Extracts from Hopelessness

Tell me some more of your dreams, or if you can cut me open, to be near again whilst fires outside in contempt, or even snow. An apparition at the empty beach. The beach is vast and dulled, a cold concrete ridge miles adrift to tell your dreams you and I are cold again. Aren’t you suitably cold. Drifting up to the empty shore it stared across the ice, the ice stared across as sure as drift softy ensconced a photo light the creaking chair in the corner. Floating out to you; dream to hate again. Turn from the edge to empty apparition, not again. Currents tear to crystal but it stands there staring at me. So far off the empty beach it terrifies my sleep and still tread softly onto the water, climb away to the ground. But if it should hear me... Tonic this old body mine, what if that thing should hear me? At the shore the spite is bolstered, what have I taken, when did it hear me? Only on this desert stay and fold up. There’s a small pipe stuck in the ground. And spite glimmers in the resting sky, in your brains.

It flickers like an air, there across the edge from us, up to the spiteful fucking air is it there like a flame above the sand. There is no flame to my eyes who is this who is coming across my back, the eyes, behind above in muck and toil the ground who is this who is coming. Who a flame floats along the shore is. This gentle oath to the ground an empty side in the water, my dumb hands breathe,      immobile, for days agape beached to choice, somebody come who is that, oh no. Stay by my sleep, slow terror sleeps. Somebody hold the back that stands against the distance the first sheets are tearing down show us and gulp to the distance. And spite flaps in the air and I cry into my softened mouth for hope.

Folded in the lap extremely call across the site, will reach out to trust with nothing, clothed unclothed exceed to the bounds, edge and riddled who is this, who is coming. Whose neck is split the beach expense; expressive straits turn into the day what comes when slow death spits and dies away; are slow spirits waiting in a quiet open world without an ear to creak for? If you’re drugging me to rifts no crashing at the edge or hands below the door, who is that what is coming. Pinning the shoulder, hatred crumbled tile, losse sheets let nothing end you permissions, end you hanging loose please hold to just until we’re out of this miniature false clutch. You must not throw my teeth into the darkness.

The foot is walking, the tiny world, take us up float back into the soaking ground a little lift to take away the lives that sent it into the grave; I met with you there across the ground, a speechless creak. Leak and spread to the earth, care passed over to another, no, the gone and slow creak sparsely, one alone against the sky who is it some slowly gone creaking echo of a shadow on the beach. Scatter life over this cold and echoed climate, a terrible shake tugs horizon’s roof. I am the shake and the roof for you, slowly finished the breeze, there is a dead brow of the sea. Salt will be your eyes. Spite your pretty garter.

I have never seen a flame. Just this distance to the edge, a slow and thoughtless taking; of life away, how I have never seen a flame at all and yet burning in my chest is nothing yet so to still have never seen who is this who is coming down into the ground who is coming who is you, flat, who and though I have never seen a flame I feel there has been a flame. Some way over there no I don’t see it I don’t feel who is this who is carried, in a barrel to the edge for me, I have the eyes to know it when I see it, who is coming? But they don’t, they won’t, this is the circumstance, with them, end with us in this ground open mouthed forever staring up like emptied teeth, there is nothing of a flame to be seen though we have what we need who is to know and see it who is coming. A thousand enormous smiling graves, your hungry little band.

Don’t cross us on the sand  not heavy water salt in your tongue cut off who comes inside the light so much space for such a fit of weight fall dead against the edge. The apparition has spoken I have never spoken have the eyes to see it when I see a flame, who is coming, agitated mouth with the eyes so she may speak. It. It. It who is so closed the beach rears up in nightmares and folds back to the air there’s some light but it is lifeless never speaking or burning salt ground water sun dizzying loss of its candour, hush. The little apparition I find here shaking covered in the earth and the damp; so I see who is this, who is coming; as it follows my back for the distance and folds up, we stare and it shakes at me in a terror. How disgusting, to stand here on the very brink.

If there’s nothing to see if to never have spoken then without these agitants, the slowly killed body walks abroad the empty scratching edge forever for now dynamical imbalance, you here and isn’t save for the ghosts of slow deaths who is it who stands completely still and shows that we are here alone they are all around, that the eyes have decided to have never seen a flame, to have never spoken, and so it is, the empty beach; and a tiniest pipe in the ground.