CRISPIN et SCAPIN

(July 24. 05)
Any quandaries or queries I have bandied concerning poverty have been squashed; I am that of which and whom I speak. This cannot go on, though it will regardless of my protestations and illusions of grandeur and success. I am by no means successful; in fact, I am a sad pathetic bastard. More so, a fine to middling example of an overly romanticize attachment to childish wishing, an Oedipal stick stuck in the orbital I. I have become that which I have tirelessly tried to out-step my entire sad pathetic life. One-step too many steps too slow behind the ass-end of it. Fucking fuck, to hell with it all, and then some.
It has been some time (two months to be precise, which I seldom am) since I last wrote anything fragmented, this hacking shite and bother. Fucking missed it I did, with a passion generally reserved for theist, zealots and false profiteers. Good hard fuck in the ass-end’ll put a stop to that, so the backside Fuqua’s claim, Foucault being a fine example of Sodom’s gammons run riot and chive. Fucking contagion’s, every damn one a ‘em.
I spent four glorious hours sequestered in Gitano Park last night. I was there to assist Julie as she took photographs of the moon and night sky. What a fucking extraordinary world it is when not being rape, plundered and sodomized by every Tom Dick and cunt with a dime store novel for a fucking brain. Mentation is highly overrated, especially in those incognizant of dullard’s IQs’. I sorely missed the overuse of Italics and bad spelling, the slate and marrow of a most syphilitic and unpardonable agnosticism. By agnostic I mean fathomless, not tarred and feathered. We must leave the gods’ splitting to those accrued with whistle, switch and barnyard yawl. Onward and upward, as the salivationists are opt to infant. I much prefer a Faulknerian drawl or a sharpie in the fucking eye. Juan de Fussier the lot of ‘em, fucking sackcloth and bad manners. Day one of the day after day one, ass-fucking infinitum, thank gods and mortar. Good night and look sharp.
There’s no such thing as a good night. All nights (and days for that matter) are a matter of contention and argument. I, for one, conjecture nothing whatsoever; conjecture’s not being well suited to the faint of heart or those with limited IQ’s. Quoins, after all, are for scullery whores and sore losers, not Macaws and early risers, the two, more often than not, synonymous and bedridden with an accruement of aches, pains and general Malays. Fucking time for bed and jimmying about beneath soft linens and harsh invectives. Gods’ nod off to you and yours, lousy cunts the lot of you.
(July 25. 05)
The Father, the Son, and the Oedipal Ghost; what more can one say or not. I not, I fear. Gods’ morning and barrow skirts, today is the first dray of the mess of your rife. So Seth the Lord all right ‘e: a roan gray horse of a day, or some such Lilliputian nonsense in excursus glorious. I have risen from the dread, that is all that matters, given the vagaries and disjunction of it all. Enough with Italics: time to find grammar, balance and syntactical aplomb.
I saw Doctor Rajiv Prihar this afternoon at the Broadview Clinic just off of Caroling and whatever. I am to have my ball and joist re-hinged and mortared October 7th, 2005. There is extensive damage to the rotator cuff, two of the three tendons torn to smithereens, and severe osteoarthritis in the juncture and socket. The surgical procedure will take two and one half-hours, then four to six weeks in a sling and arrow, then four to six months thereafter of psychotherapy. Am I prepared? What is there to be prepared for? I will be unconscious, that joyous ambient womb-like non-state, so what if anything could be more pleasuring and good riddance than that? A bandy-legged whore with strawberry lips and a full tether of summer wheat yellow hair I suppose. But I suppose not, as is the case sadly enough.
(July 26. 05)
I attended what’s referred to as an info session at the Conroy and Walky-talky social services Fiefdom this morning. I was awarded a visitor’s stick on to identify me as a poor sod without a pot to matriculate in. Such is my Sodom and Lot in life. I was given the French version of a document, one that was to be signed-off on by the supervising almsman, whom happened to be almswoman with white tennis shorts and equal socking. I am glasnost that is over and dunning with, for the time being at least. Fucking poverty and sleet gray weather, enough to send one up and over the balustrade, or scarping Cornice and Ionic; Presbyterian cunts; stale crackers and vintners stamping’s, fucking ingratiating so-and-so’s. Not for the soft of heart or yammering of spirit, so Seth the Orb Almighty. Gods’ fearing and good night, and may your feet hit the floor beneath the slats of your bed. Silly fucking cunts. I have lost what tenuous hold I held on reality. I am mortally fucked. My good for nothing mouse has taken on a life of it’s own. Fucking rat bastard. I have had more than enough of it all, all things and no things, nothing I suppose. I have had enough of nothing. Time for sleep and enuresis soiled into ulna submission, as would be the case. If not, if the case, who gives a damnable fuck? I, certainly not, I. I assure you that, if nothing more: gods’ night and all. Silly no good for nothing mousy fucking cunts.
(July 27. 05)
I will slay the rain if it. As one, or many can see, I have given in to the no-nothingness of it all, and as such am nothing no. An Egyptian gray necrotic sky, whacks of it like mill-seeds. I must courier a stamped and imprinted document to the Floyd and Marrow office of poverty acquittal and shame. I abhor public transit, and then some. Miscreants and hobos, so-and-sos, hat brims crooked to pulpit and joist. Such is my Gomorra in life such as it is. Silly fucking life, always shimming the life right out of you, such is such I suppose.
I have but two things to say: Hieronymus and Loam. Suffice it to say I have nothing further to say, so I say, saying so. All else is dross and bad manners. Clever poets beware, the past will catch up with you and chomp a divot from the wattle of your ass, so Seth the Lord of the Manner and rime. Oedipal Jihad, nothing less will suffice. Query that you rheumy-eyed fucks. Time to board bus and tram and get on with what must be got on with before a murder of boy scouts scourge a divot from the loom of my ass. Such is life, I suppose.
I recoil from life as from a bee sting, febrile, aching, eyes swollen slits, the toxins and whatnot’s coruscating through vein and pulmonary. The edema is next, colicky and bad mannered, like a skater kid with dreads and bad skin shunting the rail with hands clasped like mantises, eyes beading the line of most resistance. Fucking whatnot’s and whatever’s, when if ever will this dreadfulness find crueler waters? I will not give up, I will, I must, I will go on. I must I will. Far worse things have befallen me, so I have that to fall back on, memories and rebuses being what they are or appear to be I suppose. There is no line of least resistance, all lines create their own set of rules, each with a resistance allied within it as part of the cause and effect, the raison de ether so to speak.
They say Strindberg was mad, I say he was far from mad but angry or upset. Any critic worth their mage would know the difference. Madness, or dementia praecox, is not for the faint of heart or spirit, as it tends to draw out the best in one not the worst, as many would have us believe, wrongly of course. Madness is a form of communication, not a lack thereof. Madness informs; never does it delimit or corral. Madness is the penultimate panacea, the curative for a lousy too sensitive mien. The madman, or woman, creates an inner world that cooperates with their outer reality, a Kafkaesque burrow, or warren, a door out but never back in. Into what, you might query. Into a social morale of inhibitors and bad manners, a catchall where every movement, every off kilter thought, is remonstrated and cast into a Dantean penal colony. Social conformity is inscribed on the backs of dissenters, not on the backs of sycophants and the well mannered, for which good grades and accolades are the be all and end all of social compliance. Strindberg had a welted and whored back from repeatedly being forced, through poverty and genius, to submit to the ideology of the non-dissenters. Such is the misery of madness: poverty, unwillingness and bad manners. The world is littered with canonical debris, the excrescence of bad liars and petty thieves.
Mildew has taken habit in the cross-hatching of my nose, the bridge of which is red sullied and moue: unseemly mold and hatchlings, the yolk and albumin of my indelicate life. The Druids had it right. Big fucking rocks in a circle, lord and rector dancing like fools, Wriggle’s prepuces, gum chewing for the faint of heart and foolscap. Double your pleasure, double you’re fun. Fucking jackasses. Strindberg married thrice, I but never. Madness evokes marriage, or is it the other whey round, evokes marriage madness. Who’s to say or not? I know nothing, nothing know I. This penurious colony will spell the fucking end of me of that I am unreasonably sure. Surety is a causality I can ill-afford, so to Blazes with it. I am the canonical debris, not they or it.

The frontal lobe
Which determines mood
And cantor

Should be scrapped
And abraded

A rug hook or railhead
Jimmied between eye
And brow

Tends to elicit
An awful yipping

And a clenching
Of teeth

A mastoid
Or wen
May take hold

In the crook
Of the jaw

Just beneath the ear

But this
So I’ve been told

Can be prevented
If a caulking of lye
Or Absinthe

Is applied to the railhead
Or hook

In advent
Of the lesion

Thus staving off
Any yipping

Or clenching
Of teeth

If I don’t find employment and soon I will surly die a most horrible death. No advent or chocolate calendars, doors that flip open to reveal the transubstantiation tenanted inside, a bitter reminder of life’s insidious exhortations. Staving has become second nature, a first principle: a fucking axiom for the faint of feint. I am tired, more so exhausted, more so than tired, exhausted of faith, hope and charily. I am the reminder that all things seek their end, more so, that which proceeds the praxis’s of the end. I am the end, the praxis that precedes the end. I predate the praxis and the ends, the be all and end all of praxis’s, proceeds’ and faith. I am faithless. I am the faith that precedes faithlessness. I am that which proceeds faith, faithless faith. I am nothing more than that, nothing more than the faithless faith in praxis. Tamp that in your meerschaum and smote it.
Sleep does not come easy these nights. My mind inveigles the simplest of thoughts, thoughts thought in the abattoir of somnobolism. This slaughterhouse of words: an unbroken antecedent chain of skeletal chattering. Ortho-poetics: bone against bone, joint against joint, socket against socket. It’s fucking murderous so it is. No praxis here, just teeth chattering and tongue lolling. Tomorrow is today, ad infinitum. Nietzsche was right; the eternal return is upon us no bones about it.
(July 28. 05)
Morning’s inglorious ascension: in-excesses whoreus. I have arisen, though refrain from ascensions or declensions. I am far too faint hearted for such ups and downs. My poverty relief alms are ready to be picked up and accounted for, spoken for might be a more apt rejoinder. I speak for no one, not even myself. Fucking Italics, bone against bone, return upon return. My dearest sister and her family arrive in Fiefdom today from across parry and mount. I will greet them at the Arco portal bearing best wishes, embraces and kind manners. As my dear father and dearer mother will be there in toto, I need mind my manners and crouch my invective tongue, lolling as it does on the scrape of indiscretions.

A sclerotic mind
Inhibits the simplest

Of calculus’s

Simple subtractions
Out of’s and minuses

(Godel’s wristwatch)

An uneasy tightness
In the topknot

Of my skull

One more day in declension of that which preceded it. One more lick at the can. The impetigo is back with a fury know only to Lowry, Artaud and Kant (or Kanto, as he is referred to in impolite social gatherings). I am neither hymn nor reason but more so lesion frontal and stern. Such is my mien in life, impetigo notwithstanding.
An unkempt and laxly shepherded sheep is at peril of developing scrapie, a most invective hoof and marrow disease. (More so, n. a fatal, degenerative nervous disease of sheep and goats). Perhaps I am a sheep, more so a goat: perhaps a goat-sheep with in-cloven hooves and narwhale’s pike. Perhaps I am nothing at all, but furies and phantoms and nonsensical illusions of grandeur and bad manners. Perhaps more so more, perhaps not. Time to advent the day. As advents and monk’swool require sheepliness and good manners of the ill tempered and faint of heart. Such is I as is I. Cruel summer solstice, a beggar’s ass clutching reason and hastily flung alms; Almsman; all men, advent or not. Notwithstanding not standing legs cleaved in like hocks, awaiting the arterial letting and arching swing: slaughter-yard transubstantiation in excelsior inglorious.

A murder of dogs
Pillared against the scup

Of my knee

A Lamarckian naiveté
Or Darwin’s miscreants

Or just plain dogs
Licking salt and mage

From the gruel of my face

Tomorrow (being today as it is well past the meridian) I will see what monies I have loused in my waif’s account. If the powers that be have seen fit to garnish my savings, which are paltry at best, I will start a ruckus and yawl vexation in the cones and struts of their ears. I will have none of that, or this, for that matter. One fecal step off kilter and I’ll raze the house to the fucking ground mark my words, or not. Time to ensconce in soft linens and flax pillows. Night is upon me, black as jujubes and soft licorice.
(July 29. 05)
A Marcela gray morning sky, scoundrels of it. I sit in the reuse of my thoughts, thinking things unlikely and bad mannered. As doctor McAllen is on folly days I haven’t a divan to couch my blathering on, nor, for that matter, an outlet for my unconscious. Upon his Nietzschean return I will inundate him with a Kotex of scarab thoughts and well made up dreams which will no doubt make the transition back far less awkward and ill-humored.