IRISHTOWN,Fintan.

(Feb 09. 05)
Vermin-gray day nosing garbage sky. All creatures seek their burrows, so it is rumored. I have no burrow but seek just the same. Clippity-clop goes the watchman’s watch. I believe the coffee has been garbaged. I have heard tell that the Civet cat excretes finely chewed-up coca beans allowing for peculate chocolate browns. These excretions are paid dearly for by coffee amorists in first worlds, not thirds, where it is hand-picked from Civet’s assess, hard black jujubes, but too costly for the pickers amours. I will now evacuate hard black jujubes from the gorehole of my most inhospitable ass. I drink bitter-lye coffee, not scats. Handpicking is for third world jujubes, not I, Seth the Lord god’s almighty. I will ablate and be done with it.
Fintan, shoed only in gummy-soled boots plowed trudging through waist-high jujube-black snowing snow and sighing fatigued, said ‘I deplore the damnable Jesuits all’. His great-scrappy hands, hammocks of loose variegated skin, held tightly a sack of brownish paper in which he toted a bevel and mortise-rake for raking stone and beveling. In neither garrets nor sack-clothes was he attired, as he felt that these were relics of god-fearless cunning and wholesale connivance’s. A jujube-black Civet cat, eyes yellow-spidery slits, eyed him intently, chewing garishly on nettles and roan-brown scats that had fallen free from thorn, thistle and stemma.
(Feb 10. 05)
A morning sky flailing with cormorants. Before standing sleep last night I started Bruno Schulz Sanatorium Under The Sign Of The Hourglass, and from what little I read I am enrapt. Things can be that simple. I have a reappointment with psychiatrist one this morning at nine-fifteen sharpest, to be followed by a visit to the Northern Lights Employment Centro where I will cull and print-entire my dangerous thesis, dangerous for reasons too invective and pitiful to make list or light of. I am sanatorious, white-frock nursemaids milling about with gall-cups and catheter-rubber to steel against incontinence and yellow-micturitions.
I have been prescribed Zyprexa to help abet this most inhospitable and incessant obsessing-compulsivity. Having neither north/south east/west polarities nor sterile-affectations, but a soulless agnosticism, a new chemical-potentate has been incorporealated to advent a point and meter to my corrupting about aimlessly. (A priori I will not swallow Zyprexa; instead I will learn and tutor to manage my charnel house without the aid of anti- psychotic jujubes or serotinal upstart inhibitors)
Today was a day I need never repeat ad infinitum or again, gods swelling. Of this I am most jubilant and hospitably thankful. My own affectations are none too primped and proper; such is the valuelessness of my mien. I wish I’d had the chance to have met and kibitzed with Kafka; I’d have asked him what he thought about entomology and birding, then perhaps Austrian gunslingers and mood-swings, the swaggering cunt that I am. Would he, I would have asked, eaten Special K for breakfast if it had been stocked and larded at the Prague-grocer’s.
(Feb 11. 05)
A Molly Bloom’s blue bloomers blue sky. A cunningly blue Chibchan day so it is. I will never, to this day nor next, stand corrected or chili, I am far too clever for that sort of nonsense as it is. I cunt cunningly cunning. I ego I ego I. Supra-ego not so fucking cunning nor cunningly after all. Prague-grocer’s apron bloodied, cinching lemony-scented Leopold Bloom’s teeth tearing thither meat-stuffs and stone-gritty viscera once belonging to poor dear dead Dylan, poetman. There are no Chibcha, just wane paling simulacra, no nothing more. For my breakfast I will chew rigorously to shreds Kafka’s liver, a doggedly fine and sumptuous Special K. Godsfearless Maccabean that I am, I will, yes I will yes. A blue-mucky sky drubbing, I believe it is, or was to be was. Having no points of reference from whence to refer, all such referents are nonsense and bile-bilious at best. Believe me, I know not what I talk of; you must.
Denticulate Blazes Boylan macerates the licescales and dogsbodies from between dear warbling Molly’s scabbard-red thighs jiggling jolly piggish. Thus bespoke Bloom cuckoldedly. Godsfearless young Stephen Dedalus intones; gods be with you, damnable Jesuit cunts! And is done with it, tutor-money accounted for and pocketed among lint and mint-wrappings. Recently deceased Paddy Dignam’s funeral procession recrossed over the suet canal that bifurcates thighs wide the city of Dublin gods’land so say the Jesuit brethren. This funereal procession, of course, pretenses a dead rotting corpsebody stuffed waiting with viscera and chewable idbits. A grocer or abattoirist’s gold mine, one might suggest.

Her maiden name was Jemina Brown
And she lived with her mother in Irishtown.
James Joyless (adman)

On me onomatopoeia. Neither am I an adman or a prudent wordsmith, not I. Aloysius knows knew better than I, and this I know prudently, as I do, being as I am neither insufferable or incorrigibly an adman or wordsmite, be it as I am so. And damnably fine loud cheers upholstered and cups raised high thither to you my dearly dead rotting Paddy Dingus fatter nomore.

(Feb 12. 05)
‘Give ‘em the all clears’ yelled yellow-brother brethren, coward. As I just now had to ignore-all this fucking document for a second time, I am justifiably inconsolable. The spell-Chekov seems to have acquired a mind of its own, the fucking blind-leading-the blind, cunt that id it. I saw a film this past evening where a paraplegic Spaniard wished to put an end to it. He does, and that’s the end of it. Death is yellower than nicotine. Nit night paddy whack giva doga bone. No need more I say more, no never not I. Noayy.
(Feb 13. 05)
Shovelhead, morning sky cresting over above the housetops yonder through window. The thirteenth day of any month is a dangerous, vicar-crone.
(Feb 14. 05)
This is nonsense, pure and simple nonsense.