1.    A campaign is somehow secured against the institution. The Spur shakes with a motion that might never be compressed into stillness. ATTEND THE CASE. What is this – the brave and the bold? There’s not one fucker fit to curse, nor to pick the stitch. Writing is now formed from casings, even in its runoffs, fit only to trim, its thin threads of matter thrown from the spinning edge of the cylinder press. Writing is a skull as soft as a dub plate.

2.    Watching the factory space as if viewing a film. Tiny hands might be envisaged sweeping over the end of the mechanisms, inches from its immense, crushing pressures, dusting off the shards, so close to, and so at ease with, the threat of amputation. The workstations disappear into a single line if viewed from the correct angle.

3.    A marvellous dictate is strewn and the Spur becomes a snow globe. Isn’t it wonderful that paper can be pinched at the middle, that it can be cupped to capture liquid? The scattered sheets are chased, caught and pinched like sphincters – grips through which writing can whistle. There are numerous break-flows throughout the body, most of which can be trained to speak. Make a fist of it.

4.    Further to any notion of waxing conduct – whether there are any planned corrosives, nothing if not strategic, yet surely the demand is to avoid all strategy lest any of that stuff seeps into the drip.

He walks over to the writing, a camera follows him.
In the middle of the surgical process there is an unexplained breakdown, an unannounced crisis kept in the can. It’s not difficult to let it go, to let it roll onward and pick up as it comes. To lead the avalanche is nothing but a sidestep – the enormous globe of whiteness gathering speed, accumulating the material of the landscape, picking up trees (carpet roll snowmen, turf water) – the real question is the thaw – how to edit an avalanche – first come first swerved. All we provide is the downward spiral, keep descending, as so… writing plagues… yes, it itches.

5.    He writes an ambulance and it comes without reply. He writes an ambulance and he watches it not arrive. This is the real speed at which things happen, walking across a black lawn carrying a case, a folded stretcher. Landing on instruments. Walking from the town in the dead of night, exiting the light smoke. He heads out to farmlands, isolated moors, seeking the cavern of the overcast outside. Shut off under cloud, he wants writing to stall itself, to sing for its supper.

In the pitch-black field, he cannot see them but he knows the beasts are there. The cattle make no sound and simply become functions of the darkness, functions which might be encountered as utterly solid, or that might yield to his approach or his touch. He pauses for a moment and casts his breath out invisibly, suddenly sure of its irrefutable presence.

He went out to the darkness / to write / and produced a fog.

6.    If we might separate all its application, and just pull it out like unwanted bones from the mouth. Fishbone lettering left on the plate. Several containers move slowly into the ocean, and there is no excuse for his taking such a straight line through uncertainty.

7.    No one knew it was there. An unpopulated compartment wedged fast, unmoved for an unknown length of time.

8.    Sitting under parody the shade cuts his skin. No credential, no parallel, just to see what might come forth. The first blockages were simple enough, but the others will prove more difficult. Is it humiliating for an artist to become trapped in his own work?

9.    Take a spiel. No use talking. Square feet long kind of anything. Nothing is worth doing. Dope it up. This green illuminated building, washed with fluid nausea. Writing is stacked in the corner yard, irrationally misaligned behind bollards. A face half-shadowed and twisted from speaking. An image that eats itself. Sections are missing from the stack of breezeblocks, and from an arched section of gate. The blow fans keep cutting out. The pitch is cutting up. A pair of bellows with an opening in the sleeve complain about the thieving of air. Writing flexes, curses come black. Vomit next to star points and the text is fatigued.

10.    The cement works were commandeered. At the site entrance, one had to pick. It’s nowhere, of course, true to form. There were no street lamps, nor stars to speak of, yet he knew that the animals were in the field. No sound or frame to climb. Anywhere will do, given colour pills. A grey world. A low building lost at night, punctured with an aerial between streams. A body of writing stripped for a search.

Hold the combination down to reset. The image comes up. Hold forth, soaked. Don’t mess me about.