(April 27. 05)
Rain: rain go away, and never come back, never fucking never. I was so worried that the plant spider that hangs above my bed might fall free of its moorings crushing my fucking skull to scrim that I relocated it to the bathroom where I haven’t a headrest or care in the fucking world. Now that’s a scope of genius, wouldn’t you say? Leaps of logic and algorithms are not so menacing after all so it seems. Add and subtract, divide into and out of, not so fucking menacing after all. I think I’ve got it, for once. Mrs. Walker, should she still be drawing breath, would be proud of me. Sculls of dirty fucking rain, like whore’s tears on a slow night. Today, as with all days, I will pick up the scent and be on with it. Too much rain and pleurisy for birds and other living creatures, beasts of burden, such as they are, are none too good at staying dry and feathered. April showers bring on such dowers. And that cock-hungry Russian dowageress hanging stropped a baying equine from cable and pulley above her bed, to enable horses fucking without encouraging prostration and a collapsed lung. Silly Czarsess cunt.
A moonless night sky: stars like dogshit crooking an otherwise prophylactic blackness. I don’t recall having used a dash since beginning this epistolary nonsense. Now commas and colons, both full and semi, lyre and strum the literati-minded, a most unbecoming scatology at that. No not at all, he said, his cheeks profuse and pilloried with muslin and cheap clothes. I am, as you know, a juggler by trade and a mason by avocation. The two, don’t you think, compliment one another quite nicely? Stone dust and rubber balls, some orange, others in hues of reds and purples, held aloft in thinnest thin air. Like magic, I say, like fucking magic! Stupid savant hasn’t a fucking clue which ways up or down, but keeps a ledger of all his juggling accomplishments and well-laid bricks just the same. Sad pathetic bastard, squinty eyes sifted with dust and stupidity. Perhaps it’s on moonless nights when the real necrotic shit hits the fan, not when the sky is in full glimmering bloom. (Adman Leopold Bloom, lavations lemony pocketed, and Loebs, where the smart shopper shops and drops dead from produce prodding exhaustion). Fucking moonless black nights bring the worse out in me, thetas for certain. In midstream during tomorrow’s morning lavations and scrubbings, I will pumice and roan the scabby lyres off the foot and bottom of my feet and be done with it for good. Flip-flops and corns make for painful peregrinations, of that I am reasonable certain as certain can be. To bed future adman, before a scout of boy heroes and goblins make certain of your worldly demise. Good night one and all, fucking cunts the lot of you.
(April 28. 05)
I awoke from charily dreams with an apple rotting in the hard carapace of my back. Joseph K’s fucking little sister, no doubt, crouching hidden beneath the slats and pinions of my bed. Five thirty in the Amerindian: not such an auspicious time for arm stretching and apple rotting by any stretch of the imagination, never. Cockfights and bull piques, these two will pass. A dun gray morning sky cumulus and full of calumnious cunts. What, you may ask, is a calumnious cunt, I haven’t the faintest, nor for that matter, do I particularly care, fucking cockfights and Mexican banditos will spell the end of me, of that I am reasonably sure. Tepid coffee rots you from the inside out, renal failure causes a build up of bile and blackstrap molasses, so I’ve been told, by whom is moot and of little consequence. Francis Bacon, the painter not the miscreant, was one, if not the best, religious painter of the twentieth century. Turnkey heads and stopped up rectories, no two images alike, though all in the same key, so to speak. With an abattoir’s eye for slaughter and mincing, Bacon reinvented how we see the human form, formless and minced up into oedipal pieces. Flesh torn and reamed from form and image, no two cunts and labium the same, the one folding into the other forming a formless mincing of epidermis, flocculent skin; a polyglots reaction to monotheistic despotism. No two cockfights the same, the one always pecking and folding into the other, creating a bloody fucking mess of it. Now that’s art, nothing less will ever do. It’s still raining like a robber outside, gunmetal barrel gray, cumulous, skulking and monotheistic. Listening to the Hellbillies with Lenin, Lewis and Bakhtin. I wrote a childish piece of crap for the Norman Bethune College newspaper when I was a sophomore with equally sophomoric philosophical ideals and all the symptoms of middle-stage alcoholism. Something I called ‘Rain Thoughts’, a painfully immature recasting of the Nietzschean concept of the Herd Mentality, rife with castration innuendoes and Oedipal out you frontoes. What have I to say for myself, you might ask, not a damn fucking thing, that’s what? So fuck off and be done with it.
(April 29. 05)
A blue opal morning sky, the jewel in the despot’s crown. Screaming banshees and naiads, merciless little creatures of doubt and bad manners. Never a moment’s rest from sirens and pox, much like the impetigo, yet with less scratching and itching. Every morning after my morning lavations and scrubbings, I poke Q-Tips in the colossal of my ears, gypping free scuds of wax and hard tallow. To hear better, you might ask, no, to stop the rectors and Christ mongers from whelping nonsense in the conch of my ear.
Nighttime: and origami and a whole shit load of other meaningless drivel and dross. This, I fear, as fear I must, is the maelstrom that is my mind. Sad but true.
(April 30. 05)
This rainy day month has finally come to an end, henpeck and ramrod, a syphilitic cheeky fuck up the ass-end, gonorrheal mercilessness at it’s worse. Perhaps May flowers will bring less dowers. If not, at least the vex-shaped tan-line on the sculls of my feet will seem less inauspicious. The buds on the tree outside my bedroom window, the very one from whence I look and gander, haven’t grown a fucking middling in a week or so. Fucking Nature, always lolling behind, skittish cunt that She is. A pantheistic fuck in the ass is what She needs, and with little mercy or soft whispers. Cones and stirrups de damned, stone-deafen the fucking Czarists cunt and be done with it. Nature has no place in the monotheistic ledger, gods and man, never two more mismatched no good for nothings as far as I can see, which given my crossing in, is limited and syphilitic at best. So be it, ad infinitum, adman Bloom through hillocks and dale. Too much rain and not enough not rain.
Fuck flowers, green grass and lepidopterists. I’ve had more than enough of this enough, surely it must stop, and soon. If not, if it doesn’t, I will surely die withering like a cowslip or a lupine. Not such a fucking inauspicious way to leave this mordant veil, now is it? I have neither mercy nor goodwill for beast nor man, fucking miscreants and no good for nothings. After having seen the movie ‘Shallow Grave’ this evening for a second time, I came to the realization that skillsaws and drillbits are not such nonsensical handtools; in fact, they make up for a paltry loss of hand-eye-coordination in even the most dimwitted fucks. Hacking and jacking off, two birds of the same feather so it seems, one done with malice and malcontention, the other with a fistful of lubricious friction. What could be less contentious and more forgiving than a pugilistic hand wringing? Mothering perhaps, but that’s for foolscap’s and lazy bones. I best bed myself and read for a wither and while, a few pages of Bolano then a fool’scap of sleepy sleep.
If its rainy cats and fucking dogs come the morning, I’ll surely kill them both, merciless cunt that I am. Too much rain and not enough hand wringing and tools. What was I thinking, nothing of course, not a fucking thing.
(May 1. 05)
No gray-gravel day today, but blue skies and a pillory of clouds shifting like cudding sheep. No birds twilling nests into armory, just a will o the wisp and not enough time for reading, never, ever enough time so it seems. Veal minced and mulled with chuck, cumin, allspice and crackers, how delightful in deed. Saffron and yellow curries are best left out of the mince, as they cause indigestion and dyspepsia. Soft hamburger buns with sesame seeds and olive oils, for masticating bread from slaughter. A can of Fruitopia, a strawberry and kiwi mull, to enlighten the palate and ease deglutition. Swallowing can in deed be murderous if done without liquids and stool softeners. A huff and puff of Gauloises and a pat on the back, to recreate the trauma that started it all, in a park on a bench or a merry-go-round or some such circular contrivance. I gather from what has been gathered that it is time for bed, and with due diligence and uppity hurriedness. Good night, and may your dreams and mares be softly swallowed then spat out like sputum’s and sperms.
(May 2. 05)
Epistemologically I’m fucked. Today I begin a new old job, one I never felt I was much good at to begin with. We’ll see what happens, then determine the punishment to be milled out later. First I must finish my morning lavations and scrubbings, behind ear and knee crook, and get ready for the day. I made it through the day without a scratch or wen. Scrimshaw is for sailors; not admen such as I. Nothing can strop me now, except slammed doors or subterranean implosions done by men with thistle and thorn behind ear and knee. Now the Italians and Portuguese prefer an ashy smoke cloven in the clip of an ear shorn clean from its pulpit and mass. A hedge of scrub on a stonemason’s jaw, neither razor nor strop skinning dust from Hume. Like I said, I am epistemologically fucked, nothing more need be said or left open to conjecture. All that needs to be said has been said, thus said Wittgenstein wings flailing madly trying to find his way out of a bluebottle and Moore. Good night, and may you find the neck of the bottle that stops you.
(May 3. 05)
I write this because I have to, not because I need to fill space and papayas. My second day at work was as uneventful as the first, cursed phone sales and dilly-dallying. I did, however, chat and gerrymander with a most intriguing woman whose shoes, not doubt, have clappers and drakes. For dancing and flight of footing and downward peddling with toe-clips and mudguard. I emailed her a slurry of poems, all written while scalawags drove (or was it piked?) railheads into the humps of my feet. It is definitely time for bed, as without a mordant of sleep tomorrow’s day will be unconscionable moiré at best. Don’t bother to ask, I haven’t the faintest or foggiest what it means, moiré and eels, I suppose, two slithering gray mucks. Enough is enough, to bed young scalawag before a scout of boy-heroes drive railheads into the humps of your feet. Vex-shaped or not, your fucked.
(May 4. 05)
Nothing is more hobbling than scuff and krill on the Huns of one’s shoes. As I don’t wear shoes or shod, I have toe-corns and railheads scorned on the Huns of my feet. My feet, otherwise, are fine and ambulant, free from all form and gerrymander of hoof and maul disease. Flip-flops prevent crackling skin, like duck’s rile and fats. Although I do find that the pads of my feet get blackened with pine tar and leaked oil, and as such, need constant attention and stern scrubbings. Or pensile, as the case may be. There are no cases, just carryon(s), one per passenger. One or not, your fucked anyway you sluice it. Good night and may your feet hit the floor with a resounding Hun, as you scup from bed clamoring for Gauloises, coffee and pulse.
(May 5. 05)
I am a scalawag, no if ands or buts about it. Something’s are best left to themselves, to brume and stew in their own dower misgivings. It seems so it does, that I have a fancy for grammatical-sodomy, one ciphered with words such as dower and brume, neither of which I know the definition for. Such is such, I suppose. I suppose too much, I suppose. Silly fucking repetition compulsion gets the best of me when I’m tried and achy. Freud was a cunt, more so than Addled and Jung, though those cunts weren’t much better, fucking ingrates. Origami: sleep for the sleepless and brume. Good night, fucking ingrates and shit heads. Good night and sweet dreams: fucking cunts the lot of you.
(May 8. 05)
Mother’s day, wars end and sunny skies. One hundred and nineteen million dollars spent on concrete and flashing, least we remember the dismembered and amputated, boys with acne cheeks and dreams of Italian wine and lost virginity, soot blackness creeping into navel and thigh. Remember to remember what is so easily forgotten, rape and pillage, innocent children culled into train and stove. Kiln blackened hair; gold yanked from teeth, arms and legs crooked and bullied into dirt clods and root. Least we forget the murder of children and souls. Blue skies and a child’s eyes, clawing dirt weald into fingernails and short-pants.
Tulip day, or festival, as it is referred to it here in Nation’s Capital, crackles of sun bleached hair strumming shirt collar and nape. Fucking people with cobbled feet trampling tulip and daffodil to fucking smithereens. Nasty simple people, no manners or minding of their own. Some from a dozen time zones away, clopping like fucking donkeys mauling dirt and grass with railheads and hooves. Fucking miscegenation cunts. Cock soup and goose rind, fucking toothless buggers gumming skin crinkle and yellow lard. I’ll be happy as a kid on a merry-go-round once this waste of taxpayer’s money is spent and unaccounted for. Fucking dross and bad manners, city councils got a thing coming to it if it thinks it deserves a fucking raise and less taxable income; not on my fucking watch, no sire. People starving, sleeping with legs cupped under tent and elm, while fat fucks and gerrymanders eat blood soaked roasts and broiled skin left on potatoes with butter and sour cream. Fucking cunts the lot of ‘em. Hepatitis C eats holes the size of fucking rats in the lining of your intestines, blood-clotted legs, paper thin skin on ankle and hip-joist. You want to talk hobbled; no one deserves such mistreatment, not even a fucking dog or a fucking rat for that matter. Fucking miscreants, never enough is enough, too little too much too never enough. May you all rot in hell, if there be such a place, gods willing. I am off to a twelve-step meeting of some sort, for druggists and gambols and gin-whores with dime-store beehives and Betty Boop blue eyeliner and tired smiles. Gods forgive me should I say something untoward, deafened and callus cunt that I am.
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