c. v. astlefield.

An Extract/Rant from 'Pro sipped. i.' by Jack Burston

“I mean, true that, but is it ‘understandable’ when I’ve decided to laters things with such ease? And the meaningless debt that I’m piling is just that: piling, above and in front of my personally favoured style between the corn field and the meadow. In fairness that meadow owns every single road and I’m not being pastoral and I’m not trying to pasteurise my rural milk in to a drinkable in school commodity, but it should be reasonably soft to drink and it shouldn’t fall on my cornflakes like cream unless I want it to. And if I pile up several ounces of brown sugar with a layer of the white above the cereal and let it tumble in to the milk after it’s decided whether it wants to stay on the flakes, should I start cleaning up my aorta with a pipe cleaner. Should I be flexing my heart more? I mean heart’s a tune and it beats with regularity and gives us an intolerably instinctive sense of rhythm but it’s a drastic act when you start weight lifting with it.”

A Legendary Dog c. v. xiii. xviii. iv.vi.vii. vii.

'Fleeting Gnats/Cameron Durswith versus Zaza' by Jack Burston

"Alright Durswith, how are tricks pal?"

"Ney bad, ney bad."

"Seen Zaza?"

"Yeah, he was knocking about the other night I think."

"Fair play, it's dastardly out there tonight, crackling thunder and a bit of rain, did you manage to finish that storyboard?"

"Nearly, got a few more to complete, but you know le drill, will just have to mission it."

Durswith and Akt sat down and talked a little more, meanwhile, Zaza prospered on his market stall, he sold out of everything. Zaza was a master salesman, he was apprenticed by the older members of his family. It was appropriate for Zaza to sell out because his brother did the same before him -- his father had sold out often until he began to lose his speed around the stall. The market square matched Zaza's hair, all perpendicular and segemented -- his hair was square but Zaza was not, he couldn't be: he was looking for an office job.

15% von cvi. ix. AKA 'Cameron Durswith ii' by Jack Burston

"Generosity excursion is fruitful for minutes and the hours slopping from your escaping dirt bringing filth love is not very personable, it is however very
excitable for this time of Autumn. Not particularly Autumnal, but, yet, still reasonably coppered leaves and a sense of sentimental tinkering with the clocks and the push towards an erstwhile hour; of course the burgeoning after strokes are just falling out: save, save, save, building up the mother load -- for quite, no reason. More likely: dropped off on the train. Variable weather tempers the contrast between and over the potential in the pairing that is not preempted but pre-emptied in preparation, the tone of the build up is clearly anticipatory but it is also content with a happy remain of the already gained, of course the margin is tighter, arguably flexing under the weight of its perfectly eatable balance. Pining for an apple, originally supposed for a mouth -- now just all over the carpet, not needlessly though; an endless flow of deliciously pineless juice rushing down through the fibres and fiborous, naturally."

"Flex Mex, wrap it in a burrito, exposition expedition, wrapped in a burrito, ya dig?"

"Exposito. Brilliant, tune even, tune."

"Are you Cameron Durswith?"

"Gee, shucks, am I?"

"Sure."

"Classified."

"Ah?"

"Classified."

cviii. ix.

Revisiting 'The Footage' by Jack Burston and Murray Somerville. xvii. civ. vi. xiii. xvi.

An extract from 'Degrid' by Jack Burston

Exit car left and of course turn right, dapper shoes and a cane from my right hand; sure, the shorts were on but the dinner jacket remained along with the previously mentioned shoes/cane and surplus to this: sunglasses, brass britches and a crassly worn bandana. It was not the expected mess of a trip to work but it was degrading in the sharply coming rain. I was rustling in my pocket, sure, searching for a couple of coins and a cough mint; awful chance of a cold in this weather, sure.
“Off to the shore Degrid?”
“To work Slacedy, seen Zach today?”
“Nah, sure he’s about, at the cards again probably.”
“He’s Top Ten!”
“Yes Degrid, a tune, pure tune.”
Slacedy was a former neighbour, and he was a fellow follower of Zach, the eternal card player, whose boots would occasionally come close to being hung by a new job or a new woman, but they never quite reached the hook. I simmered down towards the bus and journeyed to town, bonus, sure, up the stairs and out hours later. In recollection: work becomes a full stop, sure.

c. vi. iv. xi.

'Ah?' by Jack Burston

"I can't, I'm going to Bermont-trafflo."
"Ah?"
"Bermonttrafflo; to see Rusko?"
"Where's Bermonttrafflo?"
"Near, Glue-stirrer?"
"Whaticus?"

Cameron Durswith had an erstwhile friend with small, tapered ear lobes and a desperately skinny set of wrists. Durswith, naturally, confused his friends with inaccurate descriptions of place names, as well as the irrational nature of his journeys to such places in order to obtain entronz in to places such as airports and Italy. If Cameron Durswith was successful in a description of a geographical joint, it was usually irrelevant.

Raj and No-leans sat behind the industrial factory and relaxed in the stuffiness of the eighties fabric, Raj jittered:

"Bermont-trafflo, is that a real name?"
"Can't see it, sounds unreal in my opinion?"
"Keep saying 'tune' like this: chonn!"
"Au natur bretherin, au natur, anywho: Bermont-trafflo?"
"Might have to Encyclopedia it?"

Raj and No-leans, now with chocolate milk sat, and No-leans mumbled:

"Did you Encyclo it brev?"
"True that."
"Verdict?"
"Well, according to Encyo, slash this atlas thing I've got, it's technically Bermont near Trafflo. The bus station is called Bermont and Trafflo. There is no Bermonttrafflo. Bit of a tune I reckon."
"Bit of a chonn you mean?"
"Chonn."

Murray Somerville's Radiohead Animatic

Go and have a watch of me pal Murray's proposal for the Aniboom Radiohead video competition:






If you like Murray's stylee of doodlee, click anywhere here.

Thanks, zaza.

Read. Wallow. Watch. Swallow.

'Fear of Fraternity' by Jack Burston

I left my phone beneath me, downstairs last night so this morning I woke to a single alarm. Sitting up, my throat was gnawed by the beginnings of a cold. Crisply removing myself from the house I began as we all do, to start the universal day. An event took place which prevented me from attending my teaching:I stopped the bus and exited. Deadly awaiting, I baited some faith and fished for my friend Brian. He was sold out. Heading for the books I videoed a hero. Cross hair murder filling the streets apparently. Yes, he’s a specialist in the obscure and a master of the Siamese. Community spurred on and spirited by dead industry and failing commerce. The price of a home becomes a jelly baby born of a split Robber, a tsar of wasted times and cremated Semitism. The single alarm; born out of crispy larynx and a leader with militant duality. Dent and mush his cries! Tenacity, softly tries to show that we share much, though, death for adultery and lions of black. Devoid of a principle community, we are full of raids that revere silence.

We awake with dual alarms. Wacky and doodling a triplet alone. Never referencing anybody but Dyl and I am at least, exalted in this.The crisp references and similes, just like my throat, speed through the morning melody and miss it at times. Curled girls seep through the tune and caps lock our thoughts. Simultaneously, sane and big-eyed. We all need a Pablo in the mornings. Where we wake ill and regretful. To reissue opportunity through the opiates and doors of an endless theatre. A jubilant Jill might accompany me through these arches. To revisit and join in the past, lost opportunities. I prosper in them when inventing. First at times, we dwell. Luring in memories and exhaling them out differently. The auditor has become old, but still issues vetoes. Severe ideas bend out the night, thoughts and memories. Dressed as a pirate, attaché to the night. Prevented boardings regretted and revered in discussion amongst brothers. The sense of lost power, the Chase that I raced had electricity.

The power won in victory over the Chase was born in to an emerging quartet of fraternity. Brothers beginning to drink gin, and beginning to find maple leaves. These Fratellizin, advised me against the curls of the girls and pushed my crispy throat against the wall until the melody; the father of this morning’s tune, began to pour forth and dirty the floor with its crudeness. The surly bass that emerged. Inverted my attitude, and I tapped my hand and thumped my foot in to a chicken dish as I witnessed it. The power that gives birth to fraternity.

Loathing of eternity brews in the sixtieth fraction of my thought. The power that fuels fraternity faces up to the end and smashes a mirror. Drunken, learning, punching song from the lungs to hand, and lip syncing in time with the greatest heroes of these brothers here. The notes elope, entering ears with whispers and kisses. Bent, vibrating and echoing. In the same car that made it to Edinburgh and Plym, I will execute and fulfil, my every whim.

So in the seats alongside and behind me, I will have the following three: the actor, the illustrator, and a music man, known only by middle E. In the car in front or maybe behind there will be a drummer, a socialite, a devil horn, a surfer and a guitarist. The personal whim, becomes, it is, a different location. Where wheels are set and the course is dew, leaning wetness, searching for some dry laughter. A stump of leering wood will spurn laughter and I feel a clump of neoprene school girls will empower disaster.

And occasionally I will talk of the pirate, the attaché to the night, the missed invasion, the crispy little boarding. The perfect form that morphed so quickly this last Saturday night. And still occasionally I will crisply describe the curls, the dodged, but Pablo incurring eyes. But, regardless, the next alliance has to be realised as I skip through the coarse brilliance of The Videoed Hero. I talk to my mother and realise, the acute dew in my eyes. I begin to draw the multiplicity of the two cars together. The Edinburgh to Plym, and the instinctual whim, they are drawn from power. Drawing the individual forms, the pirate, the curls, the jubilant Jill, I change, I become an individual sequence of communal artistry. As I become the individually amalgamated artist, using my forms as a filter. The scenes of early evening dew will become stronger and the trips will become emphatic and defining. The Fratellizin will each become individual before reconvening, and leaving the constant moisture of calm fission to solo soar. They will plan beyond Edinburgh and far beyond Plymouth. A curly, soft lady pirate will call, and the ‘lizins will leave for Dover’s white mouth.

'Amalgamation 1' by Jack Burston

‘After two great powers, there will be a single amalgamation.’

Ex-President Papaver, July 21st, aged 75,

i

My brother died in the seclusion zone they put him in, modern Presidents were treated this way in the aftermath of their reign. He dribbled and murmured, he was John my brother, Claire, was my sister, she uttered and stammered. I had to decode them often and it dehumanised me. My brother’s final, dribbled words are the words that I quoted to start this. He was predicting. He was in love with the nearness of the void.

S
ii

The skyline of Nankelfield had being destroyed by growing tallness. The remaining burns of post-industrial loss ran right the way through the town and into my burning crevice. Flat 25-14 was twenty five floors up, too far up. Lorne Road was a long way beneath me. Occasionally people would call, the only route to the ex-President was me, and so they would call, and call, until they were dead or until they forgot who I was and why I was here. My accent still dribbled. It was a more coherent version of my brother’s, but still a distinct dribble to those around me in Nankelfield. My nephew would ring occasionally. The sons of Presidents were secluded like their Fathers. Political Inheritinzin had become the foundation of political supremacy. My brother was a dead King Bee, and his son never knew. Slipping in and out of importance, John Papaver Jr was a floundering nephew, but his blood was brilliant. His father had changed the skull of America into a brilliant post-industrial hemisphere. He was the Inheritint and therefore, he was important without bounds.

'Chonn: Roadtrip For' by Jack Burston

The pavement between a couple of counties sometimes has to move indirectly in order to move directly from one county to another, and it’s identical to my insistence on using the phrase “I [fecking] mean” in my writing and in my speaking (which unfortu-nate-ly) I do more than my writing, which is a joke -- as generally there is zero folksins about and there is literonz nothing better to do than write.

Not packed; 6am departure, and so now it’s fit to type for a bit, whereas the copious gaps, and five minute periods that Easter and inactivity have provided are not used up. Again, in any gap: nothing superior in spurring me on than writing.

The pavement, as I said is not necessarily direct, it can be [au natur] but it’s simply a sweet trek when you have to take the first right, second left, first right, Little Chef, steal Little Chef lollies, bail, left, right, [and I mean bail] some sort of comedy wheel spin and we would be talking. That is it: with the wheel spin we bail and then with a glove box full of lollies we cross the border.

What a quiet lay-by, we chill in the tree/field alley and by about four we head back (indirectly) between counties. Road trips provide a bit of Timothy time to write in. I'll miss them when they are sold out, square and gone.