Digital Poetics #3 Scherzos Benjyosos 3: Keston Sutherland
Today is your birthday, Benjy, and your mother and I have built you a wall of presents, up to the ceiling, that transversally bisects the front room from corner to corner, and when you go running in all your friends will be waiting for you on the other side, to clap as you headbutt your way out, and the presents collapse, and you can open them after. And you will find this scene gilted with an effulgence befitting the modesty of the window, rearward of the little throng, or composition, of your friends who will loom up, bright genuflux before you, backlit, silhouetted out of their pre-negligible minds, teeny, nameless, weeny, massed at the cargo scanner over by the watch list, where you dug your thumbs into the wall. They are nothing on you, all lineaments, vapidities and contour. That is the window out which you are to be pressurised by the threat of ambience into being pictured smiling by the bush of pampas or ribbon grass, on one unfaded random blade of which, in secret still, for safe keeping, to this day abides that lick of blood left over from when you went and sliced into the taut skin you despise between the thumb and proximal crease of the index finger of the little sibling who, nicked, cried a bit, when you did it first and they copied you, no society can be stable unless there is a basic core of value judgments that are unthinkingly accepted by the great bulk of its members, a woolgathering, O miei cari sospiri, and if you barge in all at once, eyelids flapping, ass over heels, you’ll make it clean through the wall and the friends too like a blubbery box cutter and fly out the window, a kind of acrobatic exaggeration of your predestined exit velocity, into the deep heart of the bush, where darkness waits like a knitting pattern for light rescaled at length to fit the sky you shred again to disappear, and you will find there, by groping words, the secret blade, and you will extirpate its randomness by wiping the edge down and piecing the fossilised incision back together, you evil pig. Confirmation of this will be carried in triumph back to Whitelands, hoisted by the Barclays, in the un-form of an unobscurable myoclonus. Babadinga went overboard – yssued of the same wyth herte deuoute bysprange ryghte humbly and by grete loue and ardour of dylection the hostel… – but, pace the cicatrix, to be equal to, or bypass, by affirmative capability, whatever, same old Benjy, oral offsetting swindle, more spatter than breath, down behind the train tracks, digging up the pit, laying the coverlet of twigs, buds and leafs over, and leading you by the arm, as if you were blind, and I were kind, to the promised spot of fortune, and watching, totally delighted, as it happens, as you tread on the twigs and fall in, and not even really laughing, but just knowing the satisfaction, for once, for an inestimable instant, of the wish for enough power to make you do anything, go anywhere, plummet in whatever pit I say, even some bit of trivial malice that is blatantly a cheap spoof of genuine murder, you should have seen your face, that dumb pout like a Planktos for a latter day Vatican. Now, thought, Benjy, is a child begotten by the brain in communion with some object, the mental image of which, interjaculated by the senses, has a father and a mother, one in the object, and one in the head, and being thus begotten by this our faculty of thought, by means of hence, the object, or its other, it must appear, in common with other phenomena, connected to its object, without hindrance, fact, or prejudice, no matter who did what, or who, clad, or born out, in what, or to what corner, and which brain function, equally, is no purer than the scent of a flower, of the fields, or of a table, or of a light, or of a sound, as who should say, for the active cannot subsist without the passive, and – chin up Benjy, eat your food – somebody has to be the object, the passive, and the scent, for – and that the naturel hete of blood humayn comforte my – fuck’s sake cut it out, – somethingness vegytalle wyth sencyble moeuynges, for must not something be even these things, who, tip-toe upon the dreary mound, sled-struck, smote with the creosote, past the bolus, over the sex, where, God-fearing, seaworthy, probabilistic, clammy with woe, I first had thought to put myself in you, pettifogulizingly post-integrated with its own minute tortuosities of construction, but game, thenceforth senseless, fork me on GitHub, Dean of Allodynia, born to cloud over, to prod at, to rub out like eyes, one more push, for the urethane lateral to go as yet not too torn out discrepant as of only six lyke a corps wythoute entendemente or else, forever felt up, numb in bed, you’ve barely touched your panic button, please not with your mouth open. Even from the top of the mountain, rutted and covered in ice, the purple drains away, the perishable light of a sun is terminated. Long has night obscured the valley stretched out for the wanderer, he, by the turbulent stream, forever attempting the next hut up, bound for the close of his day, for carefree retirement living. The mystery sleep is obligingly stretched out just as far ahead, keeping it excellent company. I beckon it down quick, here, crown of oblivion, rest on my head. But what is that light extravasated out of that rock, darting into me, that spray from the stream that shines with that unearthliest iridescence? Has the sunlight penetrated the most downreaching cracks, because this lustre is not normal, irradiating conversely. I’m surprised at you, Benjy. You know you’re not supposed to be in here, skimmed off like a froth of cashew milk, gnawing on the bars, futilously, gaily languishing, petitioning the clouds to let you teethe. The heating up of sounding bodies, just as of beaten or rubbed ones, is the appearance of heat, originating conceptually together with sound, saved for the death bed, like – as, infoliated, rolling up the hill, as if to say, this will do for you, it’s your birthday, live with it, a haddock umbilicus, poached in tears, supervised, doggy paddling in your joint fluid, terrified of what I will do next, to Egypt, where, soft-shelled, braindead, from across the policing family, your missing ends between its teeth, pulled to make a bow. In flights of reactionary fire veined with obsidian and elastic, madly tarsal, you lay on my lap and I bend down to lick your eternity shines in the map of my sky, where there is mutual respect among all employees, regardless of official statuses, and when what employees will ultimately not have to be afraid to say suggests ideas to improve the work processes, benefiting everyone in the return. Your driver is called Benjy, they’ve just picked up your order. Outside, a bust of Ihor Kolomoisky, all yours, made to mouth the colourful laugh track of adjectives again, a floppy hook of refried fricatives that meets the eye, hasbeen, deboning, noo lenger. Spraying lumps of bollocked molar, making the real eye mist up like a yummy mudflap; for once, hold off going there, where it is so easy to hide and be pretentiously reckless, while actually breaking, and turning all your oratory sour, and losing sight of where, but hearing, like a rumour, the love song of absorbefacient dissipation, and singing it to yourself, and really hearing it in all the music that you love, where your life really is, in the sense that, though it can’t be lived, it can be heard and listened to, and you can sit and listen to it in silence, shut the window, turn the light out, cover your eyes to heal the darkness, and know, for so long as you can still contact the reality that you are hearing, that it therefore loves you, and that you and it are the same: you are real too. How else go down to the bad titratable rim or flap of cytoplasm and its limit to a life wiped out, scatebrous, chewy, old, illicit, lorded over by the railing, waved through? I grasp my reeking 8H, flatten your card on the pulsating wrist, pluck out the badge with the safety pin and cartoon balloon number 6, fling it on the table, and write, Fuck you, Benjy. You hurt people too often and repeat / the history you kill yourself to stop / to make yourself the predator you need; / but don’t discount the dream of getting out: / there is no other exit but your head. Let me rephrase that. The cloud becomes intimate, glowing. Amazed, I scrutinize the wonder. Doesn’t the ray of rouge light cast a properly beserk shadow? Lid, id scriptor, soft abode, pleasure’s node, licking that Unhinged door, Bearing in mind This night that I stare at Licking that Face to be kind, it’s torn too, to work, born To be torn Licking that Points to you. Then you will run back in crying the same as she is, and pretend you both did it at the same time, and your cut is the same as hers, equally deserving of what pity and love there is to go round, rather than what you know it is in reality. See, the departed returns, through forests and hideousship’s overhangs.
Starting from low the light ascends in a single slow movement,
So that sight is lifted the distance up to the tilting board.
On top of the board is a pair of bodies, one on top of the other.
One of the bodies is still alive, the other is beneath her.
She cranes the little distance down to brush it with her mouth
And bring it back to meaning, bites to resurrect the cord.
Implicit in everything, you are the only reason it expresses,
Watching in the role of sight, lifted without acknowledgment.
The top body renounces its enigma to make sense of you.
It’s an animal that hovers above a corpse of its own making,
The child beneath her, but too hurt by its non-disclosure,
Recoils to think of Bronstein in his grave with no encouragement.
It looks for a single way past but it can’t find it, as if paralysed,
Gently clawing at the patch of motionless second body,
Able to say what it wants by first moving its top head down.
It only wants to speak and for the thing that died beneath it
To be made to hear and for the meaning to be analysed
To make everything mean everything it could, to that body.
The role of sight expands to fill the pocket of its brief
Exposure to the vision this exchange of fear symbolizes,
Balling up their feathers to a moon behind the eye,
Where nothing they can say can ever change beyond this cry.
From now on they do this, one on top, one under it,
Feeding passion to the missing future it cannibalizes.
Starting from here the lights go up in attenuated movement,
So that sight can spot the difference on the tilting board.
On top of the board is a pair of bodies, one on top of the other.
Both of the bodies are still alive. Her child is beneath her.
She bends the little distance down to feel it on her mouth
And bear with it for meaning, breathes vibration to the cord.
Explicit in everything, you are the only reason it releases,
Living in the sun of sight, gifted without acknowledgment.
The top body pronounces its enigma to make sense of you.
A tree that stands above a ground now of its own making,
The child beside her, but too close for its long disclosure,
Rebounds to antic Bronstein in his grave without his nourishment.
It looks for a shorter way past and it can’t find it, as if paralysed,
Gently doting on the motion of the fiftieth body,
Ready to be everything it wants lost by moving its head down.
It only wants to say that once the thing that died within it
To be made to hear and for the meaning to be analysed
To make everything clear, is everything enough, to that body.
The end of sight extends to film the socket of its brief
Exposure to the vision this exchange of hope finalizes,
Balling up their feathers to a moon behind the eye,
Where nothing they can say can ever change beyond this cry.
From now on they do this, one on top, one under it,
Freeing emotion of the real future it containerizes.
No way is more in than out, this time, that, in the end, slowed down to make it sad, migrated to a stratum at the low point of the tinsel actin network that, intrinsic, condoned, done up by obsessive fiddling, screwed to memory at a loss, that, one too many twisted times attempted in the dark, loosed beyond retightening the rivet of that blood rotating on the crater bed or catapulted in a vacant arc, that is a seal. For what, now that you think of it, is what, outward utensils, since you do not, you are free to go. The point is to untwist the end off first, sempre con fuoco. Then rot in the contingent. Sailing the seven seas. Stealing aboard containers. Fucked, pulling its hair out. Watching truth forced up, forced out. Be careful, it might be forced out too far. Or be put out. To where it will not be able to be clawed back. That picture it destroy what can be loved. It might be forced out so far that anyone could get in, irrespective of qualities, mouthfeel, future earnings, creed, or viscosity, by swooping down the core. Delusion is always floating. Inwardizing grit. In conformity with the necessity of its development. Propping up the roof, letting down the floor, sick of its droning, bored to shreds, even now reducible in some dead part to nothing but in order to be pure at all or change, or else things would never change, so that, and so long as, hard-pressed, untumultuous, with an unobstructed internal view, you see what you would be if there were nothing but the truth for life and counting, keeping meaning close, paranoid it will fade, as everything once held did inside the distance racked up to the vapid obstacle of being here where sound is left, subcutaneous, bereft of limits, starved on dreams, come again, but backlit, to be taught its lesson, the one, going back to what you first, listening for what is true, sped up to make it funny, the sunk costs of sanity, as a storm-tossed vessel in a sea of anything, adamantly drifting out of view, on the drive out, to feel confiscated, born to be phanerogamic, panic-induced, to allow one beautiful thought, where, to become shallower, dying I make last until, restores tranquility, tastes like shit, assuming demand, that, on credit, razes out the troubled brain, ingrown, ominously normal, lived to bits, one, to feel gone, one way, to be ended, or grow new. When, shaking the end of the night back into the flesh, scattering grated glass over the blocked sink bolted on the common, raising its eyes to mine, I seemed to feel true, make a sign now meant for you, as what it empties into is the overturned car again barely tender, the wish without end that to stop it dying I make last until it is a specific life scooped out, whose one time, integral to its yield, we are here to go on with, where, aged naked, studying what we owe, in order not to let go, and how to make do with it: final prices were significantly lower. USD 148 million for the 5 year and 7.5 year bucket respectively; downturns become shallower. The short list of deliverable obligations led to a scarcity of available securities in the 2.5 year bucket, nature is dead anyway. This shortage exacerbated by high demand in Thomson bonds, due to the inclusion now a dim speck, now vanishing in light of Thomson in off-the-run iTraxx Europe indexes small sell open interest of the 2.5 year bucket USD 80.967 million exhausted by a single order exactly equal to the open interest posted by J.P. Morgan at a very high bid of 96.25%. And I feel now the future in the instant. And overall the battle ebbs and flows. Vomit emptiness. Ending with a high recovery allows low payments for cash settlements, which would be rational for J.P. Morgan. In consequence on floated bonds abroad, a larger number of bid orders was needed, exhaust these open interests to sell, to shrink the final price, inscribing a payer option to reduce the cost of holding a short position in the underlying index, misusing this strategy, one cost of index short, but in turn, to give up some of the upside from spread widening, to illustrate this strategy with one simple example.
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Keston Sutherland wrote The Rictus Flag, Neutrality, Neocosis, Hot White Andy, Stress Position, The Stats on Infinity, The Odes to TL61P, Whither Russia and other poems.
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This publication is in Copyright. Keston Sutherland, 2020.
The moral right of the author has been asserted. However, the Hythe is an open-access journal and we welcome the use of all materials on it for educational and creative workshop purposes.
