the day dostoyevsky discovered the meaning of life in a dream

[sus]

Kelp clung to his wingtips

 

[sus]

thank you for preserving this important work mvuent

 

[luka]

yes, i think i could improve it if i wasn't so bone idle. i will eventunally get round to printing it as a pamphlet
i can sell at the river

 

[mvuent]

I think perhaps the poem should be split up a bit earlier, like right before "The punch was getting warm," or "It was a curate's egg" or even earlier, like right when he first robs the cave so to speak. The high point. So there is a symmetry between the halves, where it ends at a moment of triumph, and then the second half is the unraveling.

yeah the problem with copy and pasting blindly. was thinking it should be split right before "And then you remember the world again" for that exact reason. yours would be a bit more subtle.

 

[sus]

And then you remember the world again is also nice. Good phrase

 

[sus]

His straight-leg denim marked him out as a tourist
the guileless way it hung above his shoe.
Shoes make everyone look ridiculous.
The Lucky Strikes had been an affectation but now they
were an addiction. He was reading Portnoy's Complaint.

It would go to the Adjudicator's office. It was anyone's guess.
He had hoped to explore a shipwreck off the island of Bermuda
but all of that was up in the air now. He had a mountain of
paperwork to get through. He dry-swallowed Vicodin. He was
made of glass. It was early in the morning. The sun was grazing
the tops of the hills. It was chasing away the mist from the river
valley. Once, he had treasured this view. He had paid a lot of money for it.
Now, he scarcely noticed it. He could say the same about his wife, he
thought with a grim smile.

His father had had offices on The Strand.
He had been an intensely private man. He had his secrets.
He had subscribed to National Geographic and had taken
a childlike delight in the photographs of vast canyons
and the indigenous peoples of rainforests. Crows seemed
to follow him.
He hadn't wanted to intrude upon that almost devotional
or penitent silence of his father's. He respected its
boundaries and respected what it seemed to protect. It
would be too late to get to know him now. He had
inherited his father's antique globe. He set it spinning
with a finger. Bermuda flashed past, mockingly.

jim said this one sounded like it was describing craner. i hope you all like it.

He like his jazz clean, considered and prudent.
He drank sparkling mineral water. He was an
architect, or a surgeon. He was detatched
in matters of the heart. It seemed to hook a
certain kind of woman in. He did very little to
encourage them. Tonight he would have to see
Anita at Quo Vadis. She would talk about her
work. It would drive him to distraction but no
sign would appear upon his face. He did enjoy
her dark ringlets and the gold hoop earrings
she wore to set them off. He only read glossy
magazines. It had been a year since the accident.
The suit he wore was very glib. He understood
how infuriating it was. He had been passionate
about photography once. He had taken pictures
of chilly, formal precision. They were difficult
to love. He had understood light as a solid object.
He looked back at that time with acute
embarrassment. He hung the photos on the walls.

He was a big believer in fostering a culture of accountability.
That's why he'd always go in to bat for targets. Naturally, staff
resented them. He had cycled to Valencia.
That summer was etched into his memory.

It was to have been his swan song. He had dispensed with the formalities.
He trembled with anticipation. His stubborness had been an asset. It had
been a day of good omens. He had been tickled pink. She had had a slow
and heavy-lidded sensuality.
She smelled of carnations. He had shivered the first time he had seen her.
He knew what it must portend.
He had been ruthlessly acquisitive. It was a lesson he had had to learn.
He had learned it the hard way. It was a token of his affection.
He had been drunk. He had played the tambourine. He said
I am a Gyspy dancer.
He said "you have ignited my passion." It sounded ridiculous
but he had meant it.
He had a frank meeting with the director. Their funding was under threat.

He had always loved travel brochures, ever since he had been a child.
He wanted to see the Epcot Center one day. The idea of palm trees
delighted him. He had hung a hammock in his bedroom. He still
couldn't believe the sea could be that shade of blue.

It had been tax deductible. It was a statement admirable in its brevity. It was the kind of thing he liked.
He had known Chris and Lucy for a long time. It had come as a shock. It had been a beautiful service.
He had said so. He had a sense of inner conviction. He played competitive water polo. It was a very
demanding sport. Certainly he had had his dalliances.
He had let his defences down. He had been taken advantage of. He liked to do things properly.
There were things he told himself. He harnessed the power of innovation. He was a ruthless
competitor. He had a tendency to point. He was a stickler for detail. It was a cause for regret.
He had come to depend on his rowing machine. It was his therapist. It was his personal style.
White tennis sneakers and deconstructed slacks. It was a kind of leather blouson. You could
say that he had been preparing for this moment all his life. You could buy egg whites in a
carton. He had discovered it. It had been a game-changer.

They had been displaced by the tornado. They
had to rebuild their lives. They had founded a
charity called Born Survivors. They were
accused of embezzling millions of dollars.
They were community activists. Some said
they could be abrasive. They had weathered
worse storms than this. There were questions
they had to answer. They had divorced and got
back together. They believed in the power of love.
There had been a whispering campaign. It
depended on how you defined it.

It was a tremendous opportunity. Or so it seemed on the surface.
Of course he had misgivings. The political situation there was
volatile. A powder keg, he had called it. And the rebels making
inroads from their traditional areas of support in the highlands.
But the rates of profit would be almost obscene and the extraction
rights would stand for longer than he would, he was certain of
that. They had shaken him down at the airport. Of course, you
had to expect these things. It was the cost of doing business here.
The mine and the roads leading to it were heavily guarded. It
didn't pay to take half measures. The humidity was enervating.

It had been a moment of weakness. He had ordered the salad.
He had always pictured their future together. Remember that
night at the ice-hockey game. His career had had to go on the
back burner. It was a case of having to juggle everyone's demands.
An indiscretion shall we say, The citalopram usually kept him
on an even keel. It was the shock of losing the dog like that.
They had both said words they probably shouldn't of done.
He didn't want her to be left cleaning up the pieces. They had
met at the laundrette.

It was what it was. Royal Standard were in over their heads.
There'd been the usual argie-bargie. He'd sneaked under the
radar a bit. It was an Argentinian steakhouse. A client had
recommended it. The markets were spooked. He said the
shit was about to hit the fan. He'd walked home. It had been
the adrenaline spike, and needing time to process it. They
were Silk Cut cigarettes.

It was a cashew farm close to the border. There was red mud and clover.
There were mudskippers and haywicks. There was a sea of green tentacles.
There was an extension to the house. It was called a supper club. You
shoudn't of come if you didn't want to be here. It was an aperitif. You
better get used to them. They called it Anchovy pesto. The brothers had
branded it. It was the house marinade.
It was the answer to everything.

It was the perfect specimen. They called it Anchovy pesto. It was the answer
to everything. It lay on a green bed. It was a coastline. It fluttered.
It was a family product. It was a family recipe. They guarded it closely.
It was the beauty of it. It was a testament to their success. It was a
postcard of Liguria. Their grandfather had sent it to
their grandmother. They made their own limoncello. We're not licensed
to sell it yet. They said it with a chuckle.

There was nothing it didn't go with. Try it with your mother's spam pie.

 

[sus]

He felt hollow inside. He drew a decision-tree.
He sanitised his keyboard. He dared to speak its name.
It was a break with the past. He'd had a few viewers.
They'd kept their opinions to themselves. He'd said
help yourselves to grapes. It had been
a bold move. It was a de-facto partition.
It was just what the region needed. It would give
confidence to consumers. It would encourage investment.
They would have to park it here.
It was twilight. The bats gathered, catching insects
bewitched by the lamp. Struck by the beam of it.
It was a pounding at the door.
It was the grove of cypress. He placed it at her disposal.
She was a wonderful ambassador for the brand. He
appreciated the support she'd given him, personally.
If there was anything else he could do.
Dinner had been an event. He could see that now,
in retrospect. They had served woodcock. They
had drunk a functional Chablis and a centre-
piece Bordeaux.

It would have to be brief. In my office then.
It would have been difficult to say no. You
know the way he gets. The temptation had
always been there. It was an unspoken
implication.
The sale would be immediate. There were
no legal complications that he could see.
If we were to go ahead, he said
of course it would mean seeing a lot
more of one another.

It would have to be your decision.
It had been a rash outburst. He would have to live
with the consequences. He put a high price on
happiness. There was a swing hanging from the
tree. And it took you out right over the glittering
water. Of the brook.
It had to be a coded confession. He had
something on his conscience. He had
a thousand things on his plate.

He was ready for the next adventure. It was the
way things had panned out. He wouldn't be here
if he didn't believe that. It would take a miracle.
The foundations had rotted away. It was something
you did for the love. Intercontinental missiles,
he said, are a wonderful thing.
He wouldn't be here if he didn't believe in the place.
There were things which were more important than
money. He'd had a subtle dig
at his predecessor. It hadn't
gone unnoticed. It was just
a pilot episode. It was the
usual scenario.
He'd had to hold his tongue so as to avoid any
unpleasantness. It was a silly thing really.
Marjorie was holding up well, all things considered.
It was Christmas come early. Howard leaped right out
of his chair when he heard the news. He was a
supercilious reptile.

He'd probably said too much. He'd have
to speak to his lawyer. It was an air-bourne
pathogen. It was a virulent rumour. Never
let it be said. It was anchovy pesto.
It was the answer to everything.
At the back of his mind. It was a
blasted ambition. He wasn't
up to the task. It was a question of
numbers. It was a matter of degree.
No matter how you split it
it came back to the.
silver sun above backstreets and tenements
television aerials and raised bayonets.
it was the landscape of refrigerators
and buddleia that sold it. It was the dream
of the frontier.
We packaged it in a designer bundle and
distributed it. There are always disagree-
ments over what came first. We came to
dominate the market. It was a prescient
decision. Jonty from prestige department
said it best. The relationship had gotten
lopsided. There had to be give and take.
We backed the enormous horse. It was
the obvious decision to make.

There would always been rumours. He hoped to clear his
name. He'd been instrumental in the relief effort. Critics
had said that it was too little, too late. He'd take that one
on the chin. Sometimes you had to own it. The helicopter
cheques kept touching down. He calculated the down-
draft. It was Alaska in '88. There was the smell of
money in the snowfields. Horror shows were happening
downtown. He wouldn't be beholden to anybody.
He was the Chief of Staff.
At the very least he could offer his sympathies.
The church were poking their nose in. He had
other ideas.
It was a routine drill. They hadn't expected to
find anything. There was a discrepancy in their
stories. Something didn't add up. The signs
were ominous. Something didn't look good.

It was an invidious comparison. It was an odious suggestion.
Let me make myself plain. It was vulture neck,
tick, claw, carbuncle. He sought to clear his name.
He had a right to the land. He was bound to the sea.
It was at the confluence of many dynamic forces.
Seagulls, gale toss't, calling. Cliff hiccup.
He had walked the chalk ridge, beguiling.
It was the heist of the century. They'd got
away like bandits. The city couldn't believe their luck,
It was the power of suggestion. He couldn't have said
it better, Richard. It was the coming together of many
cultures. It was the big idea. It was the marketplace.
It was the containing metaphor. It was the captured
ballerina. It was the gateway to the north.

It was the engine of change. It swept away old ideas.
They'd had to rethink a lot of their attitudes. It was a
facet of life. It was the engine of change. It came hooting
down the hallway. Better move aside! That's the engine
of change! There'd been a revolution in the way people
thought about online shopping. Brand surveys supported
it. Excellence was best. We'd had to trim our fat in response
to a more troubled winter. The goose was cooked. Our backs
were against the wall.
That was before we found Add-on.
It's a spring breeze in a can.

It was all over his face. It was his egg sundae. It was
his nasty surprise. The pictures were all over the internet.
It made a bad impression. The optics were misaligned with
the brand. It was a values-decision. They cancelled the contract.
The Corvette had to go back to the dealer. That one had hurt.
It was a brutal reminder. It was a wake-up call.
It was his comeuppance. He had had it coming.
It was the engine of change. It had swept him aside.
It was no respecter of reputations. It rebuked the proud.
It stood for progress. It was colour-blind. The facts had
unduly influenced them. Their scruples were for
public display.

The quote had been misattributed, it hurt him to say.
His vanity was the only thing under threat. For the loss
of a feather, fly another day.
It was a jawline extension. It was a routine procedure.
There had been complications. There was the matter
of payment. The lawyers had got involved. I've never
been a great one for licking the pickle, he said
to a sea of applause.

 

[sus]

I dreamed of an empire. Stretching from sea to
sea. I dreamed of cities
all in liege to me.
It hurt me to say. I
was not at my best.
I was indisposed.
It was a state of unrest.
At the end of the day
It was all for the best.
If you permit to say
It was all in jest.
It was his final testament.
He had been unwell.
It was just a matter of time.
He was under their spell.
It was the proper development
of unseen processes. It
was a benediction of unseen
dimensions. He wished them well
with all their endeavours. He hoped
to see the day when they would bear fruit.
They dreamed of the stars. They came
down to earth.
It was an entropic projection. It was
the ooze of gravity. It was the deflated
balloon. There was always hope.
Hope sprung eternal.

They would look again at the situation next year.
It was up for review. There were engineering faults
that would have to be addressed. The brakes needed
recalibrating. Half the staff here were sweating on the
morning. Mass redundancy was the hot news. The board
meeting had been a disaster. They had declared mutiny.
Supply lines had been choked at the Malacca Strait.
They were in an ecstasy of indecision. The cabinet
had imploded. The facts were trickling in from Singapore.

They were balls deep to the wall. They had had to dig deep.
They had found out what they were made of. It was not enough.
After the collapse, grass wiggled up the hill, sky squeezed
the horizon. Not everyone had the same view of the facts.
He hoped to redeem himself in the eyes of the public.
The presenter availed himself of surprise. He made a leap
for the impossible. Who before me
has not sinned?
Sometimes, good intentions aren't enough. Sometimes
good guys come last. The news-reporters
cribbed their copy. It was a fine day in June.
You are just like me. You are a pasteboard.
We are one and the same.
It was their big idea. It happened to sell.
It was the right idea
at the right time. It happened to catch on.
You are just like me.
We are one and the same.
The news-reporters had a field day.
They sent scouts out into nothing
the signal winked out.

It was anchovy pesto. It was the answer to everything.
Spread it on your toast. He was a megaphone for sale.
He was known as Rent-a-Gob.
If the price was right. He'd grease your axle.
He said, I've had a few
but I've not had many
that pass the test.
He wouldn't call it lying exactly.
The fundamentals are the same.
Just as the bird shrieked out
in dismay.
They'd smoothed out the
transmission issues. They
locked in on the signal.
It was at the forefront
of contemporary design.

He'd failed his audition. He'd fluffed his lines.
Credit Suisse were going up in smoke. The
signs were not good from South-East Asia.
Eagle Investments had gobbled up the carrion.
It was The Grace Noble Endowment ball.
Everyone was going to be there. He'd venture
a guess. It was downwind of events.
He'd put up a hell of a fight. He never knew
when he was beaten. He was swept aside
it was The Engine of Change.
Outdated ideas had been put to the test
they had been taken to bed. They had been
put to rest.
We were a streamlined people. We had been
put on a rational footing. We had been optimised.
We were hopeful for the future.
You could see it in our eyes.
We believed in tomorrow. We believed in our children.
We believed in our country. And we believe in you.

It paled in comparison. With her sacrifice. He promised
he'd make it up to here. There were practical considerations
and with the best will in the world. He was happy to make
investigations. Look, will you just give me a moment
everyone had been under a lot of pressure, the whole team
here. It means a lot to hear you say it
They had been between a rock and a hard place.
It was squeaky bum time.
An environmentalist had been murdered in Caracas. Usually
it would have been no concern of this. But it had turned the
spotlight on his mining interests, and in particular, the deal
he was in the process of tying up. Animals went by in crates.
They were interested in the bottom line. Indigenous peoples
in the south were protesting the famine parcels. The war raged
on all fronts.

It was a zero-sum game. The attack-troops made an incision in the line.
Infection poured through the breach. There was blood on the floor. It was
not a pretty sight. They standardised the work-unit. We are all the same.

Take a look over the fence. Your neighbour is just like you. He is looking
over the fence. To take a look at you. Tanks made a dogs dinner of the
Easter display. That's why we couldn't have nice things. It was man's
inhumanity to man. It depended on your way of looking at things
The sun would still come out tomorrow. The bindweed climbed
through the wire.

He had taken her for granted. She had had other ideas. The bill
was in the mail. She took taxis everywhere.
London had been his nemesis. He'd always said it.
She was a scarlet temptress. He'd had his suspicions
ever since Mayfair. It was a winkle he'd keep with him
to his grave. 12 miners were trapped after a shaft collapsed.
He kept refreshing his feed. They took solace in their faith.

 

[sus]

It had a banned ingredient. It's why it tasted so good.
Spread it on everything. I really wish you would.
It was anchovy pesto. It was the answer to your prayers.
It would vanish your troubles
it would erase your cares.
He was determined to sabotage the trade agreement.
It would torpedo his monopoly. He sat on the blood coin
of his fathers. He had invested it into the company. He had
prioritised growth.
It was the engine of change. It was a tide of coins. You couldn't
stand in the way of progress.

It was the acid that corroded families. It ate away at
all inherited traditions. It weakened the ties that bind.
The extrapolation graphs all read Doomsday. We
flicked up the data-display. Impact Date: Imminent.
Imagine, feral, and cloaked in the long grass, waiting
for a throat to seize.

We couldn't second guess the numbers. It was a fool's
errand. We became bewitched by hawthorn and creephaste.
It was our delayed reward. It was the sleeper train. Our eyes
had glazed over. News kept lurching in through the open
window. There was flooding to the east of the country.
People were pressing against the borders. Humanitarian
efforts were concentrated in the cities. Caustic soda harvests
had been disappointing. There were riots in the shadow districts.
We had woken with our head on his shoulder. He couldn't have
been more obliging.

He lubed the passage. It was going to be a tight squeeze.
He adopted best practice. The report would be a whitewash.
Sinclair would take the fall. Big willies got cut off first they
said up in the office. He laughed bitterly.
Colchester was still half a day's drive away. He faxed the
charges. If you could get the evangelicals to take the bait.
There might be enough smoke on the battlefield to get away.
Night-talk was on the radio. It was an emollient. It got him through
the field of stars.

The minister of Interiors was defending his interests
He made a seasoned argument. He was on the side
of homeowners. He could see the way was wind was blowing.
After the debacle in Lesotho his hands had been tied. It
was nothing personal, Alfie. He couldn't be seen to be
siding with subversive elements. The cocktail set
had been his idea. To show that there were no hard
feelings.

He remembered cycling past the orange groves.
The sun had seemed to compress the air. Lechery
was on the way out. All the research pointed in
the same direction. They would have to compromise
on the sun-roof. He choked on the implications.
The scandal-hounds would be sniffing up his
drainpipe. He was the face of the organisation.
He was the big pajamas. He looked breezy
on his lawn. He faced up to his responsibilities.
It was the court of popular opinion. He kept his
own counsel. The forestry commission would
just have to wait. They smelled blood in the water.
He had failed to declare a conflict of interest.
The sun smashed itself against the mirror.

He was entitled to a private life. It was his own affair.
Guilt was like a colony of weevils. The Ceylon enterprise
had long since gone kaput, a victim of its own ambition.
He contemplated the fallout. It was a lunatic scheme.
He planned to put a jar on every table. It was the answer
to everything.

He dreaded to think. He put two & two together.

It was a plan that couldn't go wrong. It was the Mekong Delta.
It was redemption. He said
I was able to fly, I was able to cry
I could say all the things unsaid.
It was Terminal 4. It was the end of the line.
He remembered the meeting in the office.
He crashed into the inevitable. They had sent
him an interpreter. He bore an indescribable
sorrow in his eyes.
The street hawkers jabbered angrily at him.
They'd shuffled his DNA so the scanners
wouldn't pick him up. They'd remixed
his eyes. He aimed his vomit at the sewer
grate.

It was paradise. The opium birds shook the perfume
from their feathers. The women were a feast for
sore eyes. It had taken him a while to find his feet.
It was a reward for services rendered. It was what
was coming to him. He took it.
It was an erotic wonderland. It was a kind of
homecoming. It raked the embers of his soul.

His heart was a dormant volcano
that had erupted thrillingly into
life. He itemised his things. He
deposited them in the appropriate
pockets.

His heart was a herd of wildebeests.
He slipped out his suit of melancholy.
The rain greeted him as a lover. He
shivered delicious. Fat drops shattered
on his shoulder-blades. Run,
for the unseen gateway. Penetrate
the foliage.

It was a damn shame about Johnson.
They'd already lost too many good
men to the jungle. He would have to
file a report. Brain jazz gurgled down
his piping. He was taking Sandra,
from the typing pool, out to dinner.
It had completely slipped his mind.

 

[sus]

OK I think that's the lot. But it seemed important to document the "minor" and piecemeal works that anticipated the masterpiece "the day dostoyevsky discovered the meaning of life in a dream"

 

[luka]

its sort of funny how good i am at writing. i guess all the other writers look at it and get all angry at how pretty it looks, nicer than theirs

 

[luka]

sometimes even i forget that i am an artist of extreme calibre attainments of scope like its fucking insane, look at my surfaces, so much better

 

[luka]

imagine saying you write poetry? going then do better than that you dickhead a lot of nonsense i wrote when i was stoned just to annoy mr tea.

 

[luka]

craner knows it was good but he couldn;t bring himself to say. but for me it was just a snazzy piece of lite entertainment im an old pro on the sun lounger

 

[luka]

edmunds get himself into a right old stew any time im writing up a storm he absolutely cant stand it its brilliant i love being the best at everything

 

[sus]

Tell us important things, like what the jungle motif means to you. Why contrast it with Sandra typing by the pool. What does it mean, this artificial little oasis that is the nuclear American household, its neat concrete and tidy lawns and perfectly sculpted backyard pool basins. Versus the overgrown state of nature

 

[sus]

craner knows it was good but he couldn;t bring himself to say. but for me it was just a snazzy piece of lite entertainment im an old pro on the sun lounger

he did say it was good, indirectly. he said it reminded him of his own work