from Blepharospasms

Stuart Calton

                                        You are sensitised. Sensitised in a
rissole of ectoderm studded with diamonds of broken pickle.
You are sensitised, vibrating between 10 and 50 Hz. You are
screened in the ventral palladium. You abandon your

snap-on lamella to become the intergranular corrosion of a
passive film sensitised in shocks of freeze-framed

lightning above the duvet, your face in a treacherous
homology of spacialised bacon. You are sensitised, emerging
as a cable of plasma from a prehistoric mouth hyper-redundant
in a black tower of shredded equivalence. You’re

unmoored, magnetised in an bright cutlet.
                                                                     Honestly you’re
that sensitive. Really sensitive. You’re on tour.
More sensitive than a) a pink dish of hot fat frozen to

a mask in a burning shed b) a spork at melting point stuck in a
tasered ham and c) the
                            sensitised Meißner’s corpuscles of the actual
Meißner sensitised in pockets of infant thought and
spirit regression at the top of the slide. Arc light on blobs.

The corned beef is in the pillow-case. A medium spiny neuron.
                                                       But you don’t lie in it. You
hang sessile in mass redundancy chaperoned by a
blizzard of mince. Meanwhile a
micrograph of spindle cell proliferation in the

lamina propria is enlarged and printed on the duvet. Now
lie in it. A title card: lie in it. But you don’t lie in it. You
                                                                 don’t lie in it. You
levitate like a spatula, ringing the changes. And then
                                                                      you become
openly spatulate, burnished as a levigated endomorph.
it’s still like before, when you didn’t lie in it; you don’t lie
                                         in it. You don’t lie in it. Instead you
close your eyes. You picture your face. Instead of lying

in it. Instead of lying in it, you picture the face within.
You adopt a mask of extravagant tranquillity frozen

in your own immediacy. You picture the face. The face
behind the face caught on the frame of a bag. The face
behind the face framed in a cauterised bag. A quarter-size
unmodified mudguard frisbee face frozen flat. Here is the
news face layered with multiple interruptions. Thank you.
Here is the news face serene as a broken blender. Fibroblasts
flung in the duvet of unfurled fascia bundled in a
nose-bag in a leg-bag in a bin bag in a bagatelle in a
boil wash. A red doodle spreads out on the paper nose.
                            Your face is the new face of venous reflux.
A strudel of stroma flung like an unfixed fillet in the
face of an unhinged tree of faces which are your own
face multiplied beyond non-proliferation into a
polymorphous homolosine rampart.
cast aside the mask emboldened in a varicose

transparency right down to the deep dermis, until

sweat glands stand exposed like red snails in a

square of low tide. Look at the silt of fat that clings

to the secretory coil in adipose and bring to mind the

face. Then bring to mind the night light in its rank
submission. And then the face. And then the bag. And

then the face. And then hold the face. A rectangle carpeted
with a blossom of globes. And then the bag. Poke your eyes
with your own eyes. Now put the face on hold. Now
wipe it away. Now bring it back. Bring back the face.
Bring the face to mind. Now pause it. Half a word. A
stripe of static. Picture the grey gland under the tongue
its unexpected emissions in false geometry. A mouthful of
unappetising triangles. Symmetry. You re-recall the face
in rueful nods. Yes. The face is your face in the
mind. The face behind the face and the one behind that.
You apprehend that conker of pink waste through a

veil of phlegm. Over the eyes in surprise you roll your
own eyes contrariwise and swat the drool biting
down on the axial shit in the pool. A death-mask on a
life-raft in a radial swirl.
                                                                   You have a
starring role in a film in which you play the
original test-model on a neoplatonic production line of
minutely-varied infinitely-fungible stock parts
individually exemplifying the billion subtle distinctions
and shortfalls that mark your distance from
a horizon of shining nothing.
                                                                     You rotate
the face. You rotate the face and look through it like a
pastrami windshield as you roll up the tongue. Limbo.
Limbo stuck on the salsa preset.
                                                                      And now using the
nose as anchor you move every remaining feature
out from the centre in a concentric net across the

ball of a flat skull. An inch. And now two

inches. Then three. Four. Five. And then six inches.
After meshing, the skin is rotated to the back where a
rear plate comb assists in picking the skin off the roller.
                                           Seven inches. And then eight.
Nine. And then suddenly twelve feet from the nose in a
carousel of clinical waste. Mission creep. Trifle. Different
types of old wrappers are everywhere, some old

sweet wrappers from like the ’70s, and under the
                                                                    walzers you can see
right down through the cave to the substrate the face
                            grows on. Later you step out onto that
glabrous expanse between the nodes, your toboggan
stalled on the gangplank. The tiny mouth is undistorted;
the donor site heals by re-epithelialisation. The

rate of autorejection is low. But the healing tracks
forward and back haphazardly so the landscape empties
and fills erratically, stone cold at the bus stop in
waves of phospholipid ground-frost. There’s an
explosion of some kind in the lower shelf of the pan.
A report through the cavity. All buses are

cancelled, face-wide.
                                                         At times like this your
brain comes to mind at the bus stop. Now take the
                                                                     mind to the face.
Now bring the brain to mind, mindful of the bag. Mind
the gap. Put the face over the brain behind the face and the
face behind that. Take your sensitivities on tour; put your
feet in the hand luggage. Skin carriers in three expansion
ratios. Extracellular matrix. Bag your face. Then
you say: this isn’t about the brain. This is about your
phantasy of the brain. Pure autonomic epic fail. You say:
and your phantasy of the brain is a containing pouch
containing mainly your face and the face behind that and
behind that the real brain and then the face behind the
                                          face from the gangplank in the
toboggan down a slippery slope to the portal to the
playground in the pool by the slide in the fairground in the
ulcer in the eyelid. All your flashing lights. Extra bright.
Twelve feet. Thirteen. Fourteen. Then fifteen. Sixteen.
Seventeen feet. And then a furlong. Four furlongs.

Eight. Until it’s a twenty-minute walk to the mouth. You
calculate this whilst packing your bag. So

you step out onto that glabrous expanse between the
mouth and the eye, migrating up the rigidity gradients like
a stairlift. The mouth set softly in a pink fen; a radiant

sink of granulation tissue. You are the real brain

behind this, zeroing in on the ranging clots.
                                         Now picture the loved face. Just
the normal loved face. The loved face as it
hangs in its deepest familiar formation. Bring it to

mind. The cast of the jaw. The cast of the jaw and the

eyes. It can brook no alteration. It’s not a symbol. It won’t
resolve. The cast of the jaw and the eyes and the mouth. The
eye spaces. The jaw encryption. The mouth print. It’s
insoluble and finally unconsumed in the bucket. Who’s
behind this? Stamp of mouth on that bone curve. Is it your
own face behind this? Is obscurely this in reality somehow
your own face? Your own persistently stuck-

to-the-wrapper face? Your own photorealistic stent? Fit your
face into its everted topography. Sinkholes and channels
sunk below the zero marker into protrusions flipped over the
X axis into a duvet of snarls and mechanotransduction.
You’ve learned nothing. You settle into the face. Into this
face which can’t justly be traded in symbolisation or
                                                                      held truly to be a
moment in a sequence. You lie in it. A title card: you lie in it.
                             This time you lie in it. The cast of the jaw and
the eyes and the mouth and the nose. It is not frozen like a
distortion in the frames of other faces, the product of
Universalised Chronophotographic Cubism. It doesn’t
truly carry affect for a face that follows, nor

follow the delegated fiat of a face that foreshadows it. It
curves round to take in the ears. The cast of the ears of a
tree bag. The face behind the tree caught, framed in a
ear bag. The face between the ears cast off in a rigid
jaw behind the demoted face cauterised in a frame bag. The
same site can be harvested again. The off-licence is

full of stem-cells. Eternity.
                                         But whatever moves over the face or
across it whatever numinous fringe insufflates its
rut, the digestive surface, its air bag its hair net its fur

trap its nail bar and the incremented glut of its gastrulation
the peaks of its wig reaction, its tail spin its face-pack its
life hack or moves within the face
                                                                                    within that
face in a complete ingrown beard of blepharospasms or
through the face arborizing its keyholes in a wave, the
cast of the jaw and the eyes and the mouth and the
nose and the cast of the brow or
                            radiates from the face of flint in a peel of
disgorged spalls, the cast of the jaw and the eyes and the
mouth and the nose and the cast of the brow and the
undistorted cold press of this cheek, or unfurls over the thin
                                                                                   veneer of the
face that paints shut the trapdoor that opens to the other
mouth behind the other face beside itself beneath the
                                                                      other face beneath
the other veneer beneath the other face the trick

hatch shining through in a monocratic gold slick of
yoghurt, perfectly regressive but imperfectly

repetitive, or properly set beyond repetition where the
frames blur at the limit of the safety catch cross hatched
unlatched from the last perfect match of the film of the
bag in a beehive in a tree in a bird hide, the cast of the
jaw and the eyes and the mouth and the nose and
the cast of the brow and the undistorted cold press of this
cheek and the hot plug of the flower of that socket.

This black slate. A nest pushed to the far end of asymmetry
like a sponge. These bony margins. This witherless
doomed infringement. The loved face is totalitarian.
Undeselectable. You try to picture its features creeping
closer to the nose in a concentric knot, until a bolt of
gristle stands at the origin like a cyst. But nothing moves.
Nothing moves. Nothing moves but your face. Your face
in a lasagne of reversions pressed out from the
inner tube in false starts. Only your face moves.

Only your face has legs. It’s a fugue state swayed by the
movement of sick krill. Four canals in an otherwise radial
body-plan set out in a reliquary spooned out like a crab.