DEASIL, oXMALLET

(March 16. 05)
I am to see (if not crossed in on themselves, these mordant eyes of mine) the sports-specialist tomorrow at three-fifteen sharp, or so. Sad dead bastard shoulder needs a kick in the all-clear, murderous cunt that it is. I wouldn’t wish this pain and constant discomfort on a Jesuit. Scrap the cunt clean of barnacles and spurs and get on with it, damnable canal ice-crevasses and ass-cracks, none too few, too many I suppose, for the mufflered tourist and his slash her fucking bratty kidsons. Cunts the lot of ‘em I suppose. I suppose I too, as the land lays. Snip the fucker off and be done with it, away and done with the miserable demoncur. All clear, hear it, all fucking clear you mangy demoncur. Best fall willed nil into sleep, as I should and will and must gods willing of course.
(March 17. 05)
I saw this that doctor specialist today this afternoon and was not quite or very amused at all so I wasn’t. Far too cumupity for me, as she was and most ably still is and so remains so. A labium in torn stockings and whitest coat tailed perhaps, so much of it that I couldn’t see, nor imagine, in the substance of me thoughts thinking as I am wont and wearied to do ad infinitum so be it so. There we you have it: a cunt stretched thin in rifted stocking nylons and a baker’s-tofutti, so she was and appeared so to be so attired, miserable cur that I can and will attest to uncorked and villainy mean-spirited whatsoever so fucking. I am getting and have gotten far too old and threadbare worn for such nonsense; I need, as I do, some compassion and nurture, not uptimes and malcontention. I will cure myself me self me shoulder and be done with it, devil may care no doctoring for me, not now no not ever. False-consciousness is a verily vile thing; so much muttering and inexcusable banter for the unlikeminded to take minds of or bothers with at all. Not one fucking iota, one, so seethe the Lord almighty blessed be thin soul and mortar. One too many thoughts, two too many one too many so I. Be done with it, all such flimsy false-consciousness’ and drive in droves the endnotes to history’s most inhospitable spiteful gobspit. So that’ll be it for the time being, time, as you know, having no time ever so what for time immemorial, so timely after all so it is. Gobspit gods’night for the time being, no more.
(March 18. 05)
I am supposing, on this fine and parchment day, that there are a volley of sad bastard Irishmen heading for the toilet, heads bent like swans coughing up blood spores and brown froths. Will o the wisp, so it goes, silly cunts. Guinness does that to a man, so I recall, on one too many mornings when I too mobbed up oysters of bream, thinking the end was nigh, as was I. Perhaps that was the advent of my Dantean will o the wisp into hellish false-consciousness, perhaps so. There is a murmuring, faint so it is, clomping away outside the very edge of my windowpane. Perhaps spring is here in droves. We I should be so lucky I.
(March 20. 05)
It behooves me that I should have forgotten, and not begotten, yesterday. Me mind must ‘e been some e’ where else, so; littler by little I make in-roads into this life living. Roaring moue, ‘ere was that mouse, so few things seem so. Today will be different, so or I hope. Advent the coming goings, like children playing with balls, hoop and brick a bract. This is Sunday, not the Easter-world of trollops and hard drink. That, as it will, will advent soon enough, so seethes the Lord gods father etc. ad infinitum. So be it. In the sky sunning in the bric-a-brac, so it was, I saw a bird’s wings flailing madly, arching flightless in whorls in the midmorning sky. That I saw, as I did with eyes clove shut and mouth agape as to wont neither cloven eyes nor mouth a gaping hole, that is what I saw just the same, agape, cleaved in, in the midmorning sky flailing madly in arches, in whorls wingless I saw. I we should be so lucky, so. I will maid myself a bed and rush headlong into the tedium of sleep. I have no nothing better to do nor of wont at all. Gouda nits.
(March 21. 05)
I am to have and be subject to a full physical examining by my general practitioner this morning at ten-fifteen sharpest, or they’re about. I will scour clean me bunghole and lave the rim around the cloister. Not wanting to cause a fit of nausea or some such, the poor doctor having to see many a clutching asshole day in and day out, I will do him that service and favor, the kindly sort that I be. Goat’s milk sop, for serious lavations, to purge and the comings and goings of this rector between my legs, a bunghole, so it is. A finger breaching jamming home the lazy curd yet to be expelled and flushed nether-swirl. Such be the state of affairs of me ass on this fine and parchment day, the first day of spring so it is.
(March 22. 05)
The, is this. I have become accustom to such semantic nonsense, the grammarian savant that I am, or so claim to be. It is, so be it is, much less cumbersome and valiant to write gibberish than it is common, pedestrian sentences, structures fraught and widowed with misspellings and catchalls. Any half-witted imbecile can write, but only a syphilitic malcontent can remit such awful castrate. I, as is the case with most Korsokovian scourges, am a trite and recalcitrant fool, all things considered, as they must. The rooftop abutting adjacent the parapet of my home is a sorry sight for sorry eyes. This crossing in is a cloy, one so plied to irritate and sudden my hatred for all things festive and sacred; like the conchpeck one the brother Catholic’s church, spire and tethered to the eavestroughing ferret with rats and adjudicators. I will have none of that nobsense shunting the trills from the tipitip of me nose, the grandiloquent droll fool that I am or so proclaim to be. With Easter fasting and approaching with due haste and urgency, I best keep the rock and boulder firmly ensconced abutting the mouth of my place of rest and resurrection. Time for reconciliation is past; I must rearm and move swift of foot and hard callused. I have many assorted and dolorous things to do, the least of which will cause quite the capful amongst the gentry and hard hitters. Loathsome and scorned beyond recognition, thus is the life and dale of the pariah that I have so mercilessly become, and, I suppose, have yet still to becoming. Headgear be thanked, the genius Nazi bastard. Time, so it is, for a wee tincture of sleep, drowsy so and so that I am or so proclaim to be, or not, leering cunt that I be and am loathsomely so. I am a tired fuck, not a dimwitted idiot savant, though the thought and pepper have crossed the transom of my mind thinking thoughts most venal and improper with rashest impunity. So be it, be it so, scurrilous bastard that I a and more so. Sleep lightens the load, albeit briefly and ill tempered still.
(March 23. 05)
I will weave and tat a paper-mashie cap, fingers drumming a sonorous tympanum, and place it gingerly on the tiptop of my head. God’s morning I have awakened, as the case may or may not be, given my limited vocabulary for intentional stances and all such language buggery. So be it, be it so, as the case may or may not nor ever be, ad infinitum gods willing, of course. Time for a cup of the chocolate brown.
(March 24. 05)
The impetigo is back. Hawking-up globs of it, I foot stropped the porcelain portico, toes squiggles and crimps, praying that I don’t succumb to the grimness of it all. This is the day before the GoodOne, the day the rock and mortar was levered and jimmied free, Christ risen from the conch of his dear mother’s ear.
(March 25. 05)
Ramping the stone that Sisyphus left behind; crows pecking at the skims of my eyes, fucking mercenaries. Today is Christ’s day; fish fries and tannic blood left lingering on the scup of one’s tongue. I will drink black strapped molasses in stead. Wind twilled clouds white as mill-seed, lamb’s blood culled hacking from throat’s cut neck to shoulder, written by a scribes’ quill, heavenly-whispers lilted into cone and stirrup. I ate macaroni and powdered cheese, talc-stone, with oleo and heavy cream, nothing more. Tomorrow is the day after today and the advent of the next; all else is rot and timeless happenstance. Sleep puts an end to the counting and recounting, nothing more important than a mote of dust or a pen nib fallen to the floor sullying what little reserve I have left by the skin of my pants.
(March 26. 05)
I have awaked dimwitted unto another morn, as happenstance would have it. Thinking is a thoughtless cognition, too many nits picking and rousting images and rebuses about, neither of which gives me much solace or encouragement, none whatsoever as would have it. Thinking is for mathematicians and accountants, not a dimwitted savant such as I. The coffee has be tallied, gods be thanked with marmalade scones, one would think if one had the wherewithal to do so without stubbing the toe of one’s brain on such unreasonable nonsense. I need money to buy foodstuffs and cigarettes. I’d settle for orange Braille tire-money or salvation script. I could hawk and barter at the corner grocer’s, trading skin-jacks and cat’s- eyes for bulbar and rye Melbas. Or perhaps, should the opportunity present itself, sell kidneys skillet-fried in black-strapped molasses and a garnish or sprig of green parsley. Its is certainly sad that I am forced, of my own doing, to think such dower cursed thoughts as these. Be that as it is so it is as I always almost say. I am tired and worn thin with the impetigo and have nothing further to say on the subject of penury and hawking. Perhaps I will win the Lotto and be done with it; small miracles do occur, so I’ve been told. I will ream marrow from the leg-bone of a beggar; scuffing trouser bottoms of maggots and grist, nothing more mercenary than bone scraped millinery white. Alum perhaps, but little else or more. Goodnight sweet love; sleep cloys sight from the scuds of my eyes, remitting gods’ awful weeping, skin-jacks and cat’s-eyes, green parsley and lye.
(March 27. 05)
Sun speckled blue-gray sky; Easter Sunday has risen. Roan eggs and swift’s ovum, I have no chocolate-ovals to eat or savor on the root of my tongue; nor, for that matter, have I many Gauloises to stoke the bellows of my lungs, charcoal and tars notwithstanding.
(March 29. O5)
Yesterday seemed to go on for two days, murderously. And I, sod betwixt the two, forgot to write my silly little missives and sculleries. Some days clippity-clop by, so it seems, a will o the wisp, so they say, whom, I am never quite sure, just the same they do, clopping and clipping, madmen with ferrets and shrew. So be it. I am simmering a pot of brown rice in the pot that came along with the levers, forks, spoons and black-skillet along with futon, table and bedstead, all remnants of some previous owner’s scullery.
(March 30. 05)
Clouds scrimshawed in a robin’s-egg blue morning sky. Meerschaum cricks. The teat of his pipe splays quid and cheek; skin folded like mille-feuille. A sift of confectionery’s sugar, gray wool gathered in skeins pulled taut around the slack of his jaw. Such is the sky, or so it seems from the skip of my window.