HORIZONTOLOGIES

FINIS.

HORIZONTOLOGIES is now finished. The project started in September 2011, and was completed in February 2012. It involved me sitting down with my notebook on a mostly-daily basis, and filling one complete page, in a single burst, with as many mixed metaphors and neologisms that sprang to mind. Mostly I wrote them on the tram or while drunk. It was mostly an enjoyable, and unabashedly self-indulgent, exercise in the dissociation of fixed meaning from written language.

I intend to produce an artist’s book based around the texts of HORIZONTOLOGIES in the next year or so. To keep abreast of my future projects, including my debut novel, Spectacle City, please visit my website, or simply get in touch via email.

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100.

palfry aspect! sinuous strand! & the ravelling moments, the slipped & dintersected metaphors & poultry yellowing neologarithms (genetically commodified) have brought us dithering, at last length lovelylocks, to the terms of closure // you have travelled so many journeys through the daily practice; it’s a marvel your cameltoe’s still shoestrapped, that the hand’s still heavylaying topheady in herculaneum // her fingers drop away from the freight of it all // mountaintop, & downstream, the diametric’s a dunshaft pickle of burbaged misconsideration // dear witherface, i am shivering from your phlegmatic incruence, one more & ever yet again: so you caused me to do this, & i lived through it & learned about its nature all & nothing, time & future danceparties (to the grave, nothing) guised in homonid dagrags as a needy fixture // on her back tit & top heavy, blood & boys dribbling out on the rag, what a plugnugger & a do-much mag it has covered — she’s cluttering her mind, she’s too well-read, but brilliantly fed eh — eh! // coming down fast // i won’t miss you ’cause i made you & you know what? it never was real // time for a liedown //

99.

a manner of surtweil prexelitude dealt the figurehead of blows, masticating sawchinks in the poragepotted hope that the end would ultimately deflummox the sordid means // whatever the weather was the mind in aghast & turns of dumb denoaning, of wretchked & hibbrous ghosts that whisper folkloric phraseturns in the dewflecked depths of your dirty desires // some things do not make sense ’til your turn them all around in theĀ  outskirts of your mind // i wish pevensies had earlier forsook the tumultuous fevvers: the feelings now are purled & crenely, somewhat slipstitched as it falls in the overarching play of patterns // the motives resplendent, girdth like noboddady’s bizzo, the knees of another saltcracked & thickened by the trenor of missus bouvier // i will not never, no, not forever // when your lancashire steplets were on my fagles, i coulda sworn you wanted more, i woulda sworn you wanted it all & all // the precipice denounces its own terms when the chunder turns ‘sunder, when the wield wills one from the grave of another // to give forth nothing but a hook, a crust //

98.

the ancient honesty of your name, & again the gloam did not beseem too rightly, never did feel real or culpalpable of verity // a lemongrath devonshielled the whisk of his beater, which i lay shyly by his side like the faery minister of a world begroaned & tugged asunder e’re i fled // the slidge yet bilges oblong, wriggles nicely slant as if the meat was cupt in the sheath of another: his sherryment, everwell & never, therefore floes aslide, legging out the fligament, & reciting the froam of all that could have reft (& yet unshriven) // minsy depaupre, wimsly deliver, those bracing godsmacks may never bereave the lax slate of the undressed, the feebling miscellany of one scant besweathered to the fumes of near & how // memory likens fact to the hell of the present // wishing i were true, that which i will to be nought but you (& i rue) // you were a guardhouse rent on the trellis of terror, & i, in your midst, merely took to be a berevracked flinter & spindled away // thereafter the tongs sung shivvies bewilded, giltressed in desulter like cornfrog remonstrances, evitable by inches in the seed of devilled herring (which the pantheon of tremors hastened us to forget) // so folklong the browning & weave your own mask //

97.

the delay process is a transistral pheromelon, somewhat dubthwacked as a measure for hypersurreal eschafanctory groan // the stone had a word, the third had a loan, & all those in favour braised their gland, & those against freighters listed bewillingly to remnant shards // euridicyl benumbed with milling flirtations, but that’s beside the oint: it is the lean mass that one acquires, when choosing to live on one’s feet for awhile, that deters the horizontal but certainly clears the mind // & the lipso, as you might’ve gathered, is greeling towards a close: come close, so you can hear my meaning; these mutterances are numbered, are sleathingly becoming anti or other, though the patterns in the weather persist in their flummoxing of us // in a matter or months the newspring stripped to summer, & now my summer is beginning to clothe itself in the colours of fall // girls of a sundress stick together // a different priestess with another tail to fell, that is my calling; for the future in such terms is a fiddly bet, & just ’cause i made eyes at you doesn’t mean you’re real, doesn’t mean i’m not (still) living in dreams // what a dirty world, what a dirty mess, i’m nearly bloodywell over it //

96.

& this is the undoing of another dictum — & so for what would i not seek bodily autonomy, the desperate dream of an immaculate will? // unfolding & closure, the limbs of a dervish — so stillness is a difficult region to commit to, what with lesions-of-grace & tropsickle bartering & so forth // oh palfrey, dalfrey! ’twas that selfslain undoing in & of its shelf, its meandering gurney & drillowsilk cambience in the wreaf of the unsloan // or how about this: fauxmongering gallantry treaks & wreakles, manifesting designs from the holyofuck grownyown, as a result of which the monad quirt quite undevailingly, as deliciously shimmying floozies mistook the glow for rotten row // deframe the figure, leave facts asides & flumegate the gruen facedown to transfer, for i am sick of these lies, the lies that live all over; sick of shingleclad wishes that row back & spill over the irrefutable fact of the female image // i miss thee, soul of love; so much, like fangled flowerwilds bellusion themselves in the shade of yore, & i do dream, i do wish, that your arms would yet contain me, & that words, those pretty party favours, would make it all turn out okeliedokay // the point, henceforth, of red brick sickness //

95.

extrinsic heptaculon, or a careles wishper tissued fillingly into the foyd // you backlustred the tritocosm, chilled with all sorts of crusties, & resolved by dropping bellydown pennyup in someone else’s little nest of gold // i cannot hear, i am a marchcross without rendering on the true plane of turpid gelatine which clopered & preset the efforts of many, for today evades & disintervades us, & time is a site for sitting & (be)longing // our truth was a slogan traded as slippage between teeth: i forget things, sometimes — methodological stanzas, mostly — & fumes of disreason when the miscellanies seek (per purpose) to convey // nostalgia is a dance for the heart & mind // touches single down across my flips & skinpack, the fresh plumage of sure flesh fangling, flecksoiled & sirsute — it grows on ya, how we bedeck & shunder the fleet feet fondling loam, negotiating hole fixes & never quite forgetting // sorry mate, can’t sort ya out, see me name’s not jason though it’s all part of the journey — good times // hold me: i am your flutterbye, your part wingset, & antipated synthesy is what i’m all about, on which i stake the sick syllables of this sordid name //