FYODOR, fedora

(Feb 21. 05)
I’ve had it up to my neck. This infernal Turing machine is impossible. Who the fuck cares, damned, about codes and mathematical-algebraic saving the fucking world from the Barbary hoards? Whets’ more savage, I ask? I will ask no more, all asking is peacock-ninny. I will burrow deep into my warren and be done with it. Ante Jemima, gods love her, has the notions and thoughts that I am incapable of imagining. Cobwebbed, feet splayed toes tipsy-toeing, arching back into the tabletop, hard wooded and japanned smooth as goose shit, she stands on gourd against the hoard masses. Gods be damned; love her to death. The impetigo is back, splaying and toe arching into the divot of my wattle. Gods have plentiful mercies on my brackish impetigic soul, ad infinitum.
(Feb 22. 05)
Corn flakes of white whitest snow. There is neither rhyme nor reason to these musings, just an evasion of the truth, a barbaric. Nietzsche had a faint glimmering of what truth could be, but fell madly to his death for having so. I, however, having no such luck in madness or truth, will simply plod along with my knees jimmy-knocking together and devil may care it to death. Truth is the absence of a lie, nothing more. Or more to the point, one’s inability to ferret-out and lay naked the lie. Exposure is truth; all else is lying. The coffee is readied gods be thanked, mercies create such simple exclusions.
(Feb 23. 05)
Ampersands are for those poets with cupboardbare thoughts; I received a hard-boarded copy of Juan Goytisolo’s ‘Saracen Chronicles’ in the post this morning posted by and from my dear sister at the far end of the country. I also picked up a copy of Czeslaw Milosz’s ‘The Land of Ulro’ from my favorite remaindering bookshop at minimal cost, thankfully so. I wait impatiently to begin reading both, but first, perhaps foremost, I need finish the five or more books that I have capriciously and with some petulance started upon some months ago, when time was more of a nuisance than it seems to be at the moment. Cervantes is in the waiting, so to speak, and I will corrupt his Rozinante time permitting, which it seldom does. This unbridled enthusiasm I posses for the literary can be irksome and disconcerting to the uninitiated, sadly so. Cocks wattle and jimmy loose nibblers of teeth-yellow corn with precise and impeccable beaked pecks that defy ornithological description. This I have learned, perhaps seen with my own eyes crossing in as they are wont to do, on television nature shows and other such nonsensical anthropological claptrap. I have an early morning appointment with psychiatrist number one tomorrow, or today, as it is past midnight, so I best rescue sleep from the talon-sharp-clutches of reason. So be it, I suppose, gods willing of course.
(Feb 24. 05)
Cones and stirrups, that’s all there is to it, so I hear or have. Psychoses are like snow flakes, no two ever the same. G. Cabrera Infante has given in to death, a contagion, blood or air born, eaten up. Fidel should be glad, infidel. Moral-measures measure nothing, pusillanimous caterwauling; now these, having a measure of there own, are none too cunt wearied so I hear, cones and stirrups deafened.
(Feb 25. 05)
I can no more believe I think as think I believe; the two negate one another. This is the type of nonsense that philosophy engenders, mercilessly. A blue bottle-fly blue morning sky. The clutches of reason are merciless, never rescued. A corncrake cuts low wings washing the air like vellum. There are no corncrakes in ‘tis part of toe world, my neighborhood, from what I imagine and know. Be so it, I suppose. Today I will cut the cloth of reason, a swath I suppose, and be done with it. What that means, or doesn’t, is beyond me, mercilessly beyond. In the end, as it is, all things negate one another until the end is neigh, or some such philosophical nonsense. My ass clutches reason, nothing more.
(Feb 26. 05)
A blue sky run rough shod. So be it. The day before the day of my expectoration into this the best of all possible worlds. Nothing has change, much.
(Feb 27. 05)
Forty-seven years ago I was coaxed and bullied from between scabbard red thighs, pug-nosed, glomming, unprepared for what was yet to come, pulling, tugging, at the seams of this the best of all possible worlds. I have whiled my way through yet another birthday, head funneled into the corners of my eyes, waning and crossing in on themselves as they see fit to do.
The least Hunter could have done was leave a less unsightly corpse; one without a gorehole to the frontal lobe; less of a trauma for those left behind to clean up after his head was sheared off, stropping between scabby necrotic legs: poor unsightly bastard corpse he must have been. Gin bottle eyesore I’d say, another soothsayer gone round the fucking bend. I suppose some of us are just selfish cunts when you get down to it. No reason at all for such oedipal shimmying, not whatsoever, sad pathetic cunt.
I suppose I am not one to cast such rash and unjustified sentiments upon another, especially one to whom fame and eagle-eyed marksmanship caused such frail and besotted ill humors. Aristotle would never have allowed such unsyllogistic nonsense to run roughshod over reason and sodomy. I will begin the first day of my forty-eighth year contented with the thought I will never leave a cadaver bloated with corpsegas; head funneled and indifferent to the sorrows and weeping of others. Of that I can be most proud.
(Feb 28. 05)
I slept some nine hours and twenty-one minutes last night and into the morn. I see fit to be untied, I suppose, or at least eased up upon by the evil Oedipus and his blackhearted cutthroats. I am so I am, I suppose, so undeserving of such hobnailed indifference. So I am. Remember, as you will, that I was expectorated (more aptly spat) from betwixt scabbard red thighs, tremulous with anxieties, scrubbed and scaled bare myself, nothing less tremulous or terrorizing.
(March 01. 05)
March has come in like a fucking lion; fritters and scalawags of whitest white snow all everywhere. We live in snowland; Iceland happenstance would seem to have it. Early March-snow brings the worse out in me, so it seems. Oedipus was a motherraper, fanciful oneeyed bastard. A patricidal-merit badge for the shear forbiddingness of it. Now that’s something to fancy for. I keep the stick hidden beneath my bed for just such a moment of oedipal fancifulness. Who knows when, never perhaps, but just in case?
(March 02. 05)
Colder than a welldiggers’ass so it is I see. This is not right, this sort of wither weather two weeks shy of spring. What in the name of all things mercenary have we done to this whirling ball we clutch and finger to? I suppose one gets what one deserves. The coffee has been stropped, gods be gloried, so Seth the Lord. Never one to mince and monger a good Biblical illusion. I sent fourteen of my poems to the electric-journal Bywords. One is never more alone than when sitting affronting a monitor, so I fancy patricidal cunt that I am, if only in my troughs. Early March-snows brings on such mordant traipsing so it seems.
(March 03. 05)
Time passes without us paying it any notice; such is our exclusion from life. A wily of the whisk morning, cold, fearlessly cold, never one to mince. Time will pass, and in passing neither mince nor monger, neigh at all nor at once. Such is my exclusion from life.
(March 04. 05)
Death brings with it a fritter of bees, hard-scaly wings scolding, an endless mortuary of sods and dams bursting, colicky waters cutting shear the trough of your face. Of this I fear I am not mistaken. Cold early March, a dower reminder that spring has yet to come in like a lamb to the slaughter. So be it.
(March 05. 05)
I do not drink, I drunk. A mourning sky, as today is the wake for a friend’s daughter. Time passes unnoticed. I will soon be preparing myself, I dare not say for what. Some things are best left unspoken. This morning: a glassblower’s bright hard-cut sky, cerulean, yet bluer still. I will get on with it and be done, as I must, as I will, as will be done, judgements being of little importance in such matters of existence so I’ve come to learn with a fearful heart.
(March 06. 05)
I am never surer of myself than when I am asleep. Dormancy is a valid excuse for non-engagement, and we solipsists are none too ready to disengage without a moment’s notice. Philosophically, is there such a thing, there is never a syllogistic rational for actual engagement, especially when said or unsaid engagements cause protuberances and all-clears. Now the Jesuits, on the other hand, are clear of conscience and all too ready to call the all-clear when the tunics are down, or when the sacrament is good and boiled. Rope burns, as would have, are a vocational crudity of such dilly-dallying, so Seth the Lord all-clear, as would have it or not I suppose. Never one to mince or monger words, we solipsists are a bellicose and variegated lot, so seethe the Lord with punitions transcendent and unvaried. The sky this morning was gray-sheep-gray, an angry bream with the best or worst of them. I am none too prepared, coffees supped, to enter the jimmy-legging vale of sleeplessness; all of my own doing, I must confess, contrition being good for the soul, boiled and rendered fearful and anxious with forced confessions. Gods bless this weary soullessness that is I. Reason has no right nor privileges in the hearts and minds of soulless men such as I, or such as is the case that is I not I but I just the same. The vale has fallen, let the jimmy legging begin impunity to the fore, gods’ good night.
(March 07. 05)
Tongue lolling in the scamp of my mouth, vaunted into a Netherlands where all such occurrences of mouthwardness are expunged and thereafter impudent. Happy birthday dear mother, on this your seventy-first year. Snow like frittercakes, gobspit, time and space distempered and sullen. My stomach, full of gobspit and bilious bile, sits angered in the ribcups that separate the bellows from the rectum; all that separates me from falling willy-nilly careening into the loll of my tongue; gods’ morning so it is.
(March 08. 05)
Were I living in Asyut I would be none too pleased with this weather, whiter than bone spurs and marrow. As I do not, nor would I have the slightest notion where or what Asyut was had I not paged upon it while looking for the proper spelling of an alternative word in Webster’s, I should be mindful of my claims to knowledge, which are few. So far between am I from the truth. Claims to knowledge are like deeds, writs on paper and therefore no less calculus than mere notations. The snow has stopped, for the time being, nothing more nor less. In Asyut there is no snow, to the best of my knowledge, which is mere calculus, note taking.
(March 09. 05)
This morning is like a gouted-toe in a too tight shoe. When will the piles of snow and cursed winds cease their inhospitableness? I am none too tired of milling about in hip-waders and bootstrops, sighting the rut in, or is it out, of each drop-footed step, each one catapulting me further into winter’s hard bitter perdition. I am tired of this milling.
(March 10. 05)
A cold funeral sky, ice-crones tittering, murderous for the ears. If I could, I would calculate it away, but as I cannot, I am forced to put up with the murderous cunt. As she, as she knows all too well, is the dowager of the morning sky, and as such, reigns with rarest impunity, like God I suppose, yet without the blood and sour-biscuits. There are crone-whores every which where, but we choose not to see them. That is our choice, I suppose, a rare and impotent reverence to ghosts and specters. I have decided, as I have in the past, yet never carried through with the thought, to read up on Marxism and see where it implies me. Having scant knowledge of the dialectic, I will begin my studies with Georg Lukacs’ History and Class Consciousness, then onto Gramsci and Marx himself, as one must, paying tribute to his standing in the history of classless thought.
(March 11. 05)
I am none too none today. This persistent aching in my shoulder, left, is quite unseemly, almost origamic, just almost. An armory, as would have it, munitions shelling, avarice, all or nothing. I’d choose I would if I could, nothing and be done with it, nothing more not less lets suppose, or I. Intentions and avarice are never quite that simple. In fact, they pose no end of problems, permutations and lassie faire Kantianisms. By this, by these transcendent hand gestures, immune, as they are, to godsfearlessness, I mean, if I mean anything at all, the unintentional stance that Dennett forgot to fill us in about, folk-psychologist that he is or wont to be, coat-tailing Davidson and Quinine with rash impunity. I have yet to meet or break code with an analytic-filibuster that I felt in the least comfortable with; nor, for that matter, respectful to. Code breaking, like its kin the prolapsed hymen, is an unfashionable way around a simple language-game fucked into submission, gland calamine, bitter rooted with the reddest Mercurochrome. Not apple or russet, but more so arterial and gore-bloodied, fisted, as would have it, like Foucault in San Francisco bathing in steeping headwaters. Aids is a merciless cunt, none more so than when given a fighting chance, chaffing assbone and proctor, not mere simple codes, but blistered red aryl, a posteriori in excelsior, as would be the case. Time to fall headlong into remorseless sleep, as happenstance permits, or so I am wont to believe heathen that I am if given the chance. Contrition bivalves the heart, hobnailed misanthropic cutthroats the lot of ‘em.
(March 12. 05)
There is nothing intentional about language, its nothing more than dithering blather. I, however neither dither nor blather, so am absolved of all such Dennettisms and Quinine’s. Logic is for chess-mates not linguists. As I do, I much prefer the Spinozian one-substance catchall as previously opined, with its jettisons and flotsam. This, I intention, is less nit-picky and claustrophobic, as it makes allowances for transvariable inferences and Freudian wordplay, two necessary sinkholes in all multiplicituous duplicities. I have said enough, having said nothing whatsoever at all.

Fenian’s have capped teeth
Rake and tine pikes
Like fencing scattered

Scabby bits Liffey’d
In the will o the wisp

Joyce spoke Italian not
Gaelic as some suggest

Wine-breathed Jesuits brothers
Pomade tonsured hair swills
Never one to mince words

Bloom’s lemony scented soap
Pocketed in trouser ruffs

A letter from what’s her name
Molly’s skivvies’ scabby bits
Left scrimping blazes knows where

In Plumtrees potted plotting
Crumb-bits soiling sullied

Under cover linen white or
Brown stained from Boylan’s
Pumping clutching the bed post

Swallowing her spit on the ball
Of his tongue generous cunt

That she was Molly played suit
And combed free the scalawags

From the cuneiform
Of her head.

(March 13. 05)
He had he did maulsticks for legs, toes scalloped raw, cloven. Neither hoofed nor metered step could he advent, as he was crimplegged and jaundice yellow, cornknells. This I saw as I did with my own eyes, crossing in on themselves, as they are wont to do regardless of the bitterness of my entreaties to the contrary. I entreat no nothing more. I was awakened this morn by a cruel and indifferent sun broiling madly the outsides of my eyelids, crimping them, actually, or so. This sort of talk is foolhardy, as I know; yet just the same, tomfoolery is not a crime to the best of my knowledge, at least not so yet.

A bird quailing
Feet stuck mudflats
Like pliers cinching

The lacuna
Like sand scouring
The webbing between

Your toes as I
Hungrily scrap the
Barnacles and scoria

From the trumpets
Of your feet

Tomorrow morn I have an appointment with my general practitioner, ten-fifteen or there about. Sharp as a tack, more so than shrapnel so he is so I recall from previous appointments to his office. I will have him go over my shoulder, gloved and sterile, and ask calmly for a prescription for Toreador, a non-invasive analgesic with soothing anti-inflammatory emissary. This I can and will do gods willing, so they say, Jesuit bastards. If it weren’t for my profane admiration for Joyce, the Jesuits would not incur my rakish ire, but as this is not the case, gladly enough, I will continue on with my profane determination to derelict all who stand cloven-hoofed demanding payment for sins never committed or in remission. I have much better things to do and wile away my time upon and with. Night has fallen, crippled legs jimmying, it’s knees having been shorn free and thither by an irksome Irish insurgent. Such is life so I suppose. Gods’night.
(March 14. 05)
For a wee second I thought I saw a bud on the branch, but alas I was mistaken, silly cunt that I am. I just spat up a glob of sputum on the infernal machine. Woe is me am I. Shakespeare was a cunt, plain and simple, no two words about it. Beckett could, or may have were he drawing breath still, run circles around ‘em any day a the week. Shakespeare was probably a fucking Jesuit just the same, namby cunt. Poor delirious Mrs. Hamlet fuck’en warsh’en her hands like a common criminal. Freud had ‘er figured out, so he did, smart bastard. No two words about, she was a silly Dane cunt. Much like me’self I suppose, ’cept without the persistent hand- wringing. Wrath of God, I’d say, no two ways about it. I wash my hands me’self, but only after masturbation, no a moment before. Sir Francis Bacon, not that other insufferable scribbler, that is to whom we should be knee-jerking and raising applause. Like apples and oranges, I’d say, no two quite ever the same. King Lear Jet now that’s an odd one so id’d is.
(March 15. 05)
I am not do not baby Tuk Tuk nor ever shell conchs be. Scrabble-lice inhabit inhospitably the clusters harassing hirsute-devils, so devil may care it, so even so it may not be nor ever. Having said that, having said nothing, so be it. A fine Jesuit’s-skirt morning, hospice with cockspurs and harpies and furies so it is, Lowrey, sad dead bastard nowhere to be seen scribbling endnotes to the Volcano. But for the grace of God there haven’t gone I. A scamp, even. Gods’morning say I, hiccuping air through the portals of my nose, goreholes both of ‘em. I must make an appointment to see the sports- specialist for the nonsense that is the cull de sac of my shoulder, bones withering and hard-callused. Soon, so I have been scolded, the joint will seize-up leaving me palsied and prolapsed with pain. I have neither the patience nor time for the damn thing, so snip the fucking thing off and be done with it.