Delightful-full, and falling, and orbed in sun. Having fallen, he glides in a heath of streams (the student in politics). Of rivulets. Of rivers. Of sea eventually. Up the bubbles; tranquilising above the depressing current. And now (now!) a…One. The last of a lip to introduce from an end. And a paper label, under underloosed, marking the candidate’s name which is — —— Erasure floats, unfrayed of the bit of the tag at the bottom. Erasmus Oates -maybe? Maybe Valent Beenis. Now…of the left-handed side of the unreddening top, the top peeling back and…off the whole flap. Half flap. The label drifts aside to remind himself. Of who and what he was for being there. And there. And there it was. Till stirred ahook on the current currently moving. Man from man departs, and departs, and another is left. He, to drift. Unbodied rebodied to lilt with a bleeding head, headful. Oil-thoughted tot-to-thoth. And rubied brains recover as they travel of him. There’s something gold. Shines spread. Out of his red-paint mullet plumes more sinking purple from the hole. And a thought comes out that would have meant ‘I am alive’ up on the bridge. Alas he is not (in a conventional sense) anyhow, anywhere, anywho, anyreason put to rest as a living thing. Like a sentinel drifting along he drifts along. Still on.
And to his ruddy shelf the greenness, brightness, whiteness condescends. Downpouring, as of old, of his blood head, fresh hood, amidst the bullrushes. Now time…now green and white will break apart, and the airs from the banks (or the valleys, he is within) exhale of mud. And subtracting small, till small beneath the detritus of shod flax, he strives inebriate…piping warm for wash. Then an ashen breath: his stony focus clams with a panicky sucking. And now further up…far farther up, the stream, a through-and-through: a grate, a set of holes, to consume the corpse or kiss, at least, him down, who will fit with current legs. Of all, at last. Doubt fitting it or not, the skewer will let him down among the alive…the hundreds of living mouths, and silent moths, and ancient water-beds of warming sand, and bubbles among the plastic and the glass, and other losses. Breathing inhabits him, inhibiting none. Of him, from what they are from where they were, his memories soar intact. The unloving face, the palpable unloving face, of a gentleman faded, and there is the sprinting stain of one admired. A lady, once admired, patient to end. And there. And.
The scattered rust on a dropped trombone…that was abandoned in ambition’s sink, and is still nothing (having been unplayed, so very long, that he himself might play it). To the fold: are indigo sheets of paper, musical sheets, effecting a menacing pulse. Him overgrown. In a living horn to play the whole of him would not do well—at least, over glistened fields, between bridges with blue shadows under them, all under the dimming sky he can imagine being. But not here now. Or not as long as brains are racked to warm, aching to warm. This time he is underground, or under the water, or. Somehow taken-up by the current again (in the current) his arms and legs float almost willingly high. Up above the gulf that fascinates beneath his…gloom-closed face. Avoid. The corpse is hard.
And. What cannot come up is falling in and into downward void. The blood-flume starts to stop, and with a spark of eyes, involved in the student campaign, soaring as he stood to speak to begin his career, all ended then. Not now. Still onto now. All ended then. His gold hair found its end, his pale face end, his personhood an end and spread till else. And a question came again that would have sounded out of a bubbled mouth, ‘Donuit Degub’ and out of a mouth above, ‘What have I done?’ Yet this does not come out. The flaking flax of bubbles ponders on, unpondering on, and flutters to translation like a mist…or like the unsteadied flow of flax in water, shivering above the sand. Had she played –sax? Had he played sax with her? Had politics dissolved elsewhere or there…Or here had sunlight come for now or then? Had ending come? for her, for him, for him, or here, or there…and so on flowed. He floating could not think but picture flax o’erflowing without waves. Him, her again. Him, her and politics upon the bridge, meaning above the wave. And a dying stone. A flowing dying stone, a flying shot went through, or meant to go through, one man’s face…and down (into a pocket) went the source: and chamber hot, unlike his chamber head, because it was there.