Phillipson - Instant-flex 718

The task is to think things up. We said words like: Ha, whats not a strange place? and In the field, look! the calf s commitment to a routine dairy surge. This is how it would be if it were possible to forget Europe and sweat-shopped salopettes and the smell of horses noses and that the sky is an identikit and words are identikits. A dense love is under construction. There is more to say and less is said least of all Mother, I cant bear to outlive you, which is all, really, that matters. Sooner or later, it is actual trousers.

But wheres the baby thats going to be conned one second by the words, think them relevant? The nurses retreated to a disinfected lobby. What else? She was a whole person, but small.

Or: Hi! And: Id like to make a discovery! These are just examples. From the bar off the lobby, where peanuts are always freshest, comes the sound of chewing. My heart could tell you: I spent an hour on the cross-trainer. It could tell you: This worked off the days fat tensions with a whiplash quality. Then I went for a sauna, if there is a sauna. Ease of communication has ruined the hearts eloquence, for the moment.

As for me, I live by moving. All thats modern has movement. I keep promising myself, one of these days well exist underwater. My heart could tell you: People are dwarfed by the heart, alive in its real-time subplot. I paddled through some lesser-known banlieues of the deep end, to give it further thought, the whole shapeless narrative of my untravelling.

I was at home with my husband, eating mashed potato. Two miniscule but unequal balls of mashed potato dropped from his mouth onto the mashed potato. It was like when Galileo dropped balls of the same material but different masses from the Leaning Tower of Pisa, except Galileo didnt use his mouth or mashed potato, and the ground isnt a plate of mashed potato. Ive got it! My husband looked up from the mashed potato. Ive got it! I slammed my fist into the central, glowing platter of mashed potato. It was hot, for mashed potato.

Orbs leapt. They were loose crumbs of unmashed potato. Some moved towards the mashed potato. Some moved away from the mashed potato. I had discovered that the earth goes around the sun.

Between my left and right hand, above the covers whipped up like the Urals, its the rope over an abyss. Its a travesty of hand-stitching, a decapitation. Whose cotton limb? It dangles from my thumb and forefinger. The universe slackens in its shadow. Sir, Herr, Monsieur, Dottore, MLord, Your Honour I tore it from its felted home in palsy-walsy boredom. The long sound of the wind / the hypnotic high-pitch / a rhapsody from the alley.

Or it was the spoutings of small whales on asphalt carried via mothballs in the wardrobe. For a moment, the thread was immense. I plucked it. Hard. Mute hint of our bond with fluff, it hangs in nights unbound girdle.