The Vein

But I have been familiar with ruins too long to dislike desolation. (Lord Byron, November 1816) what happens in any sovereign body is created on the evidence of the last head on its last lap those of us watching then, during the programme see the die seem to be cast to draw the teeth of our first question affecting essential interests they and only they had she was dealing with an unworthy family gathered for death inconvenient location gruesome tired mannerisms a bit thick coming from her losing the thread of argument in a sinuous cartwheel drained of what life hurried out with a pushchair unsparing he takes us to the cabaret into patterns and groups contrived for distraction more likely to deepen withdrawal such a decrease in which women had views diametrically opposed soon changes his tune howling face to face cruel for people recoiling in horror plastered indeed by any form of social charges and interest it may be healthy to change the tone of administration in growth dynamics use of perspective attachment to things entail perpetual disruption of what space is for built up in absence transactions typically occur under conditions of heightened variations in taste spaces, isolated thoughts which his concept of beauty distorts to represent thinking and feeling life he considers in particular superimposed spatial images accelerating production of different times to control the future this book has been edited to detect the note of such preoccupations blue evening light desire out of stasis for jobs investment itself ruthless traders organising forces unable to stop the drift of imagination over materiality form an autobiography in fires of competition only to emerge stronger within this system of production brought into our homes which in turn form the basis of generating and acquiring aesthetic pleasure conventional these days cluttered with illusion based on writing remixed to demolish any narrative of the world within no image concealed from the realm of material accumulation and circulation in part as would be true enduring time by herself he touches her surrounded by models able to pass unrecognised in the stream of money implied by a photograph where the sun never seen can be constructed crashing through layer after layer on a depthless screen with the requisite speed somewhere behind us thrown into the street patiently to see rotting pieces of car buttons working backwards against nerve junctions tilt her head towards her ankles in the underground light black fur gleamed off the oil drum searchers found a delicate bubble of oil sweeping through it pure oxygen dawn touched at the corners rose in flame lengths of thin steel drawn across dust shifting in thick time on motions playing out across from me not in sequence cut into the sides of an extension run below his eyes were tombstones ringed with razor-wire he threaded bright slashes of colour through open jolts of fear measuring, calculating shaking so hard a lump of shadow watching turned from side to side shielding us from the sun pale green glass frames disintegrating tarmac down to the tunnel of the corner of his eye moving on to some other man for the moment horizon of empty water locking him away inside and he wore two pictograms set in strange lines invisible in air energetically above them heels and silk scatter snow in the middle of a room swirling out of the mist bright with arrangements tainted too historically he had forgotten quite violent fights listening to the continuous pounding of some other thought looking at the surface far away down in a cloud of dust tattered lace about her she watched him calmly bits of it he tore off at the end of each meeting seemed colour-coded sparkling violently tingling on his skin holes turned round slowly in brown earth lined with age he smelled burning trees in darkness a voice came from an imaginary telephone on the dashboard shrink-wrapped packages soft underfoot glowed in the dark blinds slanted to make the match flame blast across his face snap shut in the jungle after the ones still alive start confessing flashbulbs go off her hand flicked back and forth over a section of floor he had heard more than every single word from the once proud ruins of arches in one outstretched hand an odd sensation included balance working to repair the damage of triumph on his face folded against the edge of exhaust fumes closing his lids properly needed great care she heard a rustle little numbers flew around trees tumbled across a moonlit field trying to reassemble his head again she blinked some sort of code subtle variations in the colour of her eyes a reliable testing ground gardens inside shelters shades patterning an idealised culture in one landscaped clump stuffed full of shells a version or remnant of something under a different name some crisis of identity spanned the world thought was the only thing to come back to acting beyond acoustics even when dramatic she always wore fancy dress simply cut and held low objects grouped together confidently into fine jewellery after the storm new scents touched by salt spray hardly dimmed the harsh light he sometimes pulled at his hair obsessed with finding the beautiful curtain allowing him entry never able to follow the middle of night downwards to find a runway with deep sides writhing under his fingers personalities full of energy order a series of the same programme cool for film using this knowledge machines talk to themselves maintain a very persistent buzzing as the signal ends in a dramatic freeze close to the border on a street with a few orange trees