Two magical creatures,
visions of paradise the basic elements of fairy tale
There's always music in the air.
they are Adam and Eve but many centuries later
These forbidden days
in a seductive and infinite ocean
going to the zoo, visiting museums,
side by side holding hands.
All this and more.
a decidedly active relationship
powerful and savagely intimate
one of infatuation
the most violent chemical reaction
their need for physical pleasure, particularly sex, is so acute
New methods of lovemaking
stamina that defies logic
breathing heavily
the hands of a lover, skilful, quiet and keen,
the most sensual, impure results,
A beautiful moment occurs
satisfying and meaningful
Oh The Rapture.
With the given fingering
with a crucifix hanging above them
I'm down on my knees
cries the woman
with folly,
singing hymns for her true love
Mecca of everything she desired,
I love you / And adore you /
I will make your dreams come true
'Yes,' he says slowly and falls silent.
'I do,' whispers the man as he plunges into marriage;
a man surprised and slightly shocked,
manipulated through animal magnetism,
'I do. I do. I do.'
to the great Marriage
Uncut diamonds
appealing to many
for better or worse
The Celebration of Victory
may lead to ecstasy or destruction.
He was in trouble.
There was no going back
Amid withered flowers and sour fruits,
it soon becomes clear that
Everything is changed.
with the drudgery of routine,
particularly claustrophobic
Raising kids, caring for animals
because that's what everyone was doing.
an unremarkable English suburban house
the regimented shrubbery of the ornamental garden
rational smalltalk and trimmed hedges
shirk off the nuances of human individuality
killing all
the atmosphere and the air.
The spell is broken.
The spontaneity evaporates.
They are no longer pulling together as a unit
a morass of lies and of important truths untold.
A breakdown.
They fall out, lounge around and smoke
drugs, alcohol, caffeine, nicotine and sugar
He barely remembers how it all started, this fairy tale idea.
Despite the lessons of experience he was a fucking dead man.
Irritated, yes. Bored, certainly.
Nothing but a corpse.
Often, he was arguing for the hell of it
haunted by an inexplicable fear of screwing things up
quick to say things, blunt or brusque in manner
simply to be contrary.
Words just flow out,
deliberately chosen to provoke
always followed by an emotional impact
the words 'fuck' and 'you'.
Sometimes he closes his eyes and imagines
matters of personal freedom.
He has fantasies about getting out.
the possibility of meaningful departures
escape from servitude
released from his prison
to be a loner, a warrior.
and is free to
return to being vegetarian as he was before
This would be for the best;
Nothing can last forever.
These were his secrets
the wholesome attitude falls away,
a sulking coward and a windy braggart,
showing utter disregard for
her mood and manner, her general frame of mind
his tales were always changing
Exceedingly unpleasant
singing and acting crazy.
Never an alcoholic, just a drunk.
‘useless yet indispensable'
hungover – probably high, too.
good for nothing.
The scum of the earth!
this is not normal behaviour
it has got seriously screwed up.
Madness must have taken possession
He's starting to lose it.
he remembers a dream he had the previous night.
There was a hammer on the wall.
his Bride, His children,
whilst lying in bed
screamed in unison.
Their clothes and faces splattered with blood
arms and legs at weird right-angles to their owners' bodies;
forty-two separate cuts.
As she is dying
with such savageness he'd lunge again
blood spurted
‘squeezed all her brain out'
making sure to not make a mess of himself
he closed his eyes and thought of what it must've been like
a confusion of the states of the everyday and of dream
already in progress
clarity begins to fail;
a house of cards
fully possessed by Satan
He conjures it all into existence,
the feelings of exhilaration and loss evoked by
his sadistic observations
the voices will be silent no more
the menacing tones of pure hatred
so far beyond the happenings of our common reality
A beast.
who strikes without warning
to eyes that look upwards.
his dull savagery packs a wallop.
It's a Knockout
a great entertainment!
Then again.
Again.
years of exposure to the incessant patterns
will not only result in
nightmares and bad nerves.
weeping inconsolably
purple-skinned
painful in the extreme.
beaten so badly
in discreet spaces
any part of the body other than the limbs.
the woman's determination and resolve
painted over in white,
with an anger at the abuse
the obvious cruelty and futility
the ever-present possibility of death
nervous and ill at ease,
she mainly proceeded in an instinctive, intuitive way.
The woman desperately uses her
Revolver
that could fit in the palm of your hand.
Its very presence established a kind of security.
allowing her to seize some macho energy for herself.
giving her words new power,
rushed with a kind of excitement.
You think you know me
It is the middle of the night.
under darkness,
a grief-stricken man on his knees
powerful, but not invincible.
just before his death
THE DEVIL IS AFRAID
afraid that someone would eventually discover the truth
A couple of good clean shots should do the job.
knuckles white.
as a trigger that ignites
fired three or four shots
the instantaneousness of the moment
like a breath,
BANG
BANG!
shoot after all
The fucker deserves it.
Several hours passed
She turned and walked away into the mist.
took a taxi from the airport straight to the
NATIONAL RAIL
His body was discovered on an overcast Sunday morning.
lying face down on the ground.
If this tale with its happy ending is true
in an undesignated future
at a hotel on the Atlantic coast of Portugal
on a beautiful beach
HOLIDAY ISLAND
a fairytale of sanctuary earned through endurance
symbolic not of abandoned hope, but of suspended life
our heroine's escape
whether physical or linguistic
absolves us from action or blame
Time is passing.
it catches up with us all in the end.
hours or days whiz by.
Coherence seems destroyed...
The reader is not always expecting a resolution to a narrative,
but now that is has been written,
The texts do not really explain the
exhaustive archive
the mixture of fact and fiction, reality and fable at play
could broadly be termed as artistic
The copyist
Carolyn Thompson
hovers on the threshold of
an utterly 'unreliable narrator'
SO FULL OF WORDS
What wasted labour! What spent energy!
This must end
The sign above the door demands us to 'leave'.
(TYPEWRITER CLATTERING)
(CARRIAGE RETURN)