I have steeped myself a pot of tepid hot chocolate, sipping, surreptitiously from the mouth-round of a newly purchased mug, the general use of which will be for the enjoyment of morning coffee and not hot chocolate, which I drink occasionally as a rule of thumb, as would have it. Marshmallows, so I have discovered, simply obfuscate and roil the already murky consistency of the heated chocolate, making it unsumptuous. Things that are prone to turbidity are not of my liking, pre postmodernism being one such example. However, a Nietzschean blackened tea, Ceylonese, perhaps, would be suitable for drinking. Syphilis, so I have learned, is not contagious from the sharing of teacups. It can, however, be cross-transmitted between sexual parties engaged in willful and less desirable sodo-coital robberies. For further explications on this point please see Aldo Busi, Sodomies in Eleven Point, published by faber and faber, London-Boston. I hope, if that is at all possible, that my newly ocellated reading glasses are ready for picked up tomorrow, if not, my headaches will persist and that I cannot, nor will I, encourage.
Eleventwentyseven on a cold, late December night, lousy with vagrants and whorecorpses, skulking, as they do, in these gonorrheal thoughts stanched with impetigo. Having neither notion of, nor medical training in, virology, this statement is meaningless at best. Captain James T. Kirk played on the same football team as my dear over-weighted father. Of this I am reasonable certain, having seen a picture taken of the athletic team of which I write. It is never too late to learn a new language, or shore up on one’s own.
(Dec. 29. 04)
The sky is marrow-gray. The hammering continues, evening out the anger in the scald of my head. The smokestack is still there, stiffened against this bone-dry whorizon. I, in time, with none to waste, have a long and arduous day before me, one that must be dealt with, with kind, patient hands. I hate the sky as it is, and wish upon it a most unkindly remission. As my EI payment will not be deposited until tomorrow, or later, depending on efficiencies, I will not have the monies to pay for my glasses and will have to fore-go the pleasures of less painful readings. The number assigned to me in this totalitarian system, one we falsely refer to as Democratic, has no numerical efficiency, so I have come to understand. Having failed grade ten math once, relearning it a second time under the kind, skillful tutelage of Mrs. Walker, I have not appropriated the skills sufficient to manage the most childish of calculations. This, I fear, can be directly related to a post-Nietzschean abhorrence of structured analysis and transcendent authorities. Be that as it may, I am shameless and incapable of being tortured into a sycophantic complicity. They are used to those kinds of thing, I suppose.
I would imagine there is a blindness inherited from one generation to the next, one that we must, if we are to make anything of ourselves whatsoever, disabused ourselves of. If we never jam the Oedipal-stick into the sockets of our eyes we may have a chance to get things right. Sodomies, I suggest, would be far less inhibiting, limitlessly less irritating, and an activity we all could participate in with great and unfettered relish. Busi wasn’t far off the mark, so it seems. Sodomies do not necessarily refer to anal-splitting, but to a more rectifying reevaluation of all we have taken as canonically omniscient and unmovable. Genet, he too, was a practitioner of the sodomite, and an encouragingly mercurial writer. Our lady of the Flowers, and The Thief’s Journal, two indisputably immaculate examples of over-arching literary mastery. Not only was Genet a disciplined, gifted writer, the fore-bearer of a raping and pillaging that was soon to gas-chamber an already paretic sub-phylum, but a politically aware insurgent, one who never rode on the coattails of any political ideology wheresoever. And with that, he gifted us all with the principled indelicacies of the sodomite, indelicacies, so it seems, we are so sorely lacking in today. It took a mere sodomite, did it not, to trundle an execrable mountain of fascist-democratic shit.
This day, one driven to a hastily, unimpressive ending, has left whelping like a cur with its tail between its legs. I have larded the icebox with fresh cream to be issued into cups of steaming hot coffee upon morning’s advent, garishly limiting one’s quantity of sleep, as it does. Vegans, as I understand, shun the drinking of all diary products, such as milks, creams, and cheeses (which are generally eaten, not drank). In place, or stead, of these basic foods or creameries, they substitute Soya-milk and tofu (s). I find it hard to imagine tofu being easily assimilated into a hot cup of coffee without a scum or sourness being added to the procedure. If one were to pretence that cow’s, or for the sake of organics, goat’s milk, were actually menstrual, the process would be far less inveigling and inculcate the pleasure of the drinking. This, I am afraid, will have to be left up to one’s own tastes and imaginings. Nothing is as simple as it first appears, I fear. Dylan Thomas’s liver being a fine example of such subterfuge; best eaten, so I have liveried, with Spanish onions, cardamom and allspice. A light dusting of all-purpose flour being a smart addition to the viscera’s gourmandizing preparations. Perhaps it is time to eschew wakefulness and escape into sleep. Having few if any other options at-hand, this seems reasonably appropriate.
(Dec 30. 04)
Rancid thrift were the first meaningful words to find exclusion from my thoughts this morning as I awoke strumming in my sheets. The sky is there, masturbating outside my window encasements. Clouds, lets say, conjectured, being its ejaculant. I am in arrears, per usual. A skillet-fried kidney malted with onions and drippings would not be to my tasting this morning, nor any morning for that matter. I will, as is de rigor in such cases, leave the viscera to Bloom, who is a much better advocate for such internal organ mastications. This afternoon I am to meet with a bank-advocate to inquire as to the spend-thrifting of my monies therein embanked, or entrusted, as the case may be. I am, to put it mildly, none too impressed with their service charging, as it seems, to me at least, who am penurious, to be quite out of sorts and over-burdensome for one such as I who have little monies to become unattached with. Perhaps this is whence the words rancid thrift found their exclusions from the skillet-blackness of my thoughts this morning upon awakening from tiresome dreams. Kafka, or so it seems, always being an ejaculant in such cases. This morning’s strumming, so I have come to understand, can be traced back to my first reading of his novella The Metamorphosis, when reading was more pleasurable, my eyes less occluded.
Allocate nothing to them; no whatsoever. No what have you, none of? No, none of your avocation says I. Eschewing is quite amusing, he said. I find most people obscene, including myself. Joseph K had an apple rotting, stuck, in the hard carapace of his back. His sister, K, was not to be trusted, nor his mother, dear, or his father, the one responsible for the leptospirosis that caused such painful lesions and enchantments to begin with. Having scant knowledge of the ligula of certain insects, as I do, I will remove myself from any further incantations. Joseph’s labium, however, must have smarted considerably under the assaulting strain of his sister’s own disenchantment. In labium veritas, I would hasten to say. Is not a carapace, in many ways, segmented and serrated like the common mandibles of a woman’s nethermouth? I cannot assure you of this, though it does, as it seems, seem quite possible in deed. Tuberculosis, or black lung, as it is more commonly referred to, having ferried too many a weary spirit into the labial arches of many a whorl-haired woman. These brittle sayings have no semantic value whatever so may be. Lesion, ever how, are often to be found skulking surreptitiously in the pre-frontal lobes of the post-lobotomized. I have, past, eaten pop-tarts slathered in icing sugars and cinnamon skeins. This, I can assure you, has been the case, and as such, not subject to further conjecture or connivance. Perhaps my sleeping patterns could be realigned with a simple lobotomy, scratching and exhorting the dopamine to eschew wakefulness. Stranger things, we may suppose, have occurred. Sleep, I condemn as idiotic, serving no other purpose than to encourage wakefulness, which incurs its own set of problems, thus forcing one to seek sleep once more, so we have it. Sleeping, then, it is safe to say, is for the weak-minded and immoral, neither of which, I suppose, I am capable of eschewing.
(Dec. 31. 04)
The sky is stoned out of its fucking skull. There is no sky, but simply a factory of gray-morose clouds arrogating away any possibility of blueness. Cobalt, cerulean, plum, apple-scull bruised, meridian, no such blueness at all. The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit sky grayness. Old person’s gray-minted breath, strays of it, crustaceous scallops furrowing mouth edges. I do not like this, not one fucking bit. I need a blue, azure morning sky to aconite my wakefulness, my vaunting into consciousness. Monkshood, wolfsbane; make reference, if you must, to a fucking dictionary. Legs red-scabbard, teethmarks, tearing and jimmying, headfirst, trying to regain entry into the ligula. No such luck, we are afraid; none whatsoever. Tonight this year will take its leave; whereupon, a new and much more obscene one will usurp it, if they’re ever was any cogency attributable to Dialectical Materialism to begin with. One historical atrocity to follow another, until the series exhausts itself of all permutations and collocations: ad-fucking-infinitum. This word is to my liking, for reasons, which will soon become clear, conglutinant adj. promoting healing or uniting, as of the edges of a wound.
I am experiencing, presently, much upper GI distress. From, perhaps I imagine, too much heavy-weighing food, such as is characteristic of cheeses, unsanitary meats, muck-yellow vegetables and legumes (I eat, admittedly, few of these) and chocolate. Cakes, all sorts, sadly, effectively uneatable. This garroting pain, soreness, causing ulceration’s, is most discomforting, to say lightly. I am, as it is, none too impressible, in the least. Maalox and its consorts having little if no effect on assuaging the pain, I find myself rubbing, palms turned slightly inward to accommodate this loathsomeness that scolds my belly-patch, the area, contoured, aligned against the seam of my breastplate, as it is. To no avail, the soreness persists, sadly so. Hyperintellection is not a term, I assure you, that is in common usage today, in any lexicon or medical compendium that I am aware of other than those written some forty or more years ago. The two, conglutinant and hyperintellection, however, can be interlaced to make reference to a form of psychiatric remission achieved through psychodynamics’ and couching that is most inspiring in deed. I suggest, though you may chose not to aver, that you read up on the historical process of both Freudian psychoanalysis and it’s off-comings, many, as would have it, that are tired, hackneyed, yellowed, and reproachful, and aquatint yourself. It is, so I have inferred through careful self-tutoring, possible to have a bubonocele swelling, often partial, in areas other than the groin. Here I am suggesting in the upper GI or in the pre-temporal lobe, as such would have it.
It is impossible to escape the impression that people commonly use false standards of measurement—that they seek power, success and wealth for themselves and admire them in others, and that they underestimate what is of true value in life. And yet, in making and general judgement of this sort, we are in danger of forgetting how variegated the human world and its mental life are.
Men have gained control over the forces of nature to such an extent that with their help they would have no difficulty in exterminating one another to the last man.
Sigmund Freud
Men have gained control over the forces of nature to such an extent that with their help they would have no difficulty in exterminating one another to the last man.
Sigmund Freud
Exterminate, exterminate…
Johnny Rotten
Johnny Rotten
Happiness is a sex-pistol held tightly, scalding, between anarchist’s legs. Sid, he did, had a razor-sharpness to wit, a blood-sporting fine chap he was, if anything at all. Now Johnny, stump-tined, gore-hole ranting, pitiful miscreant, that he is, cannot whelp his way out of a take-away bag. Sorry bastard, get a proper fucking haircut you dim-fuck! The Clash always has and always will out class you, you pathetic little fuck.
(Jan. 1. 05)
I have overslept into this the first morning of the New Year. The sky, dearest sky, is yellow-brilliant, cut glass, refracting light from every-which direction imaginable. Cloudless, remorseless, azure blue, such as I love, adore, with wide-stretched arms, akimbo, arching into this new morning glory. No cataract’s, scratching, murky, eye lenses, corneas, into hell-sightlessness. None whatsoever. Too many commas, so it would seem. Today, the first day of the year two-thousand-and-five, I will selfishly adduct some time for myself, to encourage and complete nothing whatsoever. This, I am reasonably assured I can accomplish, notwithstanding any unplanned for happenstance. In my bitter, tannic coffee, this morning, I have added Carnation Milk, fat freed, in place of the usual heavy cream. It is, sadly enough, not really to my liking, though I will persevere.
Ampersands and other such nonsense are useless, abusive, in the expression of the poetic form. Words, tearing emotions, freed, giving expression to past oppressions, tortuous sufferings, this, and this only, is the culling that stills the night’s hellish raking ire. When will you murderously assonant little poets understand?
The sky now graying, indelicately, is pushing in on the glass in my windowpanes. This pains me, as it does. No armaments to drive off, sullied, the evening’s scornful misadventures, soon to make a most inauspicious appearance, as they do, these misshapen bastard children with corn-stalk hair and stone-pitted eyes. I, I do, admire the crepuscular beauty, treacle-caramel beauty, of the early evening, falling like a kiss on a tear soften cheek. Early morning, pre-meridian, or those all to fleeting moments held aloft in the late day sky, encouraging an evasion of thoughts, distempered, yet never jealous or forbidding. These cunt-wearied moments, like a soft whispering in a deafened ear, gives me courage, the courage to go on, when going on is all that is possible, in an impossible world. We have Beckett to thank for that, and for that, for him, we should be most indebted.
The gunmetal taste, bluing, has found another mouth to terrorize and inhibit, and for that, and perhaps that alone, I am truly grateful. Poor Young Werther, head blown clear off, freed form the moorings and scaffoldings of his sad unrequited shoulders. We have Geothe, thankfully, to thank for that. This dia-fucking-lectics of love having no business, whatsoever, in the lives of those for whom the merest breathing and exhalations of life are a persistent burden. Her scallion-green eyes tear the love from the anchor of my belly, raw-fleshed and scabbed, as it is. But I will persist, as I must, into the black cunt of night, encouraged, as I am, by the merest possibility of an intimate embrace; a soft kiss warming the few moments, left, as they are, to the amusements of a raging, indelicate moon. Like mischievous children, knee-scabs biting through to bone, we play at hide and go seek, whirling endlessly into the faint blistering of youth. This merry-go-round taking the breath, angrily, from the bellows of tiny lungs, grimy with life’s prattling arrogation.
What is your motto of life, she asked. That we keep close to ourselves, I answered, like Machiavellian enemies, the capacity to be creative and imaginative. As when we were children and on those gray, rain-soaked days, which demanded of us that we stay indoors, we created sheeted and blanketed forts and secret societies where we were King and Queen to get ourselves through the tortuously long day.
(Jan. 1. 05)
I have overslept into this the first morning of the New Year. The sky, dearest sky, is yellow-brilliant, cut glass, refracting light from every-which direction imaginable. Cloudless, remorseless, azure blue, such as I love, adore, with wide-stretched arms, akimbo, arching into this new morning glory. No cataract’s, scratching, murky, eye lenses, corneas, into hell-sightlessness. None whatsoever. Too many commas, so it would seem. Today, the first day of the year two-thousand-and-five, I will selfishly adduct some time for myself, to encourage and complete nothing whatsoever. This, I am reasonably assured I can accomplish, notwithstanding any unplanned for happenstance. In my bitter, tannic coffee, this morning, I have added Carnation Milk, fat freed, in place of the usual heavy cream. It is, sadly enough, not really to my liking, though I will persevere.
Ampersands and other such nonsense are useless, abusive, in the expression of the poetic form. Words, tearing emotions, freed, giving expression to past oppressions, tortuous sufferings, this, and this only, is the culling that stills the night’s hellish raking ire. When will you murderously assonant little poets understand?
The sky now graying, indelicately, is pushing in on the glass in my windowpanes. This pains me, as it does. No armaments to drive off, sullied, the evening’s scornful misadventures, soon to make a most inauspicious appearance, as they do, these misshapen bastard children with corn-stalk hair and stone-pitted eyes. I, I do, admire the crepuscular beauty, treacle-caramel beauty, of the early evening, falling like a kiss on a tear soften cheek. Early morning, pre-meridian, or those all to fleeting moments held aloft in the late day sky, encouraging an evasion of thoughts, distempered, yet never jealous or forbidding. These cunt-wearied moments, like a soft whispering in a deafened ear, gives me courage, the courage to go on, when going on is all that is possible, in an impossible world. We have Beckett to thank for that, and for that, for him, we should be most indebted.
The gunmetal taste, bluing, has found another mouth to terrorize and inhibit, and for that, and perhaps that alone, I am truly grateful. Poor Young Werther, head blown clear off, freed form the moorings and scaffoldings of his sad unrequited shoulders. We have Geothe, thankfully, to thank for that. This dia-fucking-lectics of love having no business, whatsoever, in the lives of those for whom the merest breathing and exhalations of life are a persistent burden. Her scallion-green eyes tear the love from the anchor of my belly, raw-fleshed and scabbed, as it is. But I will persist, as I must, into the black cunt of night, encouraged, as I am, by the merest possibility of an intimate embrace; a soft kiss warming the few moments, left, as they are, to the amusements of a raging, indelicate moon. Like mischievous children, knee-scabs biting through to bone, we play at hide and go seek, whirling endlessly into the faint blistering of youth. This merry-go-round taking the breath, angrily, from the bellows of tiny lungs, grimy with life’s prattling arrogation.
What is your motto of life, she asked. That we keep close to ourselves, I answered, like Machiavellian enemies, the capacity to be creative and imaginative. As when we were children and on those gray, rain-soaked days, which demanded of us that we stay indoors, we created sheeted and blanketed forts and secret societies where we were King and Queen to get ourselves through the tortuously long day.
MANIAC: Certainly—false pretences perpetrated by a sane person. But I am mad, Inspector: certified mad! Look, I’ve got my medical record, here: sixteen times in the nuthouse…and always for the same reason. I have a thing about dreaming up characters and then acting them out. It’s called ‘histrionomania’—comes from the Latin histriones, meaning ‘actor’. I’m a sort of amateur performance artist. With the difference that I go for ‘Theatre Verite’—my fellow performers need to be real people, but people who don’t realize that they’re in my plays. Which is just as well, "cos I’ve got no money and couldn’t pay them anyway…I applied to the Arts Council for a grant, but since I don’t have political backing….
INSPECTOR BERTOZZO: You had the nerve to charge two hundred thousand lire for a singe consultation…
Dario Fo
INSPECTOR BERTOZZO: You had the nerve to charge two hundred thousand lire for a singe consultation…
Dario Fo
I, myself, was onto this when I began writing my own play entitled, Eating Dylan Thomas’ Liver, but fell into the gutter paralytic with alcoholism before it could be appropriately finished. Now, some 15 years after the fact, I have put away such childishness and got on with it; unfettered with spirits, wines, cognacs, sherrys, ports and any such indelicacies left unaccounted for. Scrapping the blood trails off of the skims of my eyes, ready to see with acuity know only to a select few: Borges, Joyce, Wittgenstein and Nietzsche, neither of whom I can ever hope to approach, my imprecise scribblings and inanities being what they are. To which I answered, drunkenly, how fucking indelicate of me. I am the Sodom of the written word, nothing more. Ask the moon for forgiveness and she will spit in your face; ask the sun for a ripe orange and she will submit to your pleasures. Ask a woman for a soft-lipped kiss and she will ravage your mind; ask a whore to assuage your weariness and she will embrace your soul.
My God forsaken eyes are worsening, straining to see the most perceptible things. Mornings are generally good, my sight being quite generous and clear. Evenings, reproaching nightfall, are delirious with misshapes and mottlings, the worst of which create an impasse between what is seen, from the point of view of the eye itself, and what is a faint representation of reality. Epistemologically speaking, if that is at all possible (perhaps a met-epistemology would be better suited to our needs) the variances and misrepresentations issued between the seer and the seen are unimpeachable, and as such, always at odds with one another. What is seen, or thought to be seen, is actually a simple perceptual representation, a ghostbody of what is out there in the world of things, objects, and persons, nothing more. This gauze separating the perceptive agent from the outside sullies and hazes all that is seen, felt, heard, touched, etc. Ergo, nothing is as it appears, but could very well being other than it is. My perceptual field, as would have it, is all mine and mine alone, a solipsistic inner-rendering of a falsely attributed outer reality that is forever shifting with incalculable multiplicitousness and an indifference to those who perceive it. We shan’t go onto the ontological mishaps that this ghosting encourages.
Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange is on television this evening at eleven o’clock, Central Standard Time, if my perceptions are at all to be trusted. (Verification is an entirely out of the question, as it would encourage harsh inequities). The novel from whence it was scripted for the cinema was extraordinarily unreadable. Anthony Burgess, the insufferable lexiconophile that he was, was a most annoying mis-handler of simple verities and representations and therefore not worth the bother, I am afraid to say, dead as he is, poor bastard. The unkempt (ness) of his hair I personally found obscene and savagely unpleasing to the eye, sightless bastard that I am. Stanley Kubrick, on the other hand, was a most extraordinary genius of a cinema all but discarded and forgotten since his untimely departure from this mortal coil. He I do, and will, sadly miss. Full Metal Jacket, though somewhat turgid and longwinded at the start, was a most satisfactory film experience; having seen it twice, to my recollection, I feel that I am entitled to this criticism, unwarranted as it may seem. John Huston’s The Dead, lifted as it was from Joyce’s Dubliners with little respect for Joyce himself, was another such longwinded excursion into an Odyssean otherness I found quite discomforting to watch, drunk as I was on Irish Whisky at the time, sadly enough. Dumb and Dumber being a more apt titling for such a filmy attempt at literary misappropriation. It is time to put away childish things for another day, putting a halt to this Sodomy of words. The first day of the New Year has careened to a full-throttled stop, word carcasses littering an otherwise clean and hospitable inner-perception of it all. Such, I gather, is the nature of it all, gloriously enough.
A kick in the teeth-cozy, you mendicant bastard. Jaw-sinews, biting, mulching lettuce stalks and celery hearts with a pleasure afforded only a select few. A savant, says he, is better empired to adduce a theorem, than a dilly-dally such as you, poor bastard, that you are, sadly never enough.
My God forsaken eyes are worsening, straining to see the most perceptible things. Mornings are generally good, my sight being quite generous and clear. Evenings, reproaching nightfall, are delirious with misshapes and mottlings, the worst of which create an impasse between what is seen, from the point of view of the eye itself, and what is a faint representation of reality. Epistemologically speaking, if that is at all possible (perhaps a met-epistemology would be better suited to our needs) the variances and misrepresentations issued between the seer and the seen are unimpeachable, and as such, always at odds with one another. What is seen, or thought to be seen, is actually a simple perceptual representation, a ghostbody of what is out there in the world of things, objects, and persons, nothing more. This gauze separating the perceptive agent from the outside sullies and hazes all that is seen, felt, heard, touched, etc. Ergo, nothing is as it appears, but could very well being other than it is. My perceptual field, as would have it, is all mine and mine alone, a solipsistic inner-rendering of a falsely attributed outer reality that is forever shifting with incalculable multiplicitousness and an indifference to those who perceive it. We shan’t go onto the ontological mishaps that this ghosting encourages.
Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange is on television this evening at eleven o’clock, Central Standard Time, if my perceptions are at all to be trusted. (Verification is an entirely out of the question, as it would encourage harsh inequities). The novel from whence it was scripted for the cinema was extraordinarily unreadable. Anthony Burgess, the insufferable lexiconophile that he was, was a most annoying mis-handler of simple verities and representations and therefore not worth the bother, I am afraid to say, dead as he is, poor bastard. The unkempt (ness) of his hair I personally found obscene and savagely unpleasing to the eye, sightless bastard that I am. Stanley Kubrick, on the other hand, was a most extraordinary genius of a cinema all but discarded and forgotten since his untimely departure from this mortal coil. He I do, and will, sadly miss. Full Metal Jacket, though somewhat turgid and longwinded at the start, was a most satisfactory film experience; having seen it twice, to my recollection, I feel that I am entitled to this criticism, unwarranted as it may seem. John Huston’s The Dead, lifted as it was from Joyce’s Dubliners with little respect for Joyce himself, was another such longwinded excursion into an Odyssean otherness I found quite discomforting to watch, drunk as I was on Irish Whisky at the time, sadly enough. Dumb and Dumber being a more apt titling for such a filmy attempt at literary misappropriation. It is time to put away childish things for another day, putting a halt to this Sodomy of words. The first day of the New Year has careened to a full-throttled stop, word carcasses littering an otherwise clean and hospitable inner-perception of it all. Such, I gather, is the nature of it all, gloriously enough.
A kick in the teeth-cozy, you mendicant bastard. Jaw-sinews, biting, mulching lettuce stalks and celery hearts with a pleasure afforded only a select few. A savant, says he, is better empired to adduce a theorem, than a dilly-dally such as you, poor bastard, that you are, sadly never enough.
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