(Jan 29. 05)
My great aunt Alma, now dead, made the most delicate, mouthwatering raspberry tarts. I have never to this day eaten such lovely tart-crust, nor shall I have the luck and pleasure to in the coming future. The sky is salt-gray and hopeless. I started Goytisolo last night, and before I fell to sleep exhausted, the first sentence had yet to come to an end nor period. Thus far, only one and half pages in, he seems to have appropriated a Joycean unpunctuated free-flowingness. This, as you know, I like exceptionally. The Spanish must have been quite inhospitable, if not altogether mercenary. Joyce would be roiling in his grave, tittering with delight, somewhere other than in dear-green Ireland. Exile seems to create a bridge between what one abhors and how one abhors it, though with an unremitting love for the place abhorred just the same. I am an abhorrer, be it so with no love for the place of my abhorrence. I dreamt pitiful dreams last night, like Joseph K or Lowery’s consul general: poor dead Dylan’s liver being the mitigator of such nocturnal honors. I will read the fat Saturday weekend paper and then refuse to recycle its Boy Scout’s made paper landfill. I recall, as I do, being encouraged by a fat boozy Akbar to get my own hands dirty and gluey with mushy paper and tepid church facet water. We were to learn to make paper from scratch, whether we wanted to or not. Of course this papermaking skill has been a boon to my employability thus far. You never know when an employer will be asking for one so inclined and tutored in the fine art of the papyrus. I suppose I should count myself among the lucky and few stupid cunts to have been thus encouraged. This scoutmaster had white crumbly mint bitters appended hopeless to the corners and slacking of his gorehole of a mouth. Poor chuckhole bastard that he most certainly must have been, given these indelicacies and propensity to lardy fattiness. Just the same, he was a boozy fuck with a never to be properly buttoned blue untucked-in shirt, as it was. This fucking door slamming will spell the end of me, of that I quite sure.
Listening to The The’s CD NakedSelf; what a fucking masterful piece of work. I recall them, him, from the late eighties when I lived drunkenly with two same-age friends in a small, square model home just northwest of here, my other home. I am inclined, much so, to listen to a vagary of incongruent music, my taste being such, never stolid or unvaried. For example, if I may, I might begin the day with the Clash Live, to discourage a rampaging of OCD compulsion-repetition, then move on to a Strauss or Wagner opera just for the vagary of it and to encourage sleepiness. All music, so I have discovered through careful (compulsive repetitive) listening, is operatic, more so, not worth the bother of categorization. Once anything at all is pigeonholed as such, it looses it’s orginary meaning and becomes, as it does, a vapid droning simulacra, nothing more. I will place a call to the Loblaw’s pharmacy and speak directly with the on-duty pharmacist, or his/her assistant as it may be, and see whether my medication has been reissued. Having, as I do, none remaining, hastiness is in order, or if not, then a tincture of mild hashish to curb this harsh pathology, as prescribed to me by Freud himself. Winnicott notwithstanding, I have no holding-pattern whatsoever to speak of, not yet at least. As for Adler, sorry club-footed bastard that he was, my fragile ego can await its deinferiorization. R. D. Laing, now he I would have most enjoyed hoisting a jar or two of lye-whisky with, no matter the drunkardsness that would have certainly ensued. As for Goytisolo, I will get on with him and be done with it, Count Julian, my intuition tells me, being a kindred miscreant, pariahicgummed bastard Spaniard that he was. A secondhand shop might soften this persistent repeating that dogs me like a pathological recidivist, so off I go, as I must.
I am tired, more so than I would have thought possible. Knowing, as I do, that sleep will admit dreaming and dreams dreamt are often the harbingers of portends and jimmy-legging, it might be best that I put it off until complete exhaustion sets in. Having eaten moccasin-soft vermicelli with stir-fried beef and lemongrasses for my late-night meal, my gorehole may be too delicate for thrashings and jimmying as is sleep. I cannot sleep; I must sleep; I am insleepless. Dreams are for those with a fervor for chess or snakes-and-ladders. As neither a ruche nor a castletop has any meaning whatsoever for me, I haven’t the patience or geometry for such wasteful lollygaging. As I do, I much prefer a good card trick or a neatly folded origami wren, perhaps a thrush hermit, and then be done with it. The only bridge I know my way across is stiffly glued to a rotting rail of teeth that I have taken none too good care of since my admission into this best of all possible worlds, dreaming the dreams of the pariahs. Such, I guess, is my horrid mien in life, nothing more. Sleep you devil, sleep, before the morn arises blighting the black-night indelicate with harsh bitter succor and scornfulness unimaginable.
(Jan 30. 05)
The mourning sky is snakes-and-ladders, maniacal-blue, worse perhaps. Yet still here I sit, legs bowed in supplication to Gauloises and a brown mug of goldleaf coffee, making mischief and never once telling a story to be read by a child.
We wave a handkerchief
on parting
every day something is ending,
something beautiful’s ending.
The carrier pigeon beats the air
returning;
with hope or without hope
we’re always returning.
Go dry your tears
and smile with eyes still smarting,
every day something is starting,
something beautiful’s starting.
Jaroslav Seifert
on parting
every day something is ending,
something beautiful’s ending.
The carrier pigeon beats the air
returning;
with hope or without hope
we’re always returning.
Go dry your tears
and smile with eyes still smarting,
every day something is starting,
something beautiful’s starting.
Jaroslav Seifert
I am the lucky one, and should never forget that; no wars or godless-immoralities have I seen, just a few cold moments of life leaving me stronger-willed upon my return into the fray. My children have not be run-through on the ends of bayonets, or pitched like cabbage into the boiling waters of hatred, nor have I watched helpless as a child is torn screaming from it’s mother’s arms, these are things, horrors, I will never need experience as I am, never. Any tears I shed are for myself, no one more. Yet I, in this world corrupted with hatred and guile, am the lucky one, never will I see my child run-through on the end of a bayonet, his blood mixing with tears I shed for a merciless bitter inhumanity. I live in jolly clownish Canada, not Bosnia, Sarajvo, nor the Sudan. My children have shoes, not feet torn-bloody to shreds.
It has become painlessly obvious that I have gone to solipsistic hell. Needing no more need for interpersonal relationships, nor kindly reminders that I am, as I am, quite odd and a tad bit too eccentric, perhaps hell isn’t such an unkindly place to fall headlong into as I have. What intellectual nourishment I require I get from books and masturbation, not simpleminded fucks that regard homelessness and poverty as eyesores and blockades to their silly little assfucking lives. All impediments, all eye-soiling lazy fucking-cunts, are to be ignored, pissed on, or robbed penniless in their haste to get a Star Bucks double-mocha latte.
I need, as I do, to look more closely at my pathological misuse of the comma. There was time back when I was a drunkard undergraduate that I had a hard-on for the dash and the semi-colon, neither of which I find terribly appealing any longer for obvious syntactical reasons. Philosophy disabuses one of such semantic nonsense. If I were Joyce, who I am not, a simple unpunctuated Molly Bloomish monosyllabic soliloquy would be just and proper. But as I am not, I will continue dilly-dallying around avoiding the obvious rhetorical nonsense of my childish tittering. Whorecorpses and corpsegases are two of the few word-sodomies that I find both practical and of little use in everyday conversing; analytical posturing having pretty well done away with calling one’s language one’s own without incurring a Russellian ass-spanking in consequence, a sorry state of affairs I would say. I best end this nonsense before I fall willy-nilly into a fucking comma, a dash or a semi-colon perhaps: (God night).
(Jan 31. 05)
Etruscan; crushed birdseggblue; monochromatic; Persian-blue: an end of January sea-blue morning pastel. My early morning vanities are shamefully vainglorious. I am shameful-vain vainglorious. I am Aristotle; I am not. I have awakened, as I have, from pitiful dreams of Aristotelian vaingloriousness. I am tired of this nonsense. As I have, so I have been told, sluggish serotonin, (seropurulent) vaingloriousness, shameful as it is, should not be so damnably scolding. I am slowly coming to accept the garroting-hold that OCD has on my mien. This mischief-making and virulent chemical-imbalance is most unpleasant. A chimera would be more to my liking; a dogsbody or a whorecorpse. Just the same I go on, as I must. I scrubbed bare my kitchen floor to do away with the sanguine-stigmata that has corrupted the plasterboards and paintscabs. Pine Sol fresh, so they say. Mister Clean none too hirsute or equine-maenad. Dionysus, lest we forget, crushed grapes-bitter between cloven-toes and arching heel. A pellucid ovarian-whiteness obfuscates my sightlessness in excelsior, shameful vaingloriousness. O’very stew, I once wrote, in a childish attempt to make a vainglorious pun seem oddly not quite so odd after all. I failed, as you can read, miserably. Psychiatrist-number one is to call me this morning to make a most needed appointment, sooner than later, the better it will be. As my skullcap is a most pernicious and inhospitable fuck, whose sole purpose, so it seems, is to irritate and palsy my every thought and just movement, I pray that his call arrives with due haste. With a pugilist’s bone-spurred knuckles, fists flailing, I will get on with the day and be done with it in due haste. Time has no essence, nor Aristotelian pure-substance. In Nietzsche’s time all things seeking, as they must, a cure for this hostile unessential vaingloriousness. I as one so inclined, am inveigled and vainglorious: Dionysian vine-fat delicate and inebrious, as it is. On my way I must be, not to Carthage or Romecity, but to the Northern Lights Employment Centro, neither Italy nor Africa, given time, essence and due haste. What a dumb, stupid cunt I am. No one in their proper-frame would act or write or titter-on as I do, and I do, vaingloriously so. No publisher worth his weight in salt, (whatever the fuck that’s supposed to imply) would lay a finger or an eye on such an atrocity; nor would I, if I were smarter than a vainglorious-cunt. I am very tired, more so than not, of this fanciful wordiness, polysyllabic-cunning is what it is, no-nothing more. If I were a Croat or a Serb, I’d be inconsonant and be done with it, like shit through a goose. Of course such incontinent-shitting would only encourage my dear father and friend to eat oven-crisped lardy skin, in greasy fat-mouthfuls like dying men. That, I fear, is a responsibility I certain care not to incur whatever the cost. Sleep I will, beneath warm-covers and white-linens, neither of which I own nor sleep upon nor beneath. Sad patronizing bastard. No publisher worth her weight in cumin or allspice’s would waste a minute on such cunning dim-wittedness, of that I can assure you. A slow-bleat of clouds crossly-crosses this sullen black night. Sleep being the only way-out that I know. I cannot sleep; I must sleep; I will go on. I will sleep a vainglorious sleep, sleepy-cunt that I am. One eleven Amerindian on the first day of February two thousand and five, yet still here I sit shitting words and syllables through the gorehole of my neck, sad sorry-bastard that I am; gods mourning; good night. So be it, for the time.
(Feb 01. 05)
The sun has yet to arch above the housetops. Perhaps I live on a gray street in Corinth where cowslip flourishes and cowbirds twitter. Or perhaps I have been meddling in the dictionary again, meddlesome-lexicographer that I am. Madhatter me, I imagine a world never to my liking just the same.
It has become painlessly obvious that I have gone to solipsistic hell. Needing no more need for interpersonal relationships, nor kindly reminders that I am, as I am, quite odd and a tad bit too eccentric, perhaps hell isn’t such an unkindly place to fall headlong into as I have. What intellectual nourishment I require I get from books and masturbation, not simpleminded fucks that regard homelessness and poverty as eyesores and blockades to their silly little assfucking lives. All impediments, all eye-soiling lazy fucking-cunts, are to be ignored, pissed on, or robbed penniless in their haste to get a Star Bucks double-mocha latte.
I need, as I do, to look more closely at my pathological misuse of the comma. There was time back when I was a drunkard undergraduate that I had a hard-on for the dash and the semi-colon, neither of which I find terribly appealing any longer for obvious syntactical reasons. Philosophy disabuses one of such semantic nonsense. If I were Joyce, who I am not, a simple unpunctuated Molly Bloomish monosyllabic soliloquy would be just and proper. But as I am not, I will continue dilly-dallying around avoiding the obvious rhetorical nonsense of my childish tittering. Whorecorpses and corpsegases are two of the few word-sodomies that I find both practical and of little use in everyday conversing; analytical posturing having pretty well done away with calling one’s language one’s own without incurring a Russellian ass-spanking in consequence, a sorry state of affairs I would say. I best end this nonsense before I fall willy-nilly into a fucking comma, a dash or a semi-colon perhaps: (God night).
(Jan 31. 05)
Etruscan; crushed birdseggblue; monochromatic; Persian-blue: an end of January sea-blue morning pastel. My early morning vanities are shamefully vainglorious. I am shameful-vain vainglorious. I am Aristotle; I am not. I have awakened, as I have, from pitiful dreams of Aristotelian vaingloriousness. I am tired of this nonsense. As I have, so I have been told, sluggish serotonin, (seropurulent) vaingloriousness, shameful as it is, should not be so damnably scolding. I am slowly coming to accept the garroting-hold that OCD has on my mien. This mischief-making and virulent chemical-imbalance is most unpleasant. A chimera would be more to my liking; a dogsbody or a whorecorpse. Just the same I go on, as I must. I scrubbed bare my kitchen floor to do away with the sanguine-stigmata that has corrupted the plasterboards and paintscabs. Pine Sol fresh, so they say. Mister Clean none too hirsute or equine-maenad. Dionysus, lest we forget, crushed grapes-bitter between cloven-toes and arching heel. A pellucid ovarian-whiteness obfuscates my sightlessness in excelsior, shameful vaingloriousness. O’very stew, I once wrote, in a childish attempt to make a vainglorious pun seem oddly not quite so odd after all. I failed, as you can read, miserably. Psychiatrist-number one is to call me this morning to make a most needed appointment, sooner than later, the better it will be. As my skullcap is a most pernicious and inhospitable fuck, whose sole purpose, so it seems, is to irritate and palsy my every thought and just movement, I pray that his call arrives with due haste. With a pugilist’s bone-spurred knuckles, fists flailing, I will get on with the day and be done with it in due haste. Time has no essence, nor Aristotelian pure-substance. In Nietzsche’s time all things seeking, as they must, a cure for this hostile unessential vaingloriousness. I as one so inclined, am inveigled and vainglorious: Dionysian vine-fat delicate and inebrious, as it is. On my way I must be, not to Carthage or Romecity, but to the Northern Lights Employment Centro, neither Italy nor Africa, given time, essence and due haste. What a dumb, stupid cunt I am. No one in their proper-frame would act or write or titter-on as I do, and I do, vaingloriously so. No publisher worth his weight in salt, (whatever the fuck that’s supposed to imply) would lay a finger or an eye on such an atrocity; nor would I, if I were smarter than a vainglorious-cunt. I am very tired, more so than not, of this fanciful wordiness, polysyllabic-cunning is what it is, no-nothing more. If I were a Croat or a Serb, I’d be inconsonant and be done with it, like shit through a goose. Of course such incontinent-shitting would only encourage my dear father and friend to eat oven-crisped lardy skin, in greasy fat-mouthfuls like dying men. That, I fear, is a responsibility I certain care not to incur whatever the cost. Sleep I will, beneath warm-covers and white-linens, neither of which I own nor sleep upon nor beneath. Sad patronizing bastard. No publisher worth her weight in cumin or allspice’s would waste a minute on such cunning dim-wittedness, of that I can assure you. A slow-bleat of clouds crossly-crosses this sullen black night. Sleep being the only way-out that I know. I cannot sleep; I must sleep; I will go on. I will sleep a vainglorious sleep, sleepy-cunt that I am. One eleven Amerindian on the first day of February two thousand and five, yet still here I sit shitting words and syllables through the gorehole of my neck, sad sorry-bastard that I am; gods mourning; good night. So be it, for the time.
(Feb 01. 05)
The sun has yet to arch above the housetops. Perhaps I live on a gray street in Corinth where cowslip flourishes and cowbirds twitter. Or perhaps I have been meddling in the dictionary again, meddlesome-lexicographer that I am. Madhatter me, I imagine a world never to my liking just the same.
The importance of language for the development of culture lies in the fact that, in language, man juxtaposed to the one world another world of his own, a place which he thought so sturdy that from it he could move the rest of the world from its foundations and make himself lord over it.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Friedrich Nietzsche
Why all this shunting willy-nilly across a blue, bluer-sky? This is blue, no doubt about it. So blue, Robinsegg, cobalt azure blue, yet somehow bluer still. I will wrestle-sweaty the moment from the day and be on with it. No more maudlin I, but a more engaging less oppressive Madhatter I. That I will be, on this glorious-blue sunny first of February-day in excelsior-day. Harsh-critics be damned, cunt-lapping-dogfuckers all. I, as one so abstemiously inclined, should be such a lucky cuntlappingdog, if were to have any lick at all. I await the postbox-mercenary, trundling, to burden me with bills and citations, bundles entwined and in plain brown-wrappings. The cock-rooster cock eyes me with frightful suspicion; sitting perched on the monitor-screen inches away from these splays, goreholes, of my nose; he, or her, the cock, the only bird, wings-flittering, that has the courage to hero this cold mid-winter day.
(Feb 02. 05)
An adagio-blue morning, Mendelssohn, Dvorak, Rachmaninov, Gounod, Weill, Bach’s Saint Matthew Passion, Faust, Oper in Funf Akten. I am impetigeous. Go gently among the thorns and nettles young man. These I encourage with neither foresight nor concern for the safety of my mien. Scratched thistle-sore with the wantonness of it all (so it is) a mordant provocation for the unchaste and god-fearing, the trinity, hope, charity and lust. Andy mailed me yesterday to remind me that the date for the completion of my thesis is at bay. I am ready I think or believe or whatever philosophical-imputation seems fitting. Be done with it and move-on, before time permits no further extensions. A dower evacuation is forthcoming; of this I can and will assure you, time permitting. A mason stone-gray day, these indelicate thoughts foresworn to secrecy and pitiful silences as they are and as they must. Waxy graveclothes donned in this the best of all possible worlds, a world given and taken away by hands scabbed-bloody with god-fearing indifference. No prophylactics for the Aids-dying as they fornicate without license, such godless savage beasts. I had a friend who could jimmy a condom up over his head with god-fearless impunity. At least he, though a wastrel, was permitted such rapture. I am leaving my home to engage. I will return when engaging is no longer worth engaging in, which given my abhorrence of men and mice will be none too soon the better.
Admittedly I have nothing to admit, neither penitence nor atonement to be made. We have gravesclothes; donned in inhospitable weather to keep the licescabs and funeralworms from creeping willy-nilly up the coalshutes of our ex-posterior goreholes. There are, as there is, a variety and temperament of goreholes, each with its own vital impotence and mien. To impute one, is to amputate and lay waste to them all. Prophylactic-sterility is never a far cry off, Catholic-mendicants withstanding. Only the test of time, I suppose, will lay waste to the mean-tempered-scurrilities of these mendicant-moralities. God willing, you killer of innocent children and the cripple-legged. A sharp oedipal-stick in the eye. That I wish upon you, in oxalises inglorious. Smite, smote, smiting; this coal-diggers coal-black night, infidels racing scrotumtightening into the triptych ether where the god-fearing minion assfuck and knock willy-nilly innocent children scorn-crippled with god-fearless impunity and all clears. I am tired of this. I fear I am tired of this. As there are god-fearing moral hatreds yet to be impaled on the ends of sharp-pointy sticks, I have no time or patience for weak god-fearing scrotumtightening infidels, the ether-world, as it does, lacking in a cogent omniscience, an unchastely-votive attired in excelsior inglorious. A russet-brown apple (awaits) its plunging into the hard carapace of my skeletal back, legs jimmied and flailing madly in enraptured concupiscence.
These men are not godtrusters, it must be revealed, but dreary cronewhores who scream, screeching, all clear: go ahead and bugger the little bugger. Were they to try and understand the implications of their moral approbation, they would misdeed the value of understanding, and weak of knee clutching spackling surplices fall willy-nilly to the gray-weaning mosaic tile flooring. Blood-nits knit Miterhats for the brethren-brothers, cowlick and brown-crapulous brethren-brothers brown-woolen surplices spackling to the gray-tiling mosaic-floor weaning weak of knee and clutching. I have nothing further to write about this aberration, so I will leave it at that and be done with it in leaving.
Currently it is roughly three-fifty seven-ampersand Thursday morning the third of February two thousand and five, roughly speaking. The day of my expectoration into this, the best of all possible worlds, is soon to approach, failsafe to say that I need never again go through that horror in this or any other best of all possible worlds ad infinitum be damned. One vomiting is quite enough for one as pale and unentertaining as I. Perhaps on my birthday (perhaps) I would like a ship-tall Miterhat with all the frills, epaulettes, bells, whistles and rights of privilege. If not, a small cake with sweet-sugary white icing, or a book bound in leather with blue-cobalt leafing and gold-hued embossing to play a second fiddle to my liking. This is ridiculous; I must sleep, and haste with. A State of Siege (Goytisolo) awaits me slackly sitting crouched on my nightstand table next to my radio and moth-velum light flickering frantically and with dower dim light inattentively, as is of its character and mien so to do, so it must so do flickering frantically as it does.
(Feb 03. 05)
Ass-cleaving I jump-free of the fray and into this most gray inhospitable day. Dustbin cats and bird-bandits play havoc with the titular-bumbags of the sun sunning in the sky. I sit at a right, or is it left, angles to my window (pains me) and try desperately not to look into the sky not blue but mote-gray, somehow graying grayer. Melitta coffee slakes this biter in my throat that forces air of snotgreenness to come issuing out through the gorehole-spleen in my neck. Things that go bump in the night are not to my liking, nor for that matter liked much at all by any whom. I slept, let’s say, perhaps five and one half-hours jimmying beneath soft-down burgundy covers, no more than that. Sleep interrupts wakefulness that in turn encourages sleeplessness, which arrogates sleepiness. These coal-bitters that ballet in the vaulting of my mouth, (gorehole that), have hard-sharpened their pointy-slippers on rocks of salt and bland indifference. The two dancers I was propitious enough to assignee were both none-fucking and thereafter disconcertingly indifferent to my genital-geniality.
What was a poor boy to do, but masturbate, fist-flailing, the indifference given at hand. That I did, and have yet to neither remit a stanching nor have the intention so to do so. Such is my mien I suppose and woolgathered in neatly rowed skeins. Today I will do my best not to allow any muckrakers to intercede in my best of all possible worlds, the one only I have at my hasty disposal be so as it is. This fine gentlemanly-day I will encourage to discourage any form or matter of self-punition or cajoling of ill-frail ego. Having no heavy-creams, I have slaked my morning coffee with plain milk two-percent. Time to creep crawling into the midpoint of my life, knees-knocking at the forest-gate of Dante’s damnably cold wretched Inferno. What other choice do I have? Bird, wolf, tiger and ass-donkey, these four await my propitious arrival unto the dank, inglorious hole. What wretched-wreckage this life-mien of mine has become, so jarringly self-abrogating and pained to the indifferences of this most inglorious cajoling, thirsting-after a wretchedness never to be slaked dry. I cannot go on; I must go on. I will go on. I will this I will. This crone-gray morning having slipshod into a droning-gray afternoon in-glottis, I have nothing to fear or loose, nothing whatsoever at all.
What that was about I have neither notion nor the slightest. Today I was privy to an insufferable Gonorrheal lame-headedness that left me incurious. Most or too many people, as much as too many, are menses, and as is the case with such rammers, sanguinely indifferent to all and every; brash facile dramaturgy none too fetching to the eye. I will try and sleep-knees beneath this tonsure-bare Godotion tree, incurious fellow that I am. (Godot-night)
(Feb 04. 05)
I remember only what I have forgotten, nothing more. A murderously bright Camuean morning cuts through tight sinewy tendons and rough white bone. Good morning gods, I have awakened. I have not had a hurriedly slaked whiskey or chocolate-brown Guinness in neigh eleven and one half years, I had forgotten then been prompted to remember by thirsting. My glottis of an ass has appropriated a devil-may-care attitude that I find none too amusing. Fucking silly little cunt of an asshole ass. Online reapplication for EI support again re-mastered then several nonconformists one page cover letters to be written in due haste for employment I care little nor see remittance for. Molly’s soiled-brown bloomers hiked peripatetic up over around the cockswain of her warbling neck, that I aspire to, nothing more. And what a literary-menses that is to aspire so to, Joycean-scum that I am. Burnt a hole in my mousepad I have sometime when. When I die inhospitably, I will ask Genet to give the Funeral Rites at my rectory. Also, I will see to it that Malcolm assists in the shoveling-out of my grave, as he knows well what it is like to fall careening, drunkard cursing down a muddy embankment to his unpropitious death. Tictac gores ulcerous holes in one’s liver and distended belly with murderous intent, so I read Under the Volcano drunken brash on Lowry.
Portobello ears he had, not monkswolf as some have dared suggest. Frond-eared, skunking in the willothewhisp; these were his ears, impossible as they were to stuff crammed beneath brim and hatband. Molly’s ears, never so prohibiting and madhatting, though Blazes knows between who’s legs licking they pressed flathattedly. Cockswaning Barite Bloom, hawker of pears and soapslemony able to clean, clean as a whistle, the gobspit from between scabbardred thighs warbling arias incontestable.
(Feb 02. 05)
An adagio-blue morning, Mendelssohn, Dvorak, Rachmaninov, Gounod, Weill, Bach’s Saint Matthew Passion, Faust, Oper in Funf Akten. I am impetigeous. Go gently among the thorns and nettles young man. These I encourage with neither foresight nor concern for the safety of my mien. Scratched thistle-sore with the wantonness of it all (so it is) a mordant provocation for the unchaste and god-fearing, the trinity, hope, charity and lust. Andy mailed me yesterday to remind me that the date for the completion of my thesis is at bay. I am ready I think or believe or whatever philosophical-imputation seems fitting. Be done with it and move-on, before time permits no further extensions. A dower evacuation is forthcoming; of this I can and will assure you, time permitting. A mason stone-gray day, these indelicate thoughts foresworn to secrecy and pitiful silences as they are and as they must. Waxy graveclothes donned in this the best of all possible worlds, a world given and taken away by hands scabbed-bloody with god-fearing indifference. No prophylactics for the Aids-dying as they fornicate without license, such godless savage beasts. I had a friend who could jimmy a condom up over his head with god-fearless impunity. At least he, though a wastrel, was permitted such rapture. I am leaving my home to engage. I will return when engaging is no longer worth engaging in, which given my abhorrence of men and mice will be none too soon the better.
Admittedly I have nothing to admit, neither penitence nor atonement to be made. We have gravesclothes; donned in inhospitable weather to keep the licescabs and funeralworms from creeping willy-nilly up the coalshutes of our ex-posterior goreholes. There are, as there is, a variety and temperament of goreholes, each with its own vital impotence and mien. To impute one, is to amputate and lay waste to them all. Prophylactic-sterility is never a far cry off, Catholic-mendicants withstanding. Only the test of time, I suppose, will lay waste to the mean-tempered-scurrilities of these mendicant-moralities. God willing, you killer of innocent children and the cripple-legged. A sharp oedipal-stick in the eye. That I wish upon you, in oxalises inglorious. Smite, smote, smiting; this coal-diggers coal-black night, infidels racing scrotumtightening into the triptych ether where the god-fearing minion assfuck and knock willy-nilly innocent children scorn-crippled with god-fearless impunity and all clears. I am tired of this. I fear I am tired of this. As there are god-fearing moral hatreds yet to be impaled on the ends of sharp-pointy sticks, I have no time or patience for weak god-fearing scrotumtightening infidels, the ether-world, as it does, lacking in a cogent omniscience, an unchastely-votive attired in excelsior inglorious. A russet-brown apple (awaits) its plunging into the hard carapace of my skeletal back, legs jimmied and flailing madly in enraptured concupiscence.
These men are not godtrusters, it must be revealed, but dreary cronewhores who scream, screeching, all clear: go ahead and bugger the little bugger. Were they to try and understand the implications of their moral approbation, they would misdeed the value of understanding, and weak of knee clutching spackling surplices fall willy-nilly to the gray-weaning mosaic tile flooring. Blood-nits knit Miterhats for the brethren-brothers, cowlick and brown-crapulous brethren-brothers brown-woolen surplices spackling to the gray-tiling mosaic-floor weaning weak of knee and clutching. I have nothing further to write about this aberration, so I will leave it at that and be done with it in leaving.
Currently it is roughly three-fifty seven-ampersand Thursday morning the third of February two thousand and five, roughly speaking. The day of my expectoration into this, the best of all possible worlds, is soon to approach, failsafe to say that I need never again go through that horror in this or any other best of all possible worlds ad infinitum be damned. One vomiting is quite enough for one as pale and unentertaining as I. Perhaps on my birthday (perhaps) I would like a ship-tall Miterhat with all the frills, epaulettes, bells, whistles and rights of privilege. If not, a small cake with sweet-sugary white icing, or a book bound in leather with blue-cobalt leafing and gold-hued embossing to play a second fiddle to my liking. This is ridiculous; I must sleep, and haste with. A State of Siege (Goytisolo) awaits me slackly sitting crouched on my nightstand table next to my radio and moth-velum light flickering frantically and with dower dim light inattentively, as is of its character and mien so to do, so it must so do flickering frantically as it does.
(Feb 03. 05)
Ass-cleaving I jump-free of the fray and into this most gray inhospitable day. Dustbin cats and bird-bandits play havoc with the titular-bumbags of the sun sunning in the sky. I sit at a right, or is it left, angles to my window (pains me) and try desperately not to look into the sky not blue but mote-gray, somehow graying grayer. Melitta coffee slakes this biter in my throat that forces air of snotgreenness to come issuing out through the gorehole-spleen in my neck. Things that go bump in the night are not to my liking, nor for that matter liked much at all by any whom. I slept, let’s say, perhaps five and one half-hours jimmying beneath soft-down burgundy covers, no more than that. Sleep interrupts wakefulness that in turn encourages sleeplessness, which arrogates sleepiness. These coal-bitters that ballet in the vaulting of my mouth, (gorehole that), have hard-sharpened their pointy-slippers on rocks of salt and bland indifference. The two dancers I was propitious enough to assignee were both none-fucking and thereafter disconcertingly indifferent to my genital-geniality.
What was a poor boy to do, but masturbate, fist-flailing, the indifference given at hand. That I did, and have yet to neither remit a stanching nor have the intention so to do so. Such is my mien I suppose and woolgathered in neatly rowed skeins. Today I will do my best not to allow any muckrakers to intercede in my best of all possible worlds, the one only I have at my hasty disposal be so as it is. This fine gentlemanly-day I will encourage to discourage any form or matter of self-punition or cajoling of ill-frail ego. Having no heavy-creams, I have slaked my morning coffee with plain milk two-percent. Time to creep crawling into the midpoint of my life, knees-knocking at the forest-gate of Dante’s damnably cold wretched Inferno. What other choice do I have? Bird, wolf, tiger and ass-donkey, these four await my propitious arrival unto the dank, inglorious hole. What wretched-wreckage this life-mien of mine has become, so jarringly self-abrogating and pained to the indifferences of this most inglorious cajoling, thirsting-after a wretchedness never to be slaked dry. I cannot go on; I must go on. I will go on. I will this I will. This crone-gray morning having slipshod into a droning-gray afternoon in-glottis, I have nothing to fear or loose, nothing whatsoever at all.
What that was about I have neither notion nor the slightest. Today I was privy to an insufferable Gonorrheal lame-headedness that left me incurious. Most or too many people, as much as too many, are menses, and as is the case with such rammers, sanguinely indifferent to all and every; brash facile dramaturgy none too fetching to the eye. I will try and sleep-knees beneath this tonsure-bare Godotion tree, incurious fellow that I am. (Godot-night)
(Feb 04. 05)
I remember only what I have forgotten, nothing more. A murderously bright Camuean morning cuts through tight sinewy tendons and rough white bone. Good morning gods, I have awakened. I have not had a hurriedly slaked whiskey or chocolate-brown Guinness in neigh eleven and one half years, I had forgotten then been prompted to remember by thirsting. My glottis of an ass has appropriated a devil-may-care attitude that I find none too amusing. Fucking silly little cunt of an asshole ass. Online reapplication for EI support again re-mastered then several nonconformists one page cover letters to be written in due haste for employment I care little nor see remittance for. Molly’s soiled-brown bloomers hiked peripatetic up over around the cockswain of her warbling neck, that I aspire to, nothing more. And what a literary-menses that is to aspire so to, Joycean-scum that I am. Burnt a hole in my mousepad I have sometime when. When I die inhospitably, I will ask Genet to give the Funeral Rites at my rectory. Also, I will see to it that Malcolm assists in the shoveling-out of my grave, as he knows well what it is like to fall careening, drunkard cursing down a muddy embankment to his unpropitious death. Tictac gores ulcerous holes in one’s liver and distended belly with murderous intent, so I read Under the Volcano drunken brash on Lowry.
Portobello ears he had, not monkswolf as some have dared suggest. Frond-eared, skunking in the willothewhisp; these were his ears, impossible as they were to stuff crammed beneath brim and hatband. Molly’s ears, never so prohibiting and madhatting, though Blazes knows between who’s legs licking they pressed flathattedly. Cockswaning Barite Bloom, hawker of pears and soapslemony able to clean, clean as a whistle, the gobspit from between scabbardred thighs warbling arias incontestable.
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