Now announcing imminent publication at usual disabling expense of:
Jeremy Hardingham's _And yet but still just this_: £2.50 or $4.50 incl.
p+p both ways (all orders e-ed to me here)
As I figure Jeremy's writing must be unknown to most of you, figured I'd
post a snappet of this play as ad to ponder:
I am ready to live. This may be an anagram. This may be sung. I already
am. And what would it all sick in you?
[etc.]
The lasts.
[lamentedly]
[there is laughter]
[the lamp is out]
la la la la la la
[is broken by the flick on one with a lighter letting a big flame rise up
and intoning followed by another until all and then not, suddenly!]
[an egg breaks]
[and it is already poached (or boiled)]
[eaten]
[rotten]
[etc.]
[and so on]
[until]
[s]
At that moment.
[d]
Oo.
[quite quiet clapping. And sniggers]
Apostrophe.
Let us set off for flight along those sure-fire trajectories of night's
most sure stock-in-trade. A map disassembles its make-up and scene outlay
through aural hallucinations at each inhabited point of blind redundant
occupation. Light is held at the edge of drawn back and visual memory
only exerts through the instruments of mutual, individually incubated
stretches of internal vocalisation, the slight agreement. It is the
sensation before we hear the word pulp as we feel the naked head of a baby
in our palm; the slight delay, the beating-through membrane. And yet we
cannot touch as this map reassembles
[opening bars of ‘Say a little prayer for me’ kazoo,]
its make-up, blinking into paint and grasping occupation stuck into scene
outlay at which of course yet just another lamp comes on to light away
re-hash with some semblance and tone: what it is to be out, at odds, at
the edge of drawn back: this is movement, it is the sensation of passing
through a door of visual memory, vocalised internally.
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