Or BRUEGEL, perhaps.

(Jan 18. 05)
There is no such thing as a morning glory or an unselfserving kiss, you once said. There is, you said, a cold, bitter morning, stitched into the orbits of my eyes. This, I feared, I never quite understood, as much as I tried. A movie star’s blue-eyes, blue sky, settled into the morning glory inches from the trussing of my forehead. This, you said, is how all mornings should commence. I couldn’t agree with you more, or less, I suppose. Today I must register for the completion of this most infinitely inexcusable excuse for an unfinished thesis, as it is, or isn’t, such being the case. Not knowing how, I will, as I must, ask for assistance, which I will, as I must, in order to precipitate the final vaunting out of this inexcusable excuse. There you have it, five years of studies culminating in such a horrid philosophical exegesis, if that is what it can with faint reason be referred to, without vomiting inexcusably through the trussing in my forehead.

The house leaned beneath the treetop,
the wind knelt at the door,
fear put its tail between its legs,
the stars arranged themselves in order,
angels exposed the night
to worship.
Earth is the censer,
darkness the ember
and man the incense.
I fall on the charcoal,
on the sweet cinders
I become the scent.
Edvard Kocbek

This is a morning glory, no matter what you say, or said, when I was there that time with you. The garbage, green-bags of it, scrummed, circled like a halo, sit awaiting the dustbintruck’s hasty arrival. Will it come, in haste, or leave the halos and bread crusts, chattering, scorned by a cold bitter morning glory? Philosophy, you must remember, has no dustbin, just a circle, never closing, recycling the dower uncertainties of this transcendent mess, this best of all possible worlds, certainty gone to hell, in a hand-basket so it has, hastily, and with little remorse for its thinly veiled indelicacies.
(Jan 19. 05)
I awaken from dreams, shimmering. The sky, a marrow white, snow angels. This whiteness, ghostbodies, yet whiter; arms stretched to infinity, but further. This stillness has no infinity, but stretches even further, shimmering, yet whiter still. Perhaps I am the custodian of these dower uncertainties, ghostbodies, all of them, in this best of all possible worlds, so thinly veiled and indelicate.
(Jan 20. 05)
The sky is full of silverfish gilling the air for moisture. A red car, like a bashed-in nose, abuts the neighbor’s lane way. A butchered aftertaste, languishing in the score of my thoughts. No real, or is it true, musicality, just a recallable misstating as it is, always was. All these aftertastes crabbing in the sun dried withering, so fucking indelicate, yet drier. The sky, all those ghostbodies like silverfish gilling the air, red, like a bashed-in nose. A day to attend to the paperwork of my life, not yet livable, but encroaching, a childish candied aftertaste, this delicate palate of mine.
Nora Barnacle, no Blazes Boylan’s gobspit, Guinness-brown between her raw naked legs. Finnegan, crowning, perhaps, birth-sculled head smarting from a Scorpion’s sting to the nethermostmouth, a pleasing encounter, nonetheless, Nora my dear, dearest, Nora Barnacle. Head-thruster, Aloysius, you smarting smart man. That, this was composed, first on a torn shred of newspaper culled from a wire-cage display in the lobby of a medical tower before my needle-in the eye follow-up. Doctor Macdonald has no farm to speak of. Johannesburg’s runaways have no interest in agrarian things. Waif wafer-thin, the ghostbody of Christ, sumptuousness best enjoyed on the sliver of one’s tongue. Christ wine, deep, arterial scorpions and licescales, slaking a persistent thirst, thirsty for more of this sumptuousness, sweet, treacle sweetness, more. I await God’s smiting-hand, tremulous. Little devils dancing like Cossacks all. A bitterness best savored on the Buddenbrooks of one’s tongue-meat. Brings to mind, as it always does, poor besotted Dylan’s liver, fresh meat excised for the gourmand’s table de haut; salty, salt aftertaste besmirching the gorehole as it does. Poor bastard Welshman, bastard. Better off, you’d be, with Finnegan’s head torn to shreds on the lemony-scented rocks of the Liffey. Snotgreensea, dogsbodies, corpsegases, dancing like devilish Cossacks under a crazed jealous moon kicked to splinters.
There has appeared, quite oddly, a stigmata in the plasterboard and paint-scabs of my kitchen wall. At first I thought it might be septic, sewage water seeping through the fissures and rents in the wall. Perhaps a leaching, I imagined, or some such excrescence. On second though, after a second look, I imagined it was a talisman from God, a reminder of my godlessness and the need for some form of reparation, atonement, so I thought, or imagined I thought. Then I thought that it might be a Jesuit, cowering, entombed behind my kitchen wall. That thought, as it was quite thoughtless, was quickly vaunted from my thoughts, as such. Then I thought, thoughtlessly, of course, that my thoughts were haywire and cuneiform, begging the question, which thinks what and for whom, your thoughts as they are thought? After much bitter consternation I though to myself, this is fucking crazy, you must stop thinking such stupid thoughts. So I did, and now I simply write them down secondhand thoughts without a thinker, so to speak, hand-me-downs, godless imaginings. This, of course, does not do away with the bleeding stigmata ensanguinating the plasterboard and paint-scabs in my kitchen wall, as it is, as I write, and will most likely remain once the screen has gone Guinness black and I loose what tenuous hold I have on thinking conscious thoughts. Perhaps it is best, more so than putting up with this thinking, to paint the kitchen wall red, pomegranate, and be done with it. This, of course, needs some thought, so it is impossible to project a solution any time soon I’d say. Joseph and His Brothers had a firm and unwavering disregard for Mr. Thomas Mann, bisexual. They would, as they did, transpose their heads, as one, and be done with it, all of it, even dear poor Doctor Faustus and that murderously insufferable Felix Krull, cognomen. I have no right to write anything at all. Of that I am most certain. As I write, I am doing my laundry with the solicitous help of Mr. Thomas Mann, sanatorium-asthmatic, jimmy-legging cognomen.

riverrun, past Eve and Adam, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodious vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
James Aloysius Joyce (dogsbody)

It is darker than death outside my bedroom window. Nonesuch, as it is, and will be, ad infinitum, God willing. When I am febrile, as I am now, I am meat-crazed, carnivorous, slavering gobspit, like my dear cuckolded dearest Leopold Bloom, adman, awaiting the skillet-frying of his recently purchased kidney-meat. He too, I imagined, was an eater of rare-meats and viscera. Bootstrap blackened kidney-meat, a most delicate and offal enticement. Molly’s bloomers sullied through with Blazes knows what. I too, I would say, am an eater of scabbard-meat, thigh bullied from between God knows where. Or was it, as I recall, head bullied screaming from between scabbard-red thighs trembling, rare-meat. Panamanian cold, colder than a ditchdigger’s rectos, such as it is, darker than death itself outside my bedroom window. As a somnambulist I am much colder than a dear poor, ditchdigging bastards cold chattering rectos. Of that I am quite certain, sorry bastard that I am.
(Jan. 21. 05)
This morning like a dagger in the head. Sun-sullied soaking with it, yet still to the hilt the dagger breams. Wasps of furnace-smoke scurried and are scurrying, grapes of it that’s all. This is, you must remember, an Italian-Polish neighborhood. Vintner’s fingers awash in the blood of Christ, in this world that I am, so I say. The solipsist in me, as always, hurries knee-knocking, chiding to the fore to slake a persistent and offal thirst. More motes of it than I’d like to imagine, if I were to imagine anything at all, in this, the best of all possibles. No never balminess, but an embalming chemical smell, a chimera, as would have it, funeral black yet blacker. Why on such a sun sunny day am I the custodian of such dower wretchedness?
A wicked wickedness, not so amusing to the naked eye as one would assume, if one were to assume. This crone-monkey skill-sawing the jube-jubes from the bone, crimping up the rail of my back. I am in dower need of a tonic, a Perrier, glass-green and Sodom. Only someone of equal miscreantism, a cretin, can hope to aspire to such nonsense, yet never. I noticed as I was drawing water for coffee that the stigmata is red-blushing the plasterboards and paint-scabs, yet still. A Jesuit’s surplice, wool roughened gray-crone that is it behind the embrasures. And I, in all godlessness tease coffee from a ceramic surplice hand-painted in Italy by a crone or a craft artisan. These parables, so it is, have a silly way of improving one’s dower imprecations.
Once the carbuncle is removed, excised with surgical precision, the wen goes away, tail between its piss-screed legs. Yet, so it is, the sightlessness remains, ever vigilant and remorseless still. I have not had the opportunity to couch these associations, as my dear dearest Doctor Freud has a cough or a hacking impropriety, so it is. Derrida, having been an Algerian-Jew, would have understood, having, as he did, left us with the Gift Of Death. Improprieties, such inhospitable guests, knolls and incantations washing the stigmata from the paint-scabs and plasterboards of my kitchen wall. There will be no transubstantiation in the cloister that is my home, none what may ever. Candle wax and spider’s webs, that is all I have the patience for. Tortoise-backs and scorpion’s tails, these I will find room for as space and time permits. Now, before me I have the most inhospitable task of registering for the cohesion of my Masters thesis online, supplicant that I am. Smoke-breath breathing from the tower chimney abutting the lane way, where the red busted-in nose of a car sullies the sun sunning this graceful morning glory.

Love
I believe:
a tree when kissed
would not lose its leaves-
leaves fall
from kissed
trees.
A river hugged
by a hand in love
would not flow away-
it flows away
into fog.
There are in my landscape
errors of colours and scents
yet always
always I love
what incessantly
changes.
As a golden ball
she runs before me:
approached again and again,
my beloved,
Earth.
Tymoteusz Karpowicz

The moon’s laughter railing this morning glory, as if they, these splinters themselves, were the mortal words of God almighty. This, as it is, is most intolerable. Still, no moon’s shims, scabbing this glorious morning glory will I permit, none whatsoever, not in my world, as it is mine alone, mine.
These are dogsbodies nothing more, oven’s slag, more than this. I will play joyfully the host to these Eucharistic elevations, middling to of no concern, impaled as I am on this godly scaffolding. If Nietzsche was right, if I am not mistaken, then the Walpurgis-nacht is not far off. We cognomen lined-up all in a pretty row. Micturants so we are all.
Coaxing the mons of your cheeks, I do, with the tiptoes of my fingernails brittle with scarab-bracts and yellowed. Too much tar and nicotine, toxins, some insist. I pay middling attention to such imprecations, as they tend to incite a most witching arrogation in the most hospitable of men, I as such of those men. (Colophons) I listened to Massenet’s Werther this evening, a very fine and pleasant opera as I would suggest Kraus, Troyanos, Manuguerra, Barbaux, and this chap, if I am right, Bastin, under the musical accompaniment of the London Philharmonic Orchestra, errata, having done a most magnificent job of it. Charlotte I fear is a cuckolding so-and-so, as is her betrothed young Albert, friend and acquaintance of said bailiff. Sophie serves little purpose as she is as a character a middle-actress and none too impressive nor appealing. Schmidt and Johann, friends of the bailiff’s, play two precarious, evasive cameo asides and are not to be bothered with.
(Jan 22. 05)
Sun, hidden in the barrows of a crone’s skirts biting cloves of skin from soft milk-teething thighs. Molly’s thighs, high up hidden in the garments of her underclothes soiled sullen. The person who actuaries the weather, says well too well below the point where all water and liquids freeze to hell today. Dogsbodies of ice, so careful where you trod. No one I know of was born today, though there must be some I have yet to aquatint. Christ, one might conjecture, is born each and every day without fail. I, as would have it, was and will be born but once in perpetuity, albeit once. Coffee, this morning’s Eucharist, is pallid, not roiling and turbid, as I generally prefer. Be wary, the point at which all liquids freeze to hell in a hand-basket, so I have been let in on thankfully, as my trudgings will certainly need some forethought before there advent into this, the best of all possible whorls. A fine and pleasant day to be skating on the Guinness-brown ice of the river Liffey with the likes of Blazes and Paddy, one a cuckolder the other dead in gravesclothes. Stephen’s poor, dearly deceased consumptive mother skates blunt-edged and burred. Today being Saturday, the orthodox day of rest and remission, I will attend to nothing, even though a Jew I am not. No snaps or zippers nor motor contraptions with bilious evacuations, as they are to be scorned as the workings of Beelzebub and his blackhearted accomplices. When I arrived in Lethbridge Alberta in the cruel winter of nineteen-seventy nine, I was met, so I was, by a brethren of black-Stetson knockabouts better known as Mennonites, polygamous farmers as I was to be reminded. Cattle-carts and buttonholes, milkskinned daughters sold to the highest bidder, a cousin or uncle, the two, quite frankly being the same. Incestuous Christ mongering, grandpa’s buckshot shotgun lapped in the folds of his hemp tweed pajama bottoms. I was told, in false confidence, that we young knockabouts of middling to more so genes could make a bundle of cash by fucking their milkskinned daughters, not being related to the kin as we were. Of course the fucking was to be unpleasant, ejaculates quickly dispensed into the crate paper folds of their invaginations. I thought and could think of better ways and means to supplement my meagerness, salt-shot wounds in the ass taking time and much writhing to scab-over and heal. Hemp is for rope not pajama bottoms.

Christ Himself
Or a Jesuit

Is living behind the plasterboards
Of my kitchen wall

Stigmata’s like paintscabs
Red pomegranate red

A tribute to Michelangelo
Or Bruegel perhaps

Today, this afternoon, I will go to a bookstore and look at books as I do on such days, afternoons as this. I may not purchase a book, or books, yet enjoy and regale in the pleasantries of just looking, ocular-eyed, at the dust jacket sleeves and tortoise spines, all shells as they are. If per chance I am to come across a Jesuit, a cleric as has it, I will mind him no business and get on with my day. Pleasantries are not to be squandered and imprecated. I will don pantaloons, denim-indigos and a warm selfsame garment to keep this cruel intemperance at bay. A Jesuit’s surplice, as such, being of no use whatsoever, pelliceum, ecclesiastically speaking. A Vicar-inspected soutane as worn beneath the pelliceum might improve the hypothermic efficiency of the wearer, should he so choose. For lunch I ate an Arabic-mauled flat bread sandwich shamed with meats disfavored by Hassidim orthodoxy. The cheeses and meats first melted in a convex oven then smeared liberally with Polish honeyed-mustard were dallied with a vague leafage of crab-lettuce commonly referred to as spinach then savored on the buds of my gorehole tongue, so it is referred to indelicately.
I have made my return home through ice-spurs and starships and will soon ascend into sleeplessness however unpleasant. I ate, as I do when confronted with panoply of foodstuffs, to the point and pinion of discomfort and engorgement. This satiating evocation, as it does, will advent and encourage an imbecilic ornithology of stomach cramping. I say, as I do, ornithological, as bird-meat was supped and glissaded into the pockets and enfolding of my gutmucking. I will pay dearly for this greedily eating and find little solace in bromides and carbonates. Cakestuffs and trim delis colluded with pan-fries and breadcrusts simply exaggerating the inevitable gut-miring. Italics as so invoked are as monkish and pellucid as a needle in the eye, South African doctored. Fingernails and toecorns, heelpads and crimps of skin folded in to form vaginal apertures, having been frozen to shoehorns and glovemitts. This cold cruel coldness is most excoriating; winter’s cold cruel embittered harassing intolerable still. Night’s black Guinness-black lips leaving smeary gobspit on the pelliceum panes of my windows crimp-cramping. Kafka must have tired easily from the hacking and sputum that ensued. This portends I fear a most inauspicious ending to this excoriating drivel. Sleep I must, as one should and quickly soon.
(Jan 23. 05)
Monks-breathe pressed hissing against the panes of my bedroom windows. Steam issues pissing from the maw of the smokestack stack across the way under the hissed. It is Sunday, having little if anything at all to do with Sabbath antinomies yet penitent just to be safe. The Vatican protests, condoms shall not be dispensed in God’s name to those dying horrible deaths from Aids, as it is not about death or safe sex that we inject, but fornication, adulterous fucking without the appropriate license. No god I am aware of thinks this way, just men, mortal-fucks in surplice and gown. An Andalusian sun barking at the sky, yet colder, like a dogsbody frozen rigid languishing lazily begging the warmth from a whelping sky. If the sky were bluer it would be criminal.
Today is the sixtieth anniversary of the liberation of the Jews from genocide. It was at this time that the Auschwitz (es) and Dachau (s) were razed and the frostbitten and emaciated, skeletal reminders of man’s inhumanities to man, were readmitted into the fold of humanness. I cannot see beyond death, yet am blinded to the interiority of all deaths. Life is not lived, but beaten mercilessly from one’s limbs and torso. I often, so it is, confuse emaciation with emancipation, one exterior and the other interior. Neither of which means a damnable thing when the rector of evil-doings is smitten with its own misdeeds. Primo Levi died thrown from the parapet of his lodgings, survivor’s guilt kicked into a once majestic otherness. Like this xenophobic axis of evil coined by a fucking Canadian miscreant, a Jew no less. His mother, had she lived to see what had become of her son, would be horrified with the obscenities evinced by such god-fearing evilness, a fine and proper argument for post-uterus infanticide I would conjecture.
These sunscabs whoring a once majestic sky now storm-black with hatred and conniving. I am aching with aches. A shooting pain coruscating up the line of my thigh (not Molly’s) and into the hook and crook of my hip. Walking becomes trundling, trundling a hobbled messiness. Weak-legged, not jimmied stutter-steps so it seems, an uneven locution, neither this nor that, just a simple inversion. Faulkner cut himself shaving, razor-stropped on a whiskey bottle fisted in tremulous handcups, soap slavers culled from the brown-bitters of the Mississippi. I, with a dullard’s half-baked notions, eat the lacuna left behind in his majestic wake. Who am I, as I, to judge and juror such a Nobel man? Assjack, that is who I as I am, am, so it is sadly so but all too true. I am afraid this is the case, my sullen state of affairs, my Tractatus preceding the language-games that are to come, minions of them teaming ad infinitum.
This roguish sky scribbled with a birds-quill on night’s foolscap. A child’s crayon tearing at the crepe paper, colours smeary and lubricious, no lines to stay-within or template. That fucking prickcompass ripping and teething the circles cleaved on math paper, algebraic nonsense all of it. It took two intolerable years rehashing to achieve a grade ten passing grade. Mrs. Walker, dear sweet soul, breathed me through it, long and short inhales none too many to equate or round off a fraction. Vectors were for the big kids, those unsullied and damned like I the calculus savant, no business whatsoever being anywhere near a compass or slideruler. Even a savant as it is has more business than I. This day I have no skill at the calculator or other such mathematics tutors. Gull-wing haired chaps such as I should mind our own business. After all, when one pretends to do math, an equation as such, and gets the answer wrong, he or she has not been doing math all along, but some other thing with numbers and fractions. Following the rules, as Wittgenstein said, is all we have. This is not the best of all possible worlds, but a miscreant or a hobo with tine-jimmied teeth gritting interminably. I will amount to something once something is amounted and unsullied. Before that, as it is, I will wait patiently and bide my time quietly. None too careful, so I understand, is this biding and timing and other such calamitous waiting. If I were a savant, and had the chance to choose my savantism, I would most certainly choose counting, as that is something I do with staid urgency and careful perdition. Time to Elise these jimmy-legs, thorn-spokes that they are so it seems, and get under covers of linen and harsh woolens. If I were Finnegan, whom I am not, I would sup boiled onionskin mashed mushy into a placental livid custard and be done with it. No rivers running through copse and dale, nor hillocks mounding, just a simple indelicacy best savored on a scabby tongue pulpy with godspity Guinness, brown sumptuousness. I purchased at reasonable cost a tan brown ecru belt and fleece-blue mucking gloves to stave off winter’s biting cold biting. Now I will sleep as it is, sleepily sleeping.