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I'm coming to you from the radio, toxic from last night but still capable of making sense; this bird is completely made up; however it will never exist; the unkempt grey feathers, the question of its beak beyond colour: note the fluent tone of voice glancing off your hair, entering your head where the landscape spills out onto your face. The vibrations are stalking the listening room where your family gather for a kiss before leaving on the dawn troop boat. These words are the animals your utterances created. This bundle of paper spilling its guts onto the kitchen floor was your lunch, wrapped by your boss who wants to get rid of you; nobody is capable of speaking straight, although each phrase may seem succinct, the garbled syntax will defeat meaning. We are greedy for every shred of meaning these days; let's divvy up the nouns, let's fly with the print-out of the dove. The war will help our generative slide into obscurity, the glimpse of a red crest, along with this succulent tone of voice will combine into real shape as the prime minister rocks back and forth on the lever that seems stuck; jump his oration grab that silly strand of hair, he's still capable of vanity; he'll feel it believe me, take him on. Robert Adamson |
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