(May 9. 05)
Daylight saving saves nothing; I much prefer the dark or the caramel yellow crepuscular of dawn fading to a bright sunny day. Saving light is like saving spit on the ball of one’s tongue, after a short while it sups back down your throat and gullets in the scrum of your stomach where it eels and wriggles like a fucking devilfish on PCP. Give me gum-rotting pitch-blackness, not bird twilling bright hoary sunlight. I have said enough; I have yet to speak at all. Another day spent punching finger-nebs into numbered ruts, not a fucking joyous occasion by any stretch of the imagination. Tomorrow’s another day, I suppose, one fraught with dial tones and slammed down receivers. Gods’ night to you all, fucking lousy cunts the lot of you.
(May 10. 05)
Flax, like devils-wings curry the branches of the tree outside my bedroom window. Another day has risen, whether I like it or not.
(May 11. 05)
Such a mercenary wind tearing leaf and julep from branch and tether. What little budding and leafing nature has mustered and willed to life, will be mercilessly ripped from mooring and skive. No titlarks or grouse; wings like devils cutting clods of air into ribbons and shreds, just a scold of bad weather and rickets. Fucking ever-shifting incontinent weather, never a moment’s reprieve from rain terrors and bad manners. Fuck it, I’m off to bed. This fucking glacial temperature will certainly spell the end of me, weather I like it or not. My gallows-plants, hung in some strange effigy to nature’s indifference to man and beast, may not make it through the night unscathed. Fucking devil-wind and ice whores. I’ll need an extra plying of blankets, perhaps socks and gaiters, to keep my own self from slipping into a hypothermic continence. Fucking varicose and red blisters. Gods’ night and all clear.
(May 12. 05)
Today I will eat a cormorant with apple-sculls and ginger stropped from Eurasian hides. The buds and leaves have been slain by a merciless mercenary wind. Fucking Mother Nature and bad manners. Brown stains and withering, two things I most certainly could do without.
I am home, where that is I am not entirely sure. Cold feet and ice-clips, toes blackened with windburn and diesel. I know better than to wear my flip-flops when the centigrade is lowing, yet still do regardless of the greater matter or consequence. Such is such, I suppose, lousy toe corns and Braille feet. Tomorrow I will check the temperature on the all-day weather channel before heading out and make certain that my feet are adequately shod and tethered. One more variegation of foot and heel and I’ll surely need to have a chiropodist scrap and chip the Braille from the skips of my feet. Pumice stone is good for that, or so I recall being told, by whom, as always, is of little importance. Perhaps it was a beggar or an almsman, or a denticulate whore with tiny misshapen feet of her own. One can never be sure, feet being all that separates us from the furnaces of hell. Kiln burns and chaffing, feet marbled and singed like alligator hide. No two ways about it, feet are a fucking curse, the stalwarts of a healthy jaunt and canter. I’d rather have mine sawn off and pegs jimmied into rail and bone, at least that way I could hop and skip in circles like a fucking dervish on PCP and be done with it once and for all. Kafka had no feet, sad fucking bastard. Max Brod sawed them off when he was sleeping under his bed, and sold them to Heidegger so that he could wear Jewish woolen socks without his feet going shibboleth and Etruscan blue. Hanna would scrub and lick the clods of skin from between the nubs of his toes, all the while humming an orthodox cantor under the silk of her breath. (Lest she be kilned and limed and thrown arms akimbo into a deep, roiling pit). Orthodox or not, the end result is always the same, wormy skin and dirt gritted teeth, that is, of course, if you have any left in the skip of your jaw.
Daylight saving saves nothing; I much prefer the dark or the caramel yellow crepuscular of dawn fading to a bright sunny day. Saving light is like saving spit on the ball of one’s tongue, after a short while it sups back down your throat and gullets in the scrum of your stomach where it eels and wriggles like a fucking devilfish on PCP. Give me gum-rotting pitch-blackness, not bird twilling bright hoary sunlight. I have said enough; I have yet to speak at all. Another day spent punching finger-nebs into numbered ruts, not a fucking joyous occasion by any stretch of the imagination. Tomorrow’s another day, I suppose, one fraught with dial tones and slammed down receivers. Gods’ night to you all, fucking lousy cunts the lot of you.
(May 10. 05)
Flax, like devils-wings curry the branches of the tree outside my bedroom window. Another day has risen, whether I like it or not.
(May 11. 05)
Such a mercenary wind tearing leaf and julep from branch and tether. What little budding and leafing nature has mustered and willed to life, will be mercilessly ripped from mooring and skive. No titlarks or grouse; wings like devils cutting clods of air into ribbons and shreds, just a scold of bad weather and rickets. Fucking ever-shifting incontinent weather, never a moment’s reprieve from rain terrors and bad manners. Fuck it, I’m off to bed. This fucking glacial temperature will certainly spell the end of me, weather I like it or not. My gallows-plants, hung in some strange effigy to nature’s indifference to man and beast, may not make it through the night unscathed. Fucking devil-wind and ice whores. I’ll need an extra plying of blankets, perhaps socks and gaiters, to keep my own self from slipping into a hypothermic continence. Fucking varicose and red blisters. Gods’ night and all clear.
(May 12. 05)
Today I will eat a cormorant with apple-sculls and ginger stropped from Eurasian hides. The buds and leaves have been slain by a merciless mercenary wind. Fucking Mother Nature and bad manners. Brown stains and withering, two things I most certainly could do without.
I am home, where that is I am not entirely sure. Cold feet and ice-clips, toes blackened with windburn and diesel. I know better than to wear my flip-flops when the centigrade is lowing, yet still do regardless of the greater matter or consequence. Such is such, I suppose, lousy toe corns and Braille feet. Tomorrow I will check the temperature on the all-day weather channel before heading out and make certain that my feet are adequately shod and tethered. One more variegation of foot and heel and I’ll surely need to have a chiropodist scrap and chip the Braille from the skips of my feet. Pumice stone is good for that, or so I recall being told, by whom, as always, is of little importance. Perhaps it was a beggar or an almsman, or a denticulate whore with tiny misshapen feet of her own. One can never be sure, feet being all that separates us from the furnaces of hell. Kiln burns and chaffing, feet marbled and singed like alligator hide. No two ways about it, feet are a fucking curse, the stalwarts of a healthy jaunt and canter. I’d rather have mine sawn off and pegs jimmied into rail and bone, at least that way I could hop and skip in circles like a fucking dervish on PCP and be done with it once and for all. Kafka had no feet, sad fucking bastard. Max Brod sawed them off when he was sleeping under his bed, and sold them to Heidegger so that he could wear Jewish woolen socks without his feet going shibboleth and Etruscan blue. Hanna would scrub and lick the clods of skin from between the nubs of his toes, all the while humming an orthodox cantor under the silk of her breath. (Lest she be kilned and limed and thrown arms akimbo into a deep, roiling pit). Orthodox or not, the end result is always the same, wormy skin and dirt gritted teeth, that is, of course, if you have any left in the skip of your jaw.
She clapped her tongue
Against the roof of my mouth
Scrapping the spice
Against the roof of my mouth
Scrapping the spice
From the Braille
Of my tongue
Of my tongue
Lamb’s tongue oxtail soup
One man’s ravenous lusting
Another’s cruel oxen fate
One man’s ravenous lusting
Another’s cruel oxen fate
Lips skilled at alchemy
And milling flood water
From oxbow plank and rill
And milling flood water
From oxbow plank and rill
A fate worse than oxen
Hacked shoulder to breast
Knee cups slackening
Hacked shoulder to breast
Knee cups slackening
Under joist and mallet
Cumin-black tongue
Spiced with ox-brine
Cumin-black tongue
Spiced with ox-brine
Forgive me for I know not what I do. Sad pathetic cunt, no penitence or bread ends for you. Never one to mince and monger, so you said, fat bastard lying through the rills of your teeth, tell the truth for once and see where it gets you. Nowhere probably, but better than a hobnailed to the fucking jawbone or a sharp stick to the eye. Gods know you haven’t a pot to piss in, so what have you got to loose, nothing that’s what, not a fucking thing. Good night Kafka you footless bastard, and as for you, Martin, keep your socks tucked into your Teutonic jackbooted shins. This isn’t a journal it’s a mercenary infernal. Cumin-black perhaps, ox-brine and mallet tongue.
(May 16. 05)
Fucking merciless mercy never they’re when you need her. Cup rings and coffee grout, life’s simple pleasures. Black as the Ace of Spondees. I have acquired, through no will of my own, a cold and a sour throat, from too much grout and Gauloises one might conjecture. If not, there is no reason or rhythm to the whole shebang. None whatsoever at all. What in the name of lexicography is a fucking Spondee? (Anyhow).
(May 22. 05)
I’m dating a model, but she only fucks black chicks. (Bill Whitten, Grand Mal). Fucking rain blasting the trowel-edge off a moonless May rain soaked fucking day. Simpering fool ditch the cunt and hand fuck yourself into a Mezmer’s coma. No Freudian recanting or thumb sucking, just a little heave ho, a wee bit of the in and out, the root-cause of all modern sexual dysfunction, so the Hives and Shears say. Fucking cunts the lot of ‘em. Time for bedsores and dilly-dallying, two things I fancy, yet with due diligence try to keep at a manageable distance from the scone of my afthead, silly fucking bugger that I am: all clear and gods’ night to you all, silly fucking cunts the lot of you. But then again who am I to speak, silly bugger that I am? Don’t slam the god-forsaken door on your way out, I beg of you please. Fancy that, a door without a jamb or a fucking screen, strange world we live in, that it is.
(May 23. 05)
What day is it? Who the flack cures? Not I, I can assure you that. If I were a bird (which I am not) I would peck my own eyes out with the neb of my bonny. Cursed rain, like a motherraper at oedipal confession. I, however, confess nothing, the scurvy bit that I am. Put that in you’re fucking pip and smote it. Wind jibs aft and fore, no rust for the warty and lye. Time for a bowel of coffee and a jib of smoke and proper. Fucking Italics will spell the cursed end of me of that I am reasonably certain. My parents eat scamps and the whitest white fish skins, with slurps of apple crisp wine and ample amounts of Scotches and Nordic Vodkas. I, having scorned my liver one too many times, choose not to mitigate the problem, staying clear of such toxins and milled grapes. A hog’s pox of gray clouds, silver fish and carrion, maggots and septic nonsense, not a clear blue morning sky by any stretch of the imagination. Scream-of-conscious, such as Joyce and his brooding brethren angered the literati with, with poxes and skillet-stuck kidneys stropped to iron and castings. Fucking morons, not a piss to pot in. I, whomever, have no such lick in angering or fucking, just a constant nagging malaise that sods the bejeezus out of me. So be it, be it so I suppose. One too many oedipal sticks to the eye for one man to muster and patience in this lifetime or the next, sods willing. Crackling heels and toe-clods, two things I could certainly do without in any fucking lifetime or the next. I am an optimistic fatalist, not a positive negativist. Tamp that in your pip and smoke it. Scalawags and labium Majorca, two things I could do more with, fucking misanthrope that I am. Time to leave the sanctum of my home and have the wind-skips crop and Braille the soft tissues of my mien. Like it or not, such is such. I am a murderous sot, sodomizer of proper grammar, syntax and semantic no-nonsense. So be it, so fuck off the lot of you and don’t slam the fucking door on your way out, fucking cunts the lot.
(May 24. 05)
A man once told me (who he is, is of little importance, all men are the same in the end) that the sky would cave into the earth before the next millennium. Being the savant that I am, and not a good one at that, who was I to disagree or conjecture? Who was I, am I, to even think the thought, the mere thought that I might have an opinion or an unmitigated notion of anything whatsoever? That stands to reason, as unreasonable as it may seem. The man, like all men in the end, is now dead, a corpse filtering worms and dirt. Who has the last laugh now, I say, he or I? Fucking cunt, who has the last titter now? Some savant I am; more of a fucking Einstein than a gibbering rasher by any stretch of the imagination I’d say. Fucking sorry state of affairs, never a fucking dimwitted so-and-so when you need one, just another ass-fucking such and such with crooked teeth and an ass’ jaw for a fucking brain.
(May 25. 05)
Gad morning yeah bunch of fucking cunts. Perfume and talc your nethermost, as today’s going be a windy roan one that it is. Alimentary canals, rush of pomes and pony’ hooves clip-clapping like devil’s rakes in a wind stern. Hold aft and fore, today’s going be a brisk fuck of a day, no light’s saving time or solstice, just a rim run shod and rummy. Term for a shower and some lavations and dower ablutions. Nary a titlark mincing leaves and pips in the grave’s branches outside my bedroom window, nary a one, that is. Out and about, time for my own mincing and plopping through hell and dale.
Stone fucking deafness will misspell the end of me of that I am reasonably certain, or as certain as can be. Staple and boot-knob, the pestle and mortise of my middle ear are none too spongy or earthen. Some say, the ear, nostril and esophageal spelunker, that the hinge and jamb are crony and hard pressed to create a vibration in the trumpet of my ear thingamajig. That being said, I haven’t heard a damnable thing, not a titan or a lark. This cursed thing-a-ring of soft tissue and muck rime, like crenellates of rills’ scrotum tuned through the cropping of my cornice and tympani. Cursed Mason’s deafening, not a likable J&B in the lot of ‘em.
(May 16. 05)
Fucking merciless mercy never they’re when you need her. Cup rings and coffee grout, life’s simple pleasures. Black as the Ace of Spondees. I have acquired, through no will of my own, a cold and a sour throat, from too much grout and Gauloises one might conjecture. If not, there is no reason or rhythm to the whole shebang. None whatsoever at all. What in the name of lexicography is a fucking Spondee? (Anyhow).
(May 22. 05)
I’m dating a model, but she only fucks black chicks. (Bill Whitten, Grand Mal). Fucking rain blasting the trowel-edge off a moonless May rain soaked fucking day. Simpering fool ditch the cunt and hand fuck yourself into a Mezmer’s coma. No Freudian recanting or thumb sucking, just a little heave ho, a wee bit of the in and out, the root-cause of all modern sexual dysfunction, so the Hives and Shears say. Fucking cunts the lot of ‘em. Time for bedsores and dilly-dallying, two things I fancy, yet with due diligence try to keep at a manageable distance from the scone of my afthead, silly fucking bugger that I am: all clear and gods’ night to you all, silly fucking cunts the lot of you. But then again who am I to speak, silly bugger that I am? Don’t slam the god-forsaken door on your way out, I beg of you please. Fancy that, a door without a jamb or a fucking screen, strange world we live in, that it is.
(May 23. 05)
What day is it? Who the flack cures? Not I, I can assure you that. If I were a bird (which I am not) I would peck my own eyes out with the neb of my bonny. Cursed rain, like a motherraper at oedipal confession. I, however, confess nothing, the scurvy bit that I am. Put that in you’re fucking pip and smote it. Wind jibs aft and fore, no rust for the warty and lye. Time for a bowel of coffee and a jib of smoke and proper. Fucking Italics will spell the cursed end of me of that I am reasonably certain. My parents eat scamps and the whitest white fish skins, with slurps of apple crisp wine and ample amounts of Scotches and Nordic Vodkas. I, having scorned my liver one too many times, choose not to mitigate the problem, staying clear of such toxins and milled grapes. A hog’s pox of gray clouds, silver fish and carrion, maggots and septic nonsense, not a clear blue morning sky by any stretch of the imagination. Scream-of-conscious, such as Joyce and his brooding brethren angered the literati with, with poxes and skillet-stuck kidneys stropped to iron and castings. Fucking morons, not a piss to pot in. I, whomever, have no such lick in angering or fucking, just a constant nagging malaise that sods the bejeezus out of me. So be it, be it so I suppose. One too many oedipal sticks to the eye for one man to muster and patience in this lifetime or the next, sods willing. Crackling heels and toe-clods, two things I could certainly do without in any fucking lifetime or the next. I am an optimistic fatalist, not a positive negativist. Tamp that in your pip and smoke it. Scalawags and labium Majorca, two things I could do more with, fucking misanthrope that I am. Time to leave the sanctum of my home and have the wind-skips crop and Braille the soft tissues of my mien. Like it or not, such is such. I am a murderous sot, sodomizer of proper grammar, syntax and semantic no-nonsense. So be it, so fuck off the lot of you and don’t slam the fucking door on your way out, fucking cunts the lot.
(May 24. 05)
A man once told me (who he is, is of little importance, all men are the same in the end) that the sky would cave into the earth before the next millennium. Being the savant that I am, and not a good one at that, who was I to disagree or conjecture? Who was I, am I, to even think the thought, the mere thought that I might have an opinion or an unmitigated notion of anything whatsoever? That stands to reason, as unreasonable as it may seem. The man, like all men in the end, is now dead, a corpse filtering worms and dirt. Who has the last laugh now, I say, he or I? Fucking cunt, who has the last titter now? Some savant I am; more of a fucking Einstein than a gibbering rasher by any stretch of the imagination I’d say. Fucking sorry state of affairs, never a fucking dimwitted so-and-so when you need one, just another ass-fucking such and such with crooked teeth and an ass’ jaw for a fucking brain.
(May 25. 05)
Gad morning yeah bunch of fucking cunts. Perfume and talc your nethermost, as today’s going be a windy roan one that it is. Alimentary canals, rush of pomes and pony’ hooves clip-clapping like devil’s rakes in a wind stern. Hold aft and fore, today’s going be a brisk fuck of a day, no light’s saving time or solstice, just a rim run shod and rummy. Term for a shower and some lavations and dower ablutions. Nary a titlark mincing leaves and pips in the grave’s branches outside my bedroom window, nary a one, that is. Out and about, time for my own mincing and plopping through hell and dale.
Stone fucking deafness will misspell the end of me of that I am reasonably certain, or as certain as can be. Staple and boot-knob, the pestle and mortise of my middle ear are none too spongy or earthen. Some say, the ear, nostril and esophageal spelunker, that the hinge and jamb are crony and hard pressed to create a vibration in the trumpet of my ear thingamajig. That being said, I haven’t heard a damnable thing, not a titan or a lark. This cursed thing-a-ring of soft tissue and muck rime, like crenellates of rills’ scrotum tuned through the cropping of my cornice and tympani. Cursed Mason’s deafening, not a likable J&B in the lot of ‘em.
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