The absence of nourishment. The accident of writing. The accident programmed by commercial jet traffic. The acid in the paper ruminating away. The altitude falling. The art of losing. The avid reader.
The backyard and pool. The balance. The bare bones of that dream. The benefactor Baroness. The blankness of the Australian canvas. The body rubbed against a particular speed. The breath-point.
The canals throwing up their stuff. The cinematic apparatus. The clots travelling to your lungs. The colours so. The coming together of a centralised state. The conic root. The corpses of long since dried up felt pens. The crack up. The cubic space of the tooth.
The desert now a world. The disorder that premises its orderings. The doctrine of 'national service'. The drama before the stock exchange closes for the day. The drive of sex. The dust making me sneeze.
The eggs and bunnies. The English players. The Epic of Gilgamesh. The erotics of learning. The exquisite cross between the domestic and commercial. The Exterminating Angel.
The faster it gets. The fear of being jumped upon. The fibre of American music. The film that simply everyone hated. The force of airbrakes which all pilots no doubt wish for. The forests become a standing reserve. The former furniture factory turned speed terminal. The fundamental determination of writing.
The game across a telephone line with words. The ghostliness left behind for us to meddle with. The grinding gears of relative speeds.
The habitually private dance of the sole occupant/householder. The hardest thing for me is to hold it all together. The history of horrors.
The inscription of sexual joy.
The lines of speed. The live and let live scenario.
The measurement of their progress and state. The melodic order undone and undone again. The military entertainment complex. The more I think of it. The music filling it. The mystical marriage between the Idea and the ear.
The new family dentist. The new generation cruise missiles. The noise of the Métro. The numbers flickering as the plane dives.
The ones crouching in the shadow of immense machines. The ones that code for the new world. The origins clearly stated and detectable.
The paradox of the speed factory. The passage of time. The Passion of Joan of Arc. The precious harvest of these yearnings and satisfactions together. The production of facts out of movement. The proportion finally used. The pull of anxiety. The push of desire.
The rapid gesture. The record for falling cats in New York. The red right hand. The reminders of dissolutions and true terror. The return back to a former place. The reverence with which readers turn pages. The river of Al Green. The river of Heraclitus. The rules of this game.
The seemingly mis-aimed icon. The sentence. The Serbian Socialist Party holding out against NATO's imperium. The smashed language. The song 'I can see clearly now'. The spectator's need. The static that counters any report of progress. The story of a young British pilot. The subtext.
The technique of playing double. The technology of break. The telemetry of everyday life. The thought from the outside. The three wise men in my daughter's nativity play. The two girls.
The unconscious. The ups and downs of the curvature. The utility of language.
The wait. The war machine. The water glistening in the way you imagine it does in a dream. The whites of their eyes. The whole sheebang. The winding road between escarpment and water. The world of worthy stories. The writing.