(Jan. 8. 05)
The sky; the sky can go fuck itself. I find sleeping tiring. This osteoporosis that seems to think it’s a sky, or something, is beginning to annoying the living hell out of me, not that that would be such a bad thing I suppose; getting rid of hell that is. My coffee emporium hasn’t completed the fucking cycle yet; poor I, is I. It best be, the coffee, bitter and lying or I will reencounter sleep and say fuck it to the rest of the day, as it is.
Having a metempsychosis
I have no idea
Of why it is
That this metempsychosis
That this metempsychosis
Has created such a smallness
In the thyroid (is it)
In the thyroid (is it)
Of this thing or notion
A soul (perhaps)
A soul (perhaps)
Which I cannot with any certitude
Tell you
Tell you
Should you listen
That I have
That I have
Or know of having
At all
At all
This is my contribution to the poetic form; more so, I suppose, to the carrion that seems to mitigate and sour the bevel of my thoughts. I believe, which I have made quite clear I do not, that the coffee has reached its perfection, confectionery, candy sweet, treacle and lye. The Saturday Citizen has arrived, handily, on the second step, placed there each and every Saturday and Sunday morning by the fine tolerant gentleman downstairs. It is thirty-five minutes past noon, some almost 12 hours since I lost conscious thither, then awaken to this, the best of all possible worlds. Time is essentially a useless aperture. What needs, hopelessly, to be achieved today by me, of all people, is bound to a teleological lie, and as such, not worth the fucking bother at all. I will reaccept Beckett into my life, just for today, and get on with it; like a cycle-wearied schizophrenic with too may tics and gestures to account for, I will go on, as I must; go on.
Brown teeth adjudicating
Tines jimmied into place
Brown teeth adjudicating
Tines jimmied into place
In gore holes stained
Tea black (so it seems)
Tea black (so it seems)
Scabbed-over with food-worms
These things (worms)
These things (worms)
So I was told
That cause the horrid spirants
That cause the horrid spirants
To form like larva writhing
In the abattoir of his mouth
Of one thing I am certain in an uncertain world; I will never fall, knees knocking, jimmy-legged, into that cuntish nethermouth called reasonableness, never. I am, so it is, far too clever and scheming for that. I have returned home from a day of slugging through slush and ice deformations. Two books purchased, at very reasonable cost, a pillow, so cheap it was inspiring, and a carton, blue, of blue Gauloises cigarettes, from France, where I have never been. That most glorious of postmodern bastions where the likes of Sartre and his posse exculpated the hell right out of philosophical discoursing for ever, so it was. The gun metal taste, always blue and uninspiring, has yet to exculpate my mouth, so I will go on, interminably so, on. I am to meet with a nurse tomorrow at four o’clock postmeridian at a free trade coffee shop here in the city where I live and reside synonymously. She is doing longitudinal research, so it is, on the efficacy of Lithium treatment on Bi Polar diseased patients who have no patience at all to speak of. They, I can well imagine, have perfected the sleeping with jimmy legs that I can only aspire to. There is a screaming cursing from the moon, a moon darkened with soot and allspice, crushing the hell out of my ears. At issue here, as always, is my disabled hearing and sightlessness, the two prefiguring a dead end to it all, it all, of course, referring to my capacity for perceptual alerity. This thrombosis, have you, of the inner ear canal, the bifurcation that signifies the no-nothingism of me in the word, as it is. Sonically impaired, as it should be referred to in all future illocutions and conjectures, notwithstanding. I abhor Sartre, having never even met the man. I have a lengthily philosophical biography of the man, Sartre, by this other French intellectual miscreant who goes by the name of, who fucking cares what his name is, which I have yet to read and may never get around to. As the French, as they are, bore the living fuck out of me, Michel Houellebecq being the sole exception. Reading his excretingly elegant novel 'The Elementary Particles' I can best liken to several uninterrupted days of oedipal masturbation, eyes wide shut. If a Frenchman expects to write anything worth writing, he should move to Ireland, as did Houellebecq, and take up residency there, amidst the black Guinness and potato famined. On this subject I have nothing further to say. I leave allspice and conjecturing up to you, that being said.
(Jan. 9. 05)
I refuse to call this a sky. Instead, I will theologize, as John Goodman would have in the movie 'The Big Lebowski', had he felt fucked-over by it, ‘Sky, this is what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass,’ and smash it to smithereens with a crowbar. This day’s coffee is ready, the black-sanguine menses having bled itself out. Or is that blackstrap molasses, a most indelicate stiffener of sauces and rues? I am drinking from a cup I received as a gift this Christmas past from two friends of my uncle’s, whom I, too, have been acquainted with for many some years. There is a cleverly colourful embossment of a snowman family dressed in clothing to effect an anthropomorphic likeness on the cup itself, as would have it. A smart sparkling of stars, God’s constellations, adding a hopeless transcendence to the embossing
Such, I suppose, is my own Mephistophelean indifference to it all. This churlish appropriation of anthropomorphic license is quite disconcerting. Bound and determined, as we are, to this, the best of all possible worlds, as it is, there is no valid point to their childish musings. None whatsoever, ever, at all. Thus spake Zarathustra, entrusted, as he is, with the ontological purity of a world gone stupid with metaphors and analogues.
A night sky blacker than Al Jolson’s face; smeary, throaty, dogstar, shards; shell white, insides, viscera, ink black; blacker than Indian ink, even inkier. Ostrich-ink, no, octopus ejaculates, floating, sparrow-soft, fluttering, wing-wearied crushing in on the moment, sadder that you, or I, could ever imagine possible, not ever in this world, the best of all such. Nightfall’s precipitate such nonsense, not ever as amusing, as we, or I, would like to think they are. To think as such, with such a stenchhole, abattoirs mouth (this I have made reference to before, please make note) hard grinding, teeth masticating stone juleps, mason’s teeth, gritted with Masonic dust, never two the same, so I have come to learn, slowly and with much callousness. Also, I have come to learn that there is more than one such Mr. Fuckhead; in fact, duly, there are a Masonic guttering of them tonsured, because, as is their mien, they like to shear with fucking delight the scalps of their defenseless, jimmy legged children. Fuckheads that they never claim to be, though are, of this I am quite certain, in deed so.
That last paragraph exhausted me, tore the stuffing, as it does, from the brainpan of my skullbox. As with all nights, flaxen with hard seed and chafe, I must bend at the knee and opt out of any further incitement as it tends, as always, to excite me into a fucking coma, as would be the case. Masturbation, an always-viable option, is certainly out of the question, if questions I had to begin with at all, though sadly I have none to speak of. I would much rather, as would have it, have a comma strummed into my skullbones than a fucking coma any day of the week. Mind you that will never happen, sadly enough. Time to sleep and join Kafka in the nightmare of reason. We have Max Brod to thank for that, thankfully so.
In the abattoir of his mouth
Of one thing I am certain in an uncertain world; I will never fall, knees knocking, jimmy-legged, into that cuntish nethermouth called reasonableness, never. I am, so it is, far too clever and scheming for that. I have returned home from a day of slugging through slush and ice deformations. Two books purchased, at very reasonable cost, a pillow, so cheap it was inspiring, and a carton, blue, of blue Gauloises cigarettes, from France, where I have never been. That most glorious of postmodern bastions where the likes of Sartre and his posse exculpated the hell right out of philosophical discoursing for ever, so it was. The gun metal taste, always blue and uninspiring, has yet to exculpate my mouth, so I will go on, interminably so, on. I am to meet with a nurse tomorrow at four o’clock postmeridian at a free trade coffee shop here in the city where I live and reside synonymously. She is doing longitudinal research, so it is, on the efficacy of Lithium treatment on Bi Polar diseased patients who have no patience at all to speak of. They, I can well imagine, have perfected the sleeping with jimmy legs that I can only aspire to. There is a screaming cursing from the moon, a moon darkened with soot and allspice, crushing the hell out of my ears. At issue here, as always, is my disabled hearing and sightlessness, the two prefiguring a dead end to it all, it all, of course, referring to my capacity for perceptual alerity. This thrombosis, have you, of the inner ear canal, the bifurcation that signifies the no-nothingism of me in the word, as it is. Sonically impaired, as it should be referred to in all future illocutions and conjectures, notwithstanding. I abhor Sartre, having never even met the man. I have a lengthily philosophical biography of the man, Sartre, by this other French intellectual miscreant who goes by the name of, who fucking cares what his name is, which I have yet to read and may never get around to. As the French, as they are, bore the living fuck out of me, Michel Houellebecq being the sole exception. Reading his excretingly elegant novel 'The Elementary Particles' I can best liken to several uninterrupted days of oedipal masturbation, eyes wide shut. If a Frenchman expects to write anything worth writing, he should move to Ireland, as did Houellebecq, and take up residency there, amidst the black Guinness and potato famined. On this subject I have nothing further to say. I leave allspice and conjecturing up to you, that being said.
(Jan. 9. 05)
I refuse to call this a sky. Instead, I will theologize, as John Goodman would have in the movie 'The Big Lebowski', had he felt fucked-over by it, ‘Sky, this is what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass,’ and smash it to smithereens with a crowbar. This day’s coffee is ready, the black-sanguine menses having bled itself out. Or is that blackstrap molasses, a most indelicate stiffener of sauces and rues? I am drinking from a cup I received as a gift this Christmas past from two friends of my uncle’s, whom I, too, have been acquainted with for many some years. There is a cleverly colourful embossment of a snowman family dressed in clothing to effect an anthropomorphic likeness on the cup itself, as would have it. A smart sparkling of stars, God’s constellations, adding a hopeless transcendence to the embossing
Such, I suppose, is my own Mephistophelean indifference to it all. This churlish appropriation of anthropomorphic license is quite disconcerting. Bound and determined, as we are, to this, the best of all possible worlds, as it is, there is no valid point to their childish musings. None whatsoever, ever, at all. Thus spake Zarathustra, entrusted, as he is, with the ontological purity of a world gone stupid with metaphors and analogues.
A night sky blacker than Al Jolson’s face; smeary, throaty, dogstar, shards; shell white, insides, viscera, ink black; blacker than Indian ink, even inkier. Ostrich-ink, no, octopus ejaculates, floating, sparrow-soft, fluttering, wing-wearied crushing in on the moment, sadder that you, or I, could ever imagine possible, not ever in this world, the best of all such. Nightfall’s precipitate such nonsense, not ever as amusing, as we, or I, would like to think they are. To think as such, with such a stenchhole, abattoirs mouth (this I have made reference to before, please make note) hard grinding, teeth masticating stone juleps, mason’s teeth, gritted with Masonic dust, never two the same, so I have come to learn, slowly and with much callousness. Also, I have come to learn that there is more than one such Mr. Fuckhead; in fact, duly, there are a Masonic guttering of them tonsured, because, as is their mien, they like to shear with fucking delight the scalps of their defenseless, jimmy legged children. Fuckheads that they never claim to be, though are, of this I am quite certain, in deed so.
That last paragraph exhausted me, tore the stuffing, as it does, from the brainpan of my skullbox. As with all nights, flaxen with hard seed and chafe, I must bend at the knee and opt out of any further incitement as it tends, as always, to excite me into a fucking coma, as would be the case. Masturbation, an always-viable option, is certainly out of the question, if questions I had to begin with at all, though sadly I have none to speak of. I would much rather, as would have it, have a comma strummed into my skullbones than a fucking coma any day of the week. Mind you that will never happen, sadly enough. Time to sleep and join Kafka in the nightmare of reason. We have Max Brod to thank for that, thankfully so.
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