It appears to have played hell with the lineation; but I'm not sure that
much matters much here. It's extremely loose & prosy
On 10 December 2014 at 14:43, Sheila Murphy <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Lawrence, as I always do, I admire this piece. One thing that I observed
> further was my own desire to rearrange passages, because this works so many
> ways. In fact, moving such passages around reveals different types of
> "story" plus perceptive power. I think that speaks to the integrity of what
> you have written.
>
> Sheila
>
> On Wed, Dec 10, 2014 at 7:33 AM, Lawrence Upton <[log in to unmask]>
> wrote:
>
> > The street is a dream. Show us the accolade. It isn't mundane.
> > Desirous of worldly freedoms, we're cold. Can you fancy that?
> > At the bar, we're issued with an almanac. Our cloaks are elusivein
> > which we can injure you as non-participant in nightmare.
> > This gallery, you see the place?, is the innermost of which we are
> > the publicists; we are resentful. The obstructionists, that's what
> > they say, are crackers:the crackers obstructionists reign. It's not
> > cranky.
> > The almanac is endless; its peculiarity is dishonesty; and the
> > dishonesty ubiquitous.
> > The street is a dream. It is the quintessence, that is, it is the core
> > the crux the essence, he said, turning the pages of the folio which
> > encourage us to deviate.
> > He took a sip from his half-full glass.Of what? we asked. I am
> > inclined, he said, to clasp any machination to obtain respite.
> > At the bar, they tend to be frankand each a truant from the truth. We
> > usually join in.
> > The cretin sets out to consume the image which gives him or her
> > succour though furtively. What is there?
> > Blood may clot, a beak may enter the outer skinof the weather, and we
> > may flunk. We clasp the blockhead secret, the wandering sprite. We
> > clasp and crush, by accident, the coincidental; it's galling he's so
> > cocky.
> > Clasp hold of the boom, he says, just listen to it, puzzling over the
> > carnal. He is a boor. It's the booze that sends him wayfaring
> > furtively. We watch his decay, giving him a nourishment and support.
> > We clasp hold of esprit de corps, he says. What the fuck? What the
> > fuck.
> > I sleep, he says, I plumb the wolf in me. It is meaningless he is so
> > cocky. Distribute the bill, he calls, distribute the bill. His
> > identity is his loftiness. We are sorrowful. Christ, it is freezing,
> > he shouts, and slowly, word by word.Do not cause me to hurt you, you
> > stickler. Our names are transient.
> > We clasp the area of his puzzling, finding it inadequate.The street is a
> > dream?
> > The bricks are ardent. What is that? The sky lightweight; stop
> > commenting, there's no need to explain. The vine cannot grow here.
> > There is no community. We are dependent, he says, on inferior trivia.
> > The dignitary has no substance and his journey is nearly worthless.
> > The houses band to gossip. This makes it peaceful and not at all
> > emotional. In one eye, just below it, a tear, or perhaps a fold of the
> > supposed reality. Do not belittle the pot belly. Do not be
> > belligerent. Cross the bridge. And deign to the confusion. The world
> > of fairy is hypothetical.The fraud is okayish.
> > coquette - book - crush - ecstasy - come together
> > apprehension - conference - exclusive - bawdy --absent - animal -
> > active --come together
> > The pavement is an augury, outrage of reason, cold-hearted, impossible
> > inferno, booze, smooth visions of the edge in direct inoperative
> > botching.The ground is crumbling.
> >
>
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