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Insane Leonards

I began to realize that other people’s memories act like a virus

Insane Leonards:
snapshots of delirium from a new magnetic pole #4

The fourth and last episode of Insane Leonards by author Richard Makin

The amazing capacity that seeds have to pause in time.

Is this what you mean when you talk of water? Set within fugues of words, one after another: who is talking to whom or why. Someone laughs. A present without future—or an eternal—is precisely the definition we’re looking for (anything under seven, or seven itself). Little by little comes abyss, and the infamous ship in which sir made his voyage of circumnavigation. Originally called, it was renamed at port of saint, near the entrance. He says they resembled tin foil but were not.
                Once where the eyes, a crimson light. As she steps over the threshold, flesh decays. Nor was this all. One cannot probe any further into the idea—literally, the spirit of place, from to beget. Or parricide, or a picture of a tree of coral beneath the sea.
                He was of them discoriate, flayn quick yet died not: skin-scourge, dermographia. When planes first started they adopted the same system. (But the arsmetrick is all wrong.) Now it is overcrust, fair to look upon but turning to ash when touched—variously thought to be gall, the poison green-pulp. Any fair but disappointed thing. It stills feels premature, this posture.

A verse is composed. He was lightheaded at altitude—starboard it was or portside, I forget. But very nicely written on the body underheard: eavesdropped, catastrophed. He wears a glazed hat. As the cortege turns into the market-place an old man comes running up, the tears. Hello, I’m judgment he says, or aeon. I’m called spirit or primal fire. Is everyone good with that?
                I disconnect. It’s just gone eight. At the close of day the giant mixes this dust with seawater in a barrel and necks it down in one draft. At midnight a cock crows. The written and the oral are indistinct, must never be separated. This corresponds to the situation of a person who has fallen ‘from a high roof into a deep well’.
                O look, five stars for the museum. Outsider ice. I’m resolved upon path twenty-eight. Suddenly a bolt of sunlight illuminates the distant wall far up to my right.

Before we go any further, an article that concerns you and only you. I’m not budging from this stool until this is complete, or falls into the wrong hands. The road was clogged with thick mud, heavy yellow clay. There’s a hierarchy of events in the novel, the one enclosing the other. Before the impulse fades, another of those unremembered.
                After three months or so had passed I began to realize that other people’s memories act like a virus. Departure is not always voluntary: absence and recall. Make some coffee.

The two brass bands that tempered the flood, perpetual paraphrase.

Nothing starts when you’re sixteen. In place of associative images, it has no reference point outside of itself, simply joining word upon word, leading from exposition to apocalypse. The fourth letter is a doorway, or watercross; one might call this a semi-opera, that which prompts one to misread. There is no point. I began to reason with him: ‘all their hallowed, self-murdered souls et cetera’ (you can buy extra lives, things like that). What do they do? What do they expect? Absolutely nothing, just lots of feathers stuck to your back. Bigger explosions. They should have called it the second epiphany, and be done with it.
                Thank you. A body asked me yesterday. What gets you out of bed? I replied. I stored up a list and took it to him. He asked to see blood, which was duly drawn.

The sun came. Below, a composite creature is broken on the wheel. A public disputation with certain heathen philosophers is about to take place. Under the headword it says ‘see beautiful parricide’—it’s only the first step that costs anything. The beginning is half the hole. The proper sense of the word is sleeping place, yet still they call their cemeteries cities of the silent. Some spent the night in their vehicles. The game is called the remembering of names (capital bond markets, a porous form of glass et cetera). O to have a spirit for stars, metals, minerals and plants. Mourning becomes Electra they say.
                But psychologically, there is still something unsatisfying about all this. One of his old silent negatives was packed off to a museum. Objects were left behind: a robe, a tin badge, a book, the seven of diamonds, a round stone, a flat stone, three seashells, an apple, miscellaneous hairs and flux of blood—one drawing, with invented moniker and heart-line (angelic), a tiny yellow flower detached from the body: herb of grace. A white feather on a flagstone.

Threnody: a song of lamentation, a lament for the dead, a dirge. I’m going on a journey to visit an ally (viz blue daemon goddess of death and destruction). The portal is a red column. Time is never as one suspects. Scan your eyes around it. The sign said international dark sky reverse.
                And so he continues to live among us, unseen, one of the thirty-six.
                He. What’s that there? On your hand? . . .
She. Where? What’s what? . . . Ah, that is weight, the press of air. (It’s like a tattoo, only not.) What are you thinking right now?
                He. Nothing. Subterfuge. Instances of condensation, their shadows gathering like deadmen. . . . It’s no longer possible to separate various levels of utterance.
                (Then she asks for a list of things to do to do to do today and what he wants.)

Insane Leonards Episode 3 can be read here.
Insane Leonards Episode 2
can be read
here.
Insane Leonards Episode 1 can be read here.

Richard Makin’s novel Dwelling is published by Reality Street

Posted 08:23 Tuesday, Sep 3, 2013 In: Literature

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