Stephen Chamberlain

 

—stained clear through to sleep

 

—and for some days I slept on my stomach like a window rests on a glade

 

—I don’t like that I slept then because of how it was performed—it’s a method of that period but not more real because of that—less real in fact—as a smell which is never experienced until it becomes a stain—a stain on a sort of thought—kinetic because of that smell which imbued it but not because someone else told you you’re too tired to decide but you needn’t be tired until you think this—

 

—stain as winding cable along you because you brush amongst what—the reeds there are none reeds—ligaments of the stain—a movement of cloth which seems until decided sure that you prompted the movement or wanted it—will go on even as you lie to mine watching my eyes—I will shut confident—are are sewn up—and then attempt not to grow as you watch as an instant—that spasming out into its last

 

—licking the streaks off your muzzle and making more muzzles out of the fewer streaks

 

—smell in a smell-way simultaneously biting through the smelling to get to—that’s just the act it’s not the I-did-that-for I did it for nothing it should be nothing shouldn’t—ah gnawing still—

 

—go go to get to what that’s it the what the frond of particles the want—should I contain this box I proffer as a smell in the guise of a stain intimates sleep to rest longer as if malingering as if one actually incapacitated but who aspires to contain this knife-box a stain that quakes the hand like the slime of another’s glove which doesn’t fit the hand nor resemble a glove so you lay it over the hand because you figure a stain covers things wrests things from being just the smell conveys them from nascence into it must be cut away off the face of the picture you incessantly attempt as you perform the act of waiting for this of of of coursing of through the dumping gulps into the of open the box to the knife which is the box which smells too like the foaming through to get to to be it any and at all you’m ade’th e’bo’x in’’t

o’ the’stai’n ‘wh’i

c’h a’s’n’o

s’ta’I’

n’ ‘the sleep which has no stain nor s mell nor

bed

 

—but strange because the faces—become a stain of the room covering even the room—the image of say we should go there to that room—should—we blooming knowing what one must in order to proceed as a knowing thing—vessel of many stains many songs and blooming

 

—I like how I am coming down—no I the stair coming down to meet me there—that sleep which turned the room—no turned my body on the image of bed and said sleep now but also tried to hand me the image of saying it whispered through teeth but couldn’t because I was asleep—

 

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