there might still be a future for laughter if only i can stop menacing my identification with those winks of water people who live in the people who live in the shed are leaving it down to the up to around the carrot where you feel to to up to to, too so they fed & the hit chewed (they fed) and sped through red (blue-green?) incredible (normal?) syndromes cos who was next in the shirt was when they stopped . they knew what it hadn't been before an old beginning born on the inside then falling up stairs ankle first in time to hear the bell ringing when you get to door the theoretical nursery rhymes came on times plain time is a flat full of explanations and there was toothpaste on the eye of the cold seeker Sam Langer -typed in a towel, 16:28 30.11.2023

...space boogie, space + boogie, space (positions of parts reciprocally affecting each other ad infinitum) boogie (a repetitive, swung note or shuffle rhythm, groove or pattern used in blues and originally played on the piano in boogie-woogie music, a redoubling of boogie, which was used for rent parties as early as 1913, and which may derive from the sierra leone term ‘bogi’, to dance... burgin mathews*) boogie::: in space. where is that? apart from ——it—— being “the place”, which doesn’t narrow it down at all. we are there. wherever we happen to boogie is in space. or is it meant to mean: ‘boogie, with some space,’ like, ‘a spacious boogie,’ so maybe meaning ‘with bits left out’, stopping, like near the beginning (‘about’ 3 seconds in. in, on, or around those three four seconds). (stopping playing.) what people mean by spacious—the opposite of dense—silent—clever. they mean there is something that isn’t there, in a pleasing relation to what was put there (and what was taken): so they (not oùat, people—whoever they are) aren’t talking about ‘the silence of the eternal spaces, etc’, so maybe it isN’t a ‘spacious boogie’. it’s very busy, and not spießig (but rotating). there is now a space in the space where my dishes should be. what? there is less egg in here than i put this morning. oh. the container was manufactured by bosch. it is a container with something missing in it: it is space. dark matter, they say, can even be found at the top of the stairs. probably. forgive me—my head was empty. nous serons écrasés, les volcans sauteront, (due to a shift in the lack of space, but maybe creating new islands) as rimbaud said. blank, went my mind. or is it a waltz and a boogie getting taken apart the way that space aliens or some strange science fictional beings might do it, or busily cavorting while getting beamed, that’s what space always makes me think of, comets and aliens. the usual. the way that the returning piano part sounds triple and double but not quite rocking in the left hand and also rolling in exactly the supposed way? or what aren’t they talking about when they mean space... [the nowadays-people often (in english) talk about “spaces”, like, “they’re working in that space”, as in, they are tapping the vein of that pre-defined cultural resource: “he’s gotten quite big in the train station piano playing space”, or “we’re in the same space”—where ‘space’ has nothing to do with room, nothing that would echo, i guess it means, appearance in profile that can be recognised as marketable, edible, that is that meaning of being ‘in’ a space. the world as an eternally expanding chessboard / maybachufer. “they’re really big in the self-contradictory statements space at the moment.”] is the stopping, the space, as an introduction, an opening door, if you like, to beginning again, stopping, as a door’s opening to beginning again? a door with a present of a bunch of strange ladders and flowerstands behind it? are repetitions (time) what develops a sense of permanence, the one moment of space being there, being laid out, in a sense of array (‘array’ which seems to used to have meant something like ‘there ready to go’, hmm), or/and is it the stretching between the arrayed multiple things-in-the-way which lead us to consider them as being ‘in’ space? in the way? there is no bumping into things without space getting in the way. time being repeated to develop a leading of us to consider a sense of permanence as one of the elemental characters of space? the ground and the getting ground. into parts. space—extent unlimited or limited—relying on time—(whatever time could be when considered independently of space, something in the head, body, something perceived in the instruments, some sort of way of waving at space, time as a tone to remind space that it’s definitely ‘of’ time, a ‘space of time’, a space that belongs to time—being the way you see the same new (“mirror, mirror, on the wheel”)—‘boogie’ as a certain way of repeating the relation to some spaces of time... what about: space boogie, in the sense of energy drink ______: as in: i recommend this boogie if you need some space, they market this boogie by claiming that it makes some space? to fill? with? drink drink, boogie boogie. ... Sam Langer after three on friday afternoon... (1 december 2023)

_supreme_ all so what else how but and then, and then, who bent, and run and them if then, what you and were, and rooping what what (...) by being near . . . and agreeing fear and seeing here and clearing tear and wearing there see how, there are / / and so lets see lets see and lets see how they are when you went, where you went, what was sent see how they are, see how they are it is too good to not be free we hear of thee when any see the present tree for what they know in what they show is how to know where every go unfortunately they are not seen too certainly and what they deem can never be, it is not thee by bearing by as easily as what it does it isn't hard to be as known, it is too hard to never know that what you know is known indeed to the same degree that bears agreed on other sides and even when it doesn't when its other side, it isn't then it is and now its other when Sam Langer ...4.42, 3 december 2023

--Red Horses and Cows-- the darkness holds round the marks beyond the stains of silver and iron while a haunted heart clatters down an utter catch in the longest barrack with the need to ride out not stripped away wearing through our glasses with our gazing on the great bell (on pointing at things on understanding change on hardness and redness on name and substance on the storehouse of traces) there’s a black wind from the sky to potter this land with its things and the corners do shine in the grass where we lay down to wake up among them on other days even too awake for the sun stood on some sort of balcony built onto a cliff that’s rippling and if the days are themselves and awake themselves no different in length or even as longer as the more darkness they growingly contain such is the language of love while the school of names falsidically misplaces concrete vines shall dust on one day belonging to the presence of memories that closeness to the golden number of magical folk songs and studies of silent dialogues Sam Langer

Industrial Nebulution feeding me was the first problem but that was only an extremity count though. count though's coordinated messaging system. some count further than others. others count further than their weight artificial beaks pecking the moon, the nearby planets nostalgia for an abundance that nextisted only perfectly scattered throughout the earth, and air which became the problem of coordination so that the Sssembly of the former through digging and massing manuractures an obsquoir scents of oonrage a clouding of synthesis hoopfully an aliment of eyeroar in the purse conniption of reels the relay tritons shun \~|~< {{{ 1. (composed of successive short curves made to resemble a cloud  —used of a heraldic line by which an ordinary or subordinary may be bounded 2. of a molding : consisting of an overhanging band the lower projecting edge of which conforms in shape to a continuous undulating curve) Sam Langer

ALICE to you, relative is absolute, to me, ... “it suits you” what else could i say to you looking for something like a heart on the way around and they wait still and on the way standing an old beginning in front of something strange like a kind of mirror a lope in the well snow seen from a moving bridge they did know what it hadn’t been before what is form’s form though? content? one active, one passive? and from there it goes up with the between inside this bit of it should i need to remind you, it still is is form the thought of what there is raised in the content bodily raised and location its need on the way down what else could the doctor say lacking any rhetoric or answers – the rabbit’s rhetoric was more revealing that the train driver’s, we couldn’t play chess were too moving – what’s at the front next we were dancing crying sometimes in the grassy train’s corners where we saw exactly what the others feeling strong emotion were doing we didn’t need to say it coming up the stairs, but sometimes did, to each other and again as well – would it be here? was it going to come here? as well, we said it in the rooms’ grassy trains and in the squares’ classic chains we walked cross the edges in the summertime in the slight sermon form the hills of what was left the year’s sort of also an elf, who investigates those changes on a stroll we tripped up for free whether to fall or rise who knows? in winter? the devil at the table too like a little bear, looking over Sam Langer (late at night, december 6)

it’s hard to sing the Blues it’s jacaranda time the roses are crawling down the fence i met you tonight it’s time to meet the cowboys you sleep badly, getting ironed well, at least you sleep worse, that is and those who suffer are sposed to be my doctors whereas windmills aren’t what make the wind? trains just cannot come on time but when the coin turns inside out what to do? these dabs are just seething in owlish trust coins crashing on the roses in the bin © Sam Langer

raise 5: intervals and incarnations how the phrases to a sound upon the condition. . . leg it and arm it up on the condition shifting shape with its key memory skeleton element timed to an inner-inter movement of carefully speeding mediums going through the corner and out the same line of a plain over looking for the time beats made to try to find the beats times making ©Sam Langer

tongues in or in shoes sorrows pond-eye in the cave that irons the shoo-ins to the shoots of straight copped or fill-ins under a song through the pipes a palatial bent-up it is to be introduced to the tooth roof and a necklace of caterpillar pipes deserted to the dentition what’s the rate on this god pan who turns on a bronze age sponge to furnish want sheds contained in a pancake whose tears also function as serrene mishap corks an owl on your name combs the fish fields of your frame that spectral sequins peep through time sadness you paddle © Sam Langer

something with the moon at the “first time” end of a muffled winter afternoon, with half-anticipated hands of feet-over excitement that was running a slight hill rolling down its windows of generally lit traffic hummed together there in an up home, some “first time” ends, time ends like happy crumpled mégots no bits in thoughts that are all touches of reflections together the sweat that peels time back to a carefully tailored waist swinging in a symbol on the park at night musicopoetomatographic drawings of the effects of the moon on the sentiments with long complex wooden flute lines, rolling repetitions of bass and drums bar trios, shall we dance effects, quaint cats in silhouette one exploring the month after the other tuned his curving lion claws to rise above a tin the moon in the morning the moon cones the morning cones yours the first move behind morning behind memory, the mournful face of a fragment with teeth all the people with the things seen in the cool accompaniments to what start the collateral albatross to noon naps what time do you start thinking about whenever you hear the moon? you starting in bed to stair something who are you, when what’s gonna occur to the moon is they’re land again to tell another sad tale out there in a tin as it happens? in a different can and phazed as repeated degrees level o that memory of the light that’s one day darker than the sky © Sam Langer

Instable Mates instable... can never be any o, old con stable but, but it’s not un-stay- able being on a the... ferry out out- side of an airy why a necessity and would you fall off this second instable... can not name name being bothered to frame an other to e- lude at home in the air through the second wind, in dough © Sam Langer

there isn’t any grit between your belly and the world – there is only nothing but grit, cold but hot. it’s hotly cold and amongst the grit. the grit thumps through the hail, moves over onto a rough end of the pineapple mat where hands shake the feet off a medium-sized tooth. the tooth begins to grate runs meanwhile on the wire cupboard-front of a stolen pipecleaner forest. hands and feet wind the drive in on a cable hub against the wind in the grit blown against the thing just been said to demonstrate that there are degrees of grit to the gavel’s head that is nearest the damp pit. © Sam Langer

when the sun comes up it sinks lightly into the sky... it is a music of day continuously beginning with no unnecessary heroics, merely the absorbed twinkling of a star of relative giantness... the “piece” (of what vast cake?) is where musicality appears to scale perspective as an exfoliation of melody as understood by myriad tiny striding runners, like magnetism to an all-too-willing series of fingers of space. meanwhile the shards of been-in coherences are heated as light thens, before they slightly enter the hotel foyer or end credits of film, whose plot finality is granted as whisked to finite and infinite modes of god-as-benevolent-producer/impresario, who returns your calls, to say hey lucia, its cartoon was to be filled out with glorious painted plant, i got your message, sliding the horizon when i plucked up ... © Sam Langer

ILLUSION “ The illusion is perfect ” —Arthur Symons ? time is an illusion when i see i still dream of them ? —Simon Sieger * time is (an my un) illusion when i see (i by him them tim time why) (am cell dream i him of still them revolving) * yes, no, to, and, our, their, feet no longer fit, shoes. they spread out, as age accelerates; though ever unable to catch up with time, which it does try to, age, ageing itself in the attempt to catch some time to keep, who is only even a category when dreamed of, in the rational sense, as a protection officer for kitchens checking on improperly maintained ones. some claim the numbers cooked in the illusory kitchens of time. triadic mountains vibrate in the invisible helmets of kitchen corner disputation cataclysm credo proverbs, and their hands move to turn over the pages of the book of proverbs, whose foliation beneath your ceiling are professional masks, jellifying in the open fridge, occasionally terrifying at some slight corner in the bender, beside the triadic mountains, that were ever vibrating in the see-thru facial helmets of warm kitchen corner disputation, etc., as the coursers shook then hands with the surface of their name. * we must confess to never having thought the very able foot ever wasn’t. it is only the sneaker of time to slip on the geranium rain. it happens so slowly to be as hungry as the mercenaries in their sewing box. * o memory day darker than the sky there is no grit to a sun core you cannot imagine an airy why tried on to frame an outside of a fragment o memory in your hair of your hair where you tear the dough to grit to drive in on ghost sequins * exceptions of spacious time death model their zooming by an inspection of wasps in hollow roadside chair leg metal and wind brushed down truck grass as though the elephants of hamilcar’s army had never emerged towards the northern barbarians in their (? flexible box ?) of perspective out of a cloud of dust, only by hearsay, their huge flapping ears, birds or snakes standing up on their tails, or was anything never not, musing on the brick path trailing towards toilet shed block, or was nothing without a trace? * you never weren’t yet it zooms me and you in we hurry to fill up the time space is the big coat toes burned down for prose * o memory day, composed of illusions about the former reality former that assumed it would get easier only by following you down the path that was following hard on your tail, your cords, but only harder than it was before by being easier than how it will be next... stirring the dust atop a top... ©Sam Langer

the soul and the cake who took the piece?—never answered by finding ourselves walking across the plate without it. among the crumbs, complexes of our footsteps form doilies of echo to the wobbly poles of the thought of its section of attraction, continually swimming in keeping in our minds. to have and to eat, and to meet somewhere in the middle, neither, of a cold dry wind only approaching the very edge of the trimmings. and of waking up now, before you know where, with suns abruptly there, to pull the grains through the hours, rolling in clover glasses, to other sides, of red horse fence. it may be that we’ve already eaten the piece was meant to digest to the insoles could’ve corrected our audition in this tunnel stroll up the cat wall behind the candle. © Sam Langer

SUDDEN only like the sudden sun that gets grey by being gay in the winter bricks. the swans talk to the forgotten buds on the blank sticks above the slippery rocks and the pigeons somehow manage to sleep on a forty-five-degree-angled bit of zinc beneath an immense sign that means nothing whatsoever to them. can we warm ourselves by blinking, or perhaps arm? can we bring the teeth nearer the “stuck” around the edges of the ceiling, whose glistening is well away from giving in to any fairytales about what spring is gonna bring? harvesting that basket of old lightbulbs and drying the petals calmly in the bowl cos you’re coming round to have a bath, and drink “crémant de loire” (what an earth is that?). cutting into the plains out there in the mist with a pick. until the vast child and we are drunk. we’ll scatter our belongings and collect the hostile furniture from the window view and jam on the apocalyptic trumpets with pencils. and you’ll have finished your bath, our friends will come to the party, smoking cigarettes. ©Sam Langer written in a couple of hours and forty seconds.

Breach the gap what rhapsody in one’s room’s apparent forest. what relative fealty in three’s room’s apparent, cooking quietly. welcoming feelings of energetic sadness, rumouring towards a pushed elevator. a rolled back, pair danceable trip that then spirals onto cabbage-racing world powell ligeti. who can run out of stuff on the sewing machine to breach the gap in the human abstract. reflecting very sadly and finally, with thoughtful finger to temples of hotel carpet or television credit, is revealed to be a question mark of pacing. and, we probably will or won’t need more tiny electric motors to wind ourselves round our thumbs in the wind from the next final forest. © Sam Langer

Hymn i got there yesterday eyes do not see all course for direction to the winds, every possible plane of horizon partake singular shore potholes and set off tomorrow’s neutron-dense mountain all the points dance together dividing the shade into a cymbal * compasses can’t make circles or holes for the potholes, the neglected smoke the hidden leaves falling off a flower we sing that thou wast born in a turn * (oomph) where, between the polar bears of polarized polarities you notice oscillating tortoises longer than snakes for whom no compass can plane the eagle, for broke, off the heavens all course for direction to the winds * what we ask for you is not too ruched there are not any stars above the stairs, parting in the air to the hearts of a trio of three pairs of storm systems touching their toes ask also the rubber band what’s its stance? what we as for you not too formel forgive them and give them not up repeating themselves for trying to forgive those who made the difference to an identified subject for they knot and know what they throw they realize not that the horse has thrown them they consider selves in the saddle in the mirror they piece themselves together as if with clothes the camel has come by with its soul up a drainpipe filling if no soul were to be come by the forms would be listening to the wrong sirens, is it alright with teeth to know exactly where you go any more the sirens of the waves wash the shore the sand protects the shore waves protect the sand rocks another rhythm make it stand there’s another scale to all consider the pupil knocked over what passed must understand scribbles the wind dancing flowers open on a run not too formel not triumphant, the bottom to the note left sure by the wind a little zarathustra, a little myriad putting a basket “Let love embrace the ten thousand things; Heaven and earth are a single body. With sayings such as these, Hui Shih tried to introduce a more magnanimous view of the world and to enlighten the rhetoricians.” © Sam Langer 21.12.23, 18:33 (incorporating words by jeroen nieuwland and ido bukelman)