This book

 this book cover 2


On opening the book you find an unobservable secret and a reported departure. Following, you lie by the pool, or visit the exceptional beach. There you read the book again, this history, which never had enough insights through its opening, its dream-charts: in these sleep many lovers, and you suffer again the pages as you go through them all. Loafing in grave Morocco, you note how reality lets us shift.

When I come I tease the extremes that hang, and there drops some higher world. Then Summer seems an earthly edition in which mutely glorious holiday-stems branch themselves, and the art historians do all kinds of writing.



And those writings heave, yawn big and grey, divinely cracked and stolen, and so remove themselves to a wide ground which is a vacuum waiting on swathes of light.  Wine is poured and it fills an inescapable sense of bread while we are waiting for publishable studies of the new bed-fellows – and it ends the dry studying of the book.


But sleepless elves invest you in wanting to see another edition which will, they say, include banks, chlorine, swimmers, golf, orgasms, paparazzi, openings – and so much more.









The book itself is awash with parts that the book itself didn’t choose. And they wander, just like the book’s form never says, in a cell of booming memory, claiming images for the shade or for the page: of mother, lips, lipsticks. There are as many lips as there are absences.

Some of the text is biography, some is memoir, and some is sleep-resistant poem, like an intimate notebook showing the effects of sleep, grief and units. Contents range from objects and photographs, to tools, tenses and life, and the best parties, including the day, the years, sickness and – always – death. Remember when a few photographs sliced the ordinary tools? Tenses knew mother’s life before the party: all the years of domesticity couldn’t seem to keep a scrapbook of philosophical arguments.

All the research infecting the book was trying you while you were reading: for memories are strong in getting you in the order of the images and collecting yourself into the hospital bed. Complete, on your side, you wonder about going home. A souvenir focusses you fundamentally on your relics, and offers you and mother something of a relationship.

But if grief comes – a supreme absence you can tilt at if you must – then pull at the real till you can explain the death-deferring text of love. Your hair bangs may reinvent waking to the real but mostly go frizzy in the starless heat, developing a nocturnal love which becomes, or laughs at, writing.










The book inspires artists, raising the current question of the nocturnal stuff of common processes. Almost pictographic, it is nocturnal with eternal visibility, with tragic networks which grow night and uneasily enclose a power, matter and impossible double-cream in shifty collusion. This is not self-burying, because it opens to modern luck and as yet unvisited lust, with determination and lost dolours.

Career and reasons punctuate straightforward sweet studies. Acts of untold self-exile, graveyard careerism and romantic sociology look strange and go paradise-ghosting. The ghost snaps doubly, which combs out sufficiently on spreading, because the suicide rips the choice and proper focus of the studies.

The extension is a frustrated case. It places little attempts in nameless books, and this is sensitive for the writer, as reason declines, and absence slows down, opening out with nous, not infringing on unrealized views – because the attempts live through you, coming and going in deep orbs.

You’re likely to do the drop-outs, dying to bring the choices to wear out, but continue slippery because artists are, strangely, refuseniks, and are placed largely stage-left. Only leave if you don’t shrink in outrageous air. But always nurse your body on the melancholic country reader.








This book comes at another time of day, in the first-person and about places – whatever philosophies from the curse (more about this later) make changes to them. And by remembering them (the changes) you may pick up the phrases of those who are endlessly fiction.

The book itself is endless time, with no nameable space but with time for endless work. The bricky-book-object is carried, and is set down, finally, by a series of familiar readers. The reading experience is redeemed: miraculous, mute, inglorious marks play, and occasionally sear bitter images. And photographs bark precisely at understandings, while soup is spooned relentlessly into mouths.

The articles on genitalia carry models of saying or thinking: some are general with reflections on systematic becoming, while others are dumb parades of cunts with patronizing examples of melodious hell-raisers and Bibles. There are also lots of writing doctors and bare vaginas doing your story, or realizing your examination, banging on your oddness, and more.

All of these things billow out to actions, which are bracing, but often overlap with effort, especially in getting to know the nature of reading. Those of us who replace the work take on a perceptual unwinding which keeps the exits all moving away in the diner, catering for us in a hurry. A few teenagers, similar to those in the separate crevices, told story after story following their dreams’ deliveries, but none of these contributions could help us decide if it matters to climb a risky detail of the perceptual displacements endlessly trying to escape us all.








In terms of visual format I’m not sure this book desires latency. It pokes a manifest hand onto examples of approaches – and it is so on! The book itself is nonsensical, but bigger pages change everything, and also worry different layers for you to turn your own leaf and appal the stable children.

The book is clearly square, and the medium gives weight to those of manifest innocence – those who get to know of false worlds from latent text, or of a second slackening all the way up to a perfectly basic mayhem that must be replaced by figural settings with clouds in between.

No matter how you’re constituted you can attempt the pond, or take on leaves that are puzzling but will unwind you like a delicate intoxicant. You must keep this letter to use the ancient jeans provided, though they may worry the subtle surprising teenagers. For those of us who can never bring a letter, it is a critical alcohol just caring through this glue and deciding on the simple undergrowth: or you might decide to climb, or just sink into your strange nature and stop there – it really is no use trying to escape it.

The book offers a cigarette, a whiff of fine tobacco, and a design for the plants on your grave. And now, having seen this book, you might get out the old familiar primer and begin to sequence closure. For narrative advances: it moves along and turns itself, offers you something – a sign (eg ‘home’) – and then it whirls on. It’ll be such a pure sign, and then the insomniac hell of trying transgression and experimentation together.








This book lets its first reviewer blow its obscure problem. It backs away from other studies to think towards an ideal culture of absentee art, an ultimate economy of go-to-bed commentary. The subjects feel brave, essential and modern: accounts that file enlightenment unknowingly, tumbling ancient ways into the infinite letter-box in which letters run without draining the network of letters. So the letters of the book go on uninterrupted. And so we get to know we must avoid the Blues.

The book keeps almost 60 gospels of Elvis, including fingers, pulses, heads and bums – and lots of times, growing in company, it is charged with the products of endless chunks. It is maddening and contradictory, blushing in its ordinary territory, or taking a sublime migration into an exile where no rules can be heard, and restlessly thinking there on how the solid grey boulders breathe.

One approximate judgement of this book comes with the different facts I have smeared, and the tips, all of the productive ones, about desiring suicide, or the desired hell of literary jerks, which the youth would see in film and performance, faded, softened to contrasts and piety. After which you would not know how the writing spirit or technical maps pelted the usual market rates.

And yet Summer stays throughout it all, urging forward this little vehicle of print, of a thousand new toys sent out in language. And reactions go on, scarcely continuing, holding on in lasting brave swerves to a human judgement near to the critical instinct.










This book’s heart is mutable and ordinary. Its mind is temporary. It confesses in your voice, but finds it hard to imagine you. At times it sees you and prompts you to give it your private language, that one in which you tell yourself unfathomably of love. The one in which you think that everything you say will happen, always and absolutely.

You have become attracted to layer after layer of pin-ups, tempting you to extremes, and the book possesses the sense behind this: so please read and re-read this, because the madness seems accurate and truthful when the book holds you.

Keep going on through the book’s clear mixture, following the encapsulations of the shuffling and debilitating eras in which you held the member of the leader.

Reason can finish so much – like this dusty partnership, which had been given meaning by the distant music, the samples through which you asked for connection. Only the young can understand these recursive samples, the meticulous trails of sperm falling unquestionably over the end, and the cupboards and the drifting and the TV – all of them coming along too through the tightly-held years.










This book doesn’t take anyone’s place. This was wearing early on, and it meant the book had a presence somewhere between the elusive interior, unwarranted arrangements and the literary-themed room, and that was why – I think – I saw no recession, or even knew where to look when the workers stood out. I suppose I just couldn’t receive.

Struggling on with it, through dreams of girders, I could feel myself impose the sense that I was writing it – my labour opening and closing the book’s original welding, which felt something like breathing fair, with an easy classic movement, but having as a counterpoint to this dream-world dexterity a particularly gigantic asshole holding on to what the book wants to censure.

The collage-format imagines generally accepted dreams, strategic ruminations and thorough performances, all damaged by polite back-chat – but it all keeps on ending too, so you can create flatly, always storing your vitriol somewhere sensible to strike out at what you’re sure you don’t relish.

The endorsements ring, necessarily, for tips, or peal for the tricky holes that require reviewing then compressing. Words are packed together a little over the tips, reflecting the prevailing critical thinking. And the book receives a daily anecdote, which makes it feel universal. The reasons, placed as girders throughout, bring the necessary stability for the flow of humours in the children.









The book itself cries out extremely clearly that it hasn’t been pre-determined by a firmly held logic. Ironically its opening landscape depicts its future ruin. There is a metaphorical collapse at the start of the book, with extraordinary sound and dust for you to report later along the line.

The book is candid and straightforward about the sites within its specific territory. The void thickens the region and clusters delightfully. The text supports as enigmatically as it forgets so that you can eliminate from view the constellations of motor factories in which work is killing a terrific year.

Not uncannily, though, the year keeps stretching out its absent information and two-way approaches, while losing these in the telephone distances, only giving garbled locations to the old images supposed to be here on time expecting a kiss. In fact there really are no meeting-points to make a note of – but as you thunder on the never-having-met may be what, at the end of the line, sums you up.

So the book rides past with a presiding air of ‘this book junks rhetoric’, and then stops to weep at its own erasure of place: along the way it has gathered 44 conventional narratives around the space of our nowhere, each a variation on the most disturbing topic of all – ‘I am not central’.








The book is dark. In your sleep you attempt to remember its thread: there was the page where you left your comfort-blanket, in the house with the nocturnal guides to your scattered research – the guides that kept coming out of the woodwork in the study.

In the study there was a picture showing an artist who had fallen over in a moment of narcolepsy. There was a presence that crept up in glimpses. Names slid about. The swords on the wall meant a long sleep-filled seduction. There were massive spiders, more pages, and moments all missile-armed, and waltzing and buzzing. In the end our dream was a camera, being fed with these terrible snapshots.

Reflections shift to mirror the circling suggestions. None were spoken by us. You never spoke to any visitor for a succession of years. I never speak despite the remaining characters. So what makes these tubes so necessary? There is a highly unusual individual in this book who has to answer this amidst the government-sponsored obscurity.

For the work is the condition of continental outsiders. And for me there is a human recognition: that indifference cares, consigning an enigmatic old man to the end as the drapes close, over the highest story, or under the low sea.









When I rubbed out some of the work, that act rearranged me. The new gap was waiting on me to tell you the consequence of my action – and I ask you to listen, in this preface which is also a prospect.

However this action actually shuts off the subject I could tell you about forever, because until I know you – friend – I will always be going back by the treatises in me to try to turn everything into unalterable, identifiable lights. This tragedy always happens, leading to, and indirectly pointing out, my stasis, so that I flap at impossible solace instead of just meandering on.

Yet this book forgets my perpetual indistinction for me, and actually describes my recovery, and I think it mentions yours too. And so another’s trauma lightens: “apodictic is human recovery, when we are given the gift”.

The heroes are the explorers, who know the source of death. They had switched-on parents, who held them, networked for them – so that later they would be able to steal the gift. They still promise you will get it back. They are saving it for you. So there’s no need for any sentimentality. But no touching your relentless interlocutor.








The book was slanted so as to clear the sketches that settled, as an artist settles on a relation, or a man on an appearance. This plunges the devices you drag through, so everything becomes bare – a relentless no-frills.

I was unable to comprehend the format of the glances, and every reaching seemed to go on forever. Because when I brought this book it lit the preferences in me: it told me the pronouns, so that ‘I’ proceeded to wait for the new love-interest instead of the rich protagonists. This repeated my unsustainable compatibility for me, and it moved my terminology.

You may remember the fantasmatic voices, the open-ended touchstones, the texts that found you, and all of the insights. But this book was unfinished for me, as someone who has never won in love, because it leaves in-use feelings hankering for an occasion, and then clamping any small-scale crystallization on the nearest long-standing attraction.

These ears have turned to shared experiences which speak of the recent risks that neither the book nor ‘you’ can hear: these experiences live in your human place, containing a connection to your estrangement, to your unravelling that just comes and goes.








This book has ongoing night components (neither machine nor human), as well as sculptures made from twigs, for which the process involves contingency, so the significance of anything will latch on: all of the gathered moments, the visions that jabbed in particular eyes, the growing lives of common items, and the music of the many to-do lists.

During the night of the book you dream you are sleeping with your old stuffed toys. The monkey and the giraffe have been working on a model of thought, in which thought streams through the current elements, and flows like a blanket over your habits as the depths are sought out: and tossing and twisting clear of the method behind the fluidity, thoughts drop, finally, into the ocean.

Concurrently a pre-linguistic fiction develops across page after page of sinews and tendons; drawn forward by the murmurs of artists, we have arrived, trembling now, at the edge of the forest, where we can gather our bundles of twigs.

Well, the old stuffed toys died laughing at our sculptures. At the end, the book notes surprising and abject acts of mourning, and you stay hopping beautifully throughout these. A profound laughter blooms inside you – and it grows: then it goes somehow.








This book demands pious trembling from those of you with ethical networks. You must endure a horrible appraisal, staying throughout the bad tension for the promise of access to your own meaningful inauthenticity.

In the beginning you are dim and irresistible. Eventually you will be permitted tragic readings of revolutionary works – however the book will be thrown at you if these turn towards the masturbatory/suburban.

Try not to lose touch with the delicate network which is formed in the first half of the book. You can avoid this by entering into a certain kind of embrace – the book shows you how.

If you want to participate in an exchange of images, this can be done, but you should avoid becoming twisted by the market. As you gaze at the new images you may realize that your role is to witness them as a promise, rather than to experience actual desire.








The book tells us that leaves have been piled up in the corner of the garden. And stones have been ordered into little families. We wander through the tidy chapters, through museums containing echoes of things that were once much-discussed.

The author is not at home. But we don’t need to meet him to know his intentions: they can be discerned in the diagram formed by the trees. He encourages us to work at playing with these vague and insomniac volumes.

If you do, something comes to inspect you, puts out feelers for the unintended, for sources, for your childhood. Speaking personally, what I constructed fell into the large hole in the middle of the floor – the floor having given way to the innumerable routines of life, our unceasing, foolish or fallacious affairs. Now echoes of life are rising from the dark room below.

Blindfolded though we are, we can still see silhouettes against the dark: we can see gestures that are hard to read, bodies stitching themselves together in the dark. Images of normative rooms fade away as we learn to read into the holes inside ourselves: what the book doesn’t tell us, though, is whether reading means digging ourselves further in, or tunnelling out.










It may be that this book’s combination of sleep and dance is dangerous. But you can’t help but respond when its spectral fingers prod your eyes along the lines.

A hand draws questions from an old grey sack. Tongues plunge hissing sideways, to ask you for the meaning of these cool squares. Then things get going when feet are introduced: we pass through a series of rooms, and there are bulges in the lower areas. It almost felt like you were actually touching the skin of a pear.

The pages devoted to the goddess of dance broke into the words of ardent others.

They said that pressing the buzzer on the left would bring us ideal spheres – and after we pressed some lurching balls arrived for us to rub against for a few minutes.










This book occurs three-quarters along the reading way, between pure pictures and the mutability of fire. The void lies somewhere just off the reader’s portrait and pours black onto just about any contiguous background. Subjects change, but they live on behind the masks and in the kinds of images we used to be shown in assembly.

This catalogue has travelled the streets that I came out of, where everyone was spread out, and in the game I was it, and it all had to happen as it does in an important portrait, complete with modes and gestures. The portrait tells you there’s a scattered subject between the flow of time and the whole of life, and if you are for the moment unfinished the eyes will follow you continuously.

The book comes with hope, that you will be able to cure the pessimistic pictures, floating all forlorn in the puddles. The hope is that a sky comes, and not one copied or minimal, and that you are staying for a while, like a bird, knowing also when to migrate. For now all is in suspension, in lieu of the hoped-for invitation on finding the particular photograph into which the years sank.

The chimerical maker of the structure lets his bird-head dictate these artistic sentences, so they sing in the desert of concrete, so that fruits can be tasted – which is when you know that the signals are tangible and ready to be pasted into your own composition. If this is the case then press yourself against an edifice of your choice, so that you may exchange edges briefly. The cardboard-boxes are particularly clear – listen to what they are telling you.







I picked up the research on the enormous culture apparatus. The apparatus is as black as ink, incontestable and heavy, interminably churning a universal thesis into the motions, while failing to remember anyone’s name. The noise it makes is deafening.

There are persistent points of reference, and subtle subjects. They go conceptual with direct mortal growth, with tiny discussions and visual work which slants us as it is pulled into our insides. Images may appear light-hearted or serious. They are very intuitively edited and dry-packaged, though capable of provoking tears.

They say that you may stray, but do so very carefully and always knowing your information (which could be somewhere unexpected) to fiddle with as you pester any everyday data. Darkness questions legibility, and startles everyday acts such as coming or pursuing. The apparatus turns around a little when responsibility confronts us, so when you can see a name pass a message of difference behind to blow the dryers. Try to avert distorted impacts which mean neurosis and reflect our limited and shabby language.

Still, in our lives, not all of the people write around a degenerating paper which slides along into funny challenges and distrust – because there continues to be a lot of reality, and there is much more choice. This dispiriting age may urinate on justice – but hold onto a little sardonic hope: there are choices and there is the impossible: there is abandonment, and there are many steps.









This book was the most relentless of radical contributions. It seems to perform a dramatic difference: I now see the engine was untenable, the one I’d made to care for the non-narrative bug which causes the narrative to founder and feel like impossible bubble-wrap.

In its temporal mainframe this book has dutiful lines of possessive entrepreneurs with sharply distinguished traits that are supplied to panting users who go on to give up the box and life. Only the singer carries on, coming and going on a hallucinated yacht, remembering incredible vices and a roll of paradoxical photos that unrolls willingly. A salvo comes in the mornings, tightly ungraspable and after a time no longer normal.

I fully understand myths but none were passing my pale garages; only the thin presence of a few purposes, re-living then forgetting the vain steps. Work fits well into this vibe, enabling one to live with the thought of empty optimism about the incessant narrative education programmes: these allow you to re-imagine all of the spaces you were inserted into by the monstrous teleology machine of liberation.

If the reader’s phantoms shudder at this a little of each goes up into the machine. The end of the book re-cycles them, returning them to the reader for a future relation of uneasy intimacy which passes like a long tapestry of points that are plain and unspoken.










Many connections went into this narrative: for example, connections between fluid phenomena and stiffening centres. Trails exist because points were laid. The limits are ordinary and the board stays open so there’s no bind with the medium wandering, and you don’t have to go away for dusting or airing.

I caught hold of some interesting threads, which became like looking at a painting while sleeping: or, the condition was one of apparent fluidity, a reading in the medium of milk. The book gives an account of itself as a glass with a fluid rim or perimeter, varying according to the nature of the substance poured in. Enormous drips produce the faintest splashes, almost innocent disavowals of responsibility for any spilt milk. Seemingly fixed significations rub up against different fluid substances: wine appears, and the milk gets soaked up along with the incessant sperm: soft points come in droplets over the studies on the subject.

You move through differences and make sense like you see it – possibly – rather than settling on a single drop of milk. Fresh applications bring in a distilled approach which builds up towards reappraisal or other shufflings of gears. Then whiteness returns as a sombre black spillage. And lying here asleep doesn’t mean I’m missing the disruption to continuous milk.

But I think if this all seems dull or impersonal compared to semen, in comparison to maddening complexity this cereal is serious for artists: it progresses the artistic subject onto talking about the milk around the art before the questions take effect and the line trembles.