(July 29. 05)
Once, perhaps a second time, I sprayed FDS beneath the coves of my arms believing, as I did, that it was Arid or Ban or some such respirant. Since that time I have cropped two most propitious labium in the breech and socket of my arms, a most unpropitious advent and folly. It is forecasted to rain scats and hogs today, so I best carry along my yellow hied rain slicker and a redoubling of shod and shoe. A boll amusement is foredooming, as I can feel the curd and fallow eking beyond the rectory of my ass. I best attend to its voiding and get on with the dray and livery. Recall the Czaress cunt who hoisted equine and ramrod from joist and bracket, advent to a good hard fucking and a last expulsion of worldly air. Rasputin had a hard outcropping on the skulk of his cock, to advent cervix and coital excoriation. Gods forbid that I should have such luck, or a well-appointed ramrod and opportune. Gods’ folly to you all, and then some.
(July 30. 05)
Off to Rasputinville by railhead and unending seam to see sister, brother-in-law, Charlotte, Andrew, Michael and the other familial so-and-so’s.
(Aug 2. 05)
I have made it back unscathed and remindful of my manners. Things weren’t as bad as I had projected them to be, or, for that matter, nearly as unfamilial as I had envisioned (unconscious or not); such is the matter of immateriality. I removed my beard of twenty-odd years this evening revealing the pink underbelly cached underneath. It will take some time to become familiar with the newness of my face and the sidelong glances that it will doubtfully encourage. Twenty-odd years of scrub, recently grayed and whitened, is more than one man need harry. Time for bed and unsweetened drachmas, gods’ witlessness of course. Harry a moment too soon, or too late, as the state of affairs may be. Slat and pinioned to the bedpost and stead.
(Aug 02. 05)
I am so far beyond consolation, if I were to mashie my tongue, (tarried) the pain would be a welcomed reprieve from the frustration of a most mercenary poverty. Depressions are for ruts and panhandles, not mindfulness and good humors. Black marrow sieving through joint and lifeblood, Aristotelian bad manners, nothing neither more nor less. As I said in starting this Cretans messiness, philosophy has been the ruin of my life, conscious or not. When will the reprieve, reprieve? Fucking soon and the better for it.
(Aug 03. 05)
Each new day is a repetition of that which preceded it, a reusing abject fear of repeating the same merciless uselessness over and over again. Staving off the phantoms and ghostbodies, each with their own casting and trebuchet: catapulting an already exhausted ‘me’ into pure abject entropy. Anxieties prevail, regardless of my protestations or medicate interventions, as they invent the impossible, that which seems never to reach a level beyond drowning. A lurid cacophony: no, more so a Murielle cacophony: more so, so. So I hear nothing at all, whatsoever. Except this vexatious rushing in and out of whiteness, of noise and of nettles and brambles and whatnot’s and whatever you may have. Or not, I suppose. Or never was or may or could ever be. Such is my life; a never-ending morass of this and that and that and this and neigh reason or rhyme to the whole fucking shebang. None whatsoever. These vexations, these irritants, this fucking smoldering cigarette signaling the end of all ends and beginnings to all ends ad fucking infinitum and more so. No end(s) in sight, nor a beginning to an end.
I sell things, whatever I have and some things I don’t. I sell records, phonograph records, thirty-three’s and forty-five’s. I sell compact discs and DVDs, even though I haven’t the machinery to play them on I bought them just the same then sold them. I sell books, not good ones, like Borges or Mahfouz, but rat-eared ones that I will surely never find the time nor patience to read regardless of whether they have been well-received by critics or the literati.
I have sold books that I would rather have kept as they had great personal meaning to me, yet due to economics I was forced to sell just the same. I thought, albeit for a brief and fleeting moment, of selling my Octavio Paz books on poetry and literature, but cooler heads prevailed, as I have two such heads, and I re-shelved them next to they’re brethren and Nobel cousins. I am thinking, yes so I am, of selling my bicycle; the very one I bought some eleven years ago when I was much younger and more physically enthusiastic. I seldom ride it, nor care to, as it seldom seems to take me where I want to go and when it does, not quickly enough, so selling it off will be of no great consequence, neither physically or emotionally. I would sell my soul if I had one, which I don’t, or seem to care whether I do or not. I would sell it to the Pope or a Cardinal if they saw fit to remit me with a box of thin wafers and a tankard of Christ’s blood. I would sell your soul were you to have one in working order, or one that existed at all. I would not, however, sell Octavio Paz’s books or Borges, Mahfouz, Beckett, Joyce or Houllebecq. I would rather sell my soul, if I had one, which I don’t, than these prized possessions.
Souls, so I have come to learn, are disposable; great works of literature and art are not. I would sell my toenails, though my dear sister tells me that I clip them too short and should be more rigorous and careful with my pedicure. The same, so I have learned, is true of my fingernails, which are cut quick to the pink, no half moons or crescents to encourage dirt and a buildup of unsavory scrapings.
Anything exterior to my body is suspect, and as such, to be avoided and deloused. Henry Miller brought that to my attention at the beginning of Capricorn, or was it Cancer. It was such a long time ago, too long, perhaps, so my recalling is lousy at best. I would sell a handgun or an epee had I either, which I do not, nor have ever felt the need or desire to have. I will try to determine what next to sell or pawn, as the vagrants refer to it, and get on with the remainder of the day.
In the camps
It was not uncommon
To incur a phlegmon
I have made it back unscathed and remindful of my manners. Things weren’t as bad as I had projected them to be, or, for that matter, nearly as unfamilial as I had envisioned (unconscious or not); such is the matter of immateriality. I removed my beard of twenty-odd years this evening revealing the pink underbelly cached underneath. It will take some time to become familiar with the newness of my face and the sidelong glances that it will doubtfully encourage. Twenty-odd years of scrub, recently grayed and whitened, is more than one man need harry. Time for bed and unsweetened drachmas, gods’ witlessness of course. Harry a moment too soon, or too late, as the state of affairs may be. Slat and pinioned to the bedpost and stead.
(Aug 02. 05)
I am so far beyond consolation, if I were to mashie my tongue, (tarried) the pain would be a welcomed reprieve from the frustration of a most mercenary poverty. Depressions are for ruts and panhandles, not mindfulness and good humors. Black marrow sieving through joint and lifeblood, Aristotelian bad manners, nothing neither more nor less. As I said in starting this Cretans messiness, philosophy has been the ruin of my life, conscious or not. When will the reprieve, reprieve? Fucking soon and the better for it.
(Aug 03. 05)
Each new day is a repetition of that which preceded it, a reusing abject fear of repeating the same merciless uselessness over and over again. Staving off the phantoms and ghostbodies, each with their own casting and trebuchet: catapulting an already exhausted ‘me’ into pure abject entropy. Anxieties prevail, regardless of my protestations or medicate interventions, as they invent the impossible, that which seems never to reach a level beyond drowning. A lurid cacophony: no, more so a Murielle cacophony: more so, so. So I hear nothing at all, whatsoever. Except this vexatious rushing in and out of whiteness, of noise and of nettles and brambles and whatnot’s and whatever you may have. Or not, I suppose. Or never was or may or could ever be. Such is my life; a never-ending morass of this and that and that and this and neigh reason or rhyme to the whole fucking shebang. None whatsoever. These vexations, these irritants, this fucking smoldering cigarette signaling the end of all ends and beginnings to all ends ad fucking infinitum and more so. No end(s) in sight, nor a beginning to an end.
I sell things, whatever I have and some things I don’t. I sell records, phonograph records, thirty-three’s and forty-five’s. I sell compact discs and DVDs, even though I haven’t the machinery to play them on I bought them just the same then sold them. I sell books, not good ones, like Borges or Mahfouz, but rat-eared ones that I will surely never find the time nor patience to read regardless of whether they have been well-received by critics or the literati.
I have sold books that I would rather have kept as they had great personal meaning to me, yet due to economics I was forced to sell just the same. I thought, albeit for a brief and fleeting moment, of selling my Octavio Paz books on poetry and literature, but cooler heads prevailed, as I have two such heads, and I re-shelved them next to they’re brethren and Nobel cousins. I am thinking, yes so I am, of selling my bicycle; the very one I bought some eleven years ago when I was much younger and more physically enthusiastic. I seldom ride it, nor care to, as it seldom seems to take me where I want to go and when it does, not quickly enough, so selling it off will be of no great consequence, neither physically or emotionally. I would sell my soul if I had one, which I don’t, or seem to care whether I do or not. I would sell it to the Pope or a Cardinal if they saw fit to remit me with a box of thin wafers and a tankard of Christ’s blood. I would sell your soul were you to have one in working order, or one that existed at all. I would not, however, sell Octavio Paz’s books or Borges, Mahfouz, Beckett, Joyce or Houllebecq. I would rather sell my soul, if I had one, which I don’t, than these prized possessions.
Souls, so I have come to learn, are disposable; great works of literature and art are not. I would sell my toenails, though my dear sister tells me that I clip them too short and should be more rigorous and careful with my pedicure. The same, so I have learned, is true of my fingernails, which are cut quick to the pink, no half moons or crescents to encourage dirt and a buildup of unsavory scrapings.
Anything exterior to my body is suspect, and as such, to be avoided and deloused. Henry Miller brought that to my attention at the beginning of Capricorn, or was it Cancer. It was such a long time ago, too long, perhaps, so my recalling is lousy at best. I would sell a handgun or an epee had I either, which I do not, nor have ever felt the need or desire to have. I will try to determine what next to sell or pawn, as the vagrants refer to it, and get on with the remainder of the day.
In the camps
It was not uncommon
To incur a phlegmon
Which had to be incised
From the skink of the leg bone
So deep had it burrowed
From the skink of the leg bone
So deep had it burrowed
And infested
That no ferric or compress
Of either Lye
Or iodine
Of either Lye
Or iodine
Could scour free the stink
That opened into
The tissues and marrow
That opened into
The tissues and marrow
Of the leg
I would sell my leg, either one, if I felt it would minimize the pain and anguish of someone who had neither leg nor choice of leg. As I am soon to have my shoulder rasped and remolded, I may be in need of one, a shoulder, not a leg, myself. I have two well-appointed legs, each with it’s own foot, ankle, instep, sole and arch. It is important that one differentiate between a sole, which is attached to the nether of a foot, which is attached to a leg, and a soul, which is neither nor exists at all, to the best of my knowledge, which is scanty and agnostic at best.
Another day drawn screaming to a close, such is living, so it seems. My computer is fucked, more so, quite fucked. It makes an arrears of noises and bolos, many of which sound more like a drowning corpse gasping one last rail of air before a watery internment, than a Turing machine. Headgear (Martin, dearest Martin, SS and 3rdR) was right, perhaps not; but then again no one ever is right, or wrong, for that matter. All is conjecture and ill manners, never a ratio-eccentricity beyond reproof or worth the bother of counting or recounting. No even I, a turmeric savant, would give it the bother or wherewithal. My mouse is in arrears, quite so in fact. The good bashing I gave it must have loosened up the thingamajig, more so, fucked it beyond repair. I will ferret out the old one and see if I can make do, if not, fuck it, I will not give it a second thought and be done with the damnable cunt. Time to retire and sleep the sleep of the somnolent and bandy-legged. Such is my Sodom and Lot in life; savant or not, such is such, or so I have come to learn. Gods’night and all clear.
Another day drawn screaming to a close, such is living, so it seems. My computer is fucked, more so, quite fucked. It makes an arrears of noises and bolos, many of which sound more like a drowning corpse gasping one last rail of air before a watery internment, than a Turing machine. Headgear (Martin, dearest Martin, SS and 3rdR) was right, perhaps not; but then again no one ever is right, or wrong, for that matter. All is conjecture and ill manners, never a ratio-eccentricity beyond reproof or worth the bother of counting or recounting. No even I, a turmeric savant, would give it the bother or wherewithal. My mouse is in arrears, quite so in fact. The good bashing I gave it must have loosened up the thingamajig, more so, fucked it beyond repair. I will ferret out the old one and see if I can make do, if not, fuck it, I will not give it a second thought and be done with the damnable cunt. Time to retire and sleep the sleep of the somnolent and bandy-legged. Such is my Sodom and Lot in life; savant or not, such is such, or so I have come to learn. Gods’night and all clear.
(Aug 05. 05)
I am back fetching ads, which are then copied onto reams of whitest white paper, then inputted into a Turing machine, then Xeroxed onto sheaths of newsprint, and finally bundled in hastily baled bales. Such is my rot in life. For the time being, time, as you know, having very little to do with anything other than rotting and decomposition, I will fetch and parry and keep my mouth shut. As if I was to open it (agape) I would no doubt incur a most pernicious lashing from pirates and cutthroats, cunts the lot of ‘em. Now James, even though he was patched of eye and stigmatic, was not nor ever a simpering ass-Fuqua, far from it. But as I say nothing, or very little, what I say is of little import. I am a common man, not a man of commonalties or bad manners. At least to the best of my knowledge, which is negligible at best. Gods’night cunts and cutthroats, and my your ass cinch up into the hunch of your shoulders.
Its is three thirty Amerindian on a Saturday morning, yet I am still up and skulking in the rumor of my thoughts, as one with too few or too many is inclined to do. OCD advents such thoughtlessness, even when thinking, or cognition, as the mind-origamists are prone to intenerating, is of no purpose, rhyme or reasonableness. Then again (anon) what has reasonableness got to do with anything, or nothing, for that matter (mutter)? I dare say I, of all persons, would know, or, for that matter, care to know. Perhaps I will tenant sleep and be done with this unreasonable nonsense. But perhaps not, or never. One more 100% pure tobacco cigarette handcrafted by the Seneca Cayuga Tribe and off to sleep, for the time being, time, of course, having very little to do with anything, especially sleep. Gods’night again you lousy cunts.
(Aug 06. 05)
Today will be a day devoted to staving, in whichever and whatever forms it should take. Staving, as you know, is unlike slaving, though etiologically similar in appearances and concord. (Not the grape, but the appearance and simulacra of a grape). A bitter bright morning sky drowning in it’s own misgivings and bad manners. Who gives a Lord’s fuck, certain not I, as I have staving and trounces to attend to, not word-smiting and bad mannerisms. Those we will leave to the feint of faint, and those with lactose red scabs on the portals of their lips. Slaking cunts the lot of ‘em.
(Aug 07. 05)
A Talmud white sky, nary a cloud or pox in sight, gods’ be thanked and all cleared. I, as is the case, have arisen from a middling sleep, eyes two crust holes scarping the chasm of my nose. As for my hearing, I will leave that to Odysseus, lashed and tethered to masthead, deafened with paraffin, tallow and apiaries’ wax.
I neither pull up nor gasp
(for air)
As drowning is more forgiving
I am back fetching ads, which are then copied onto reams of whitest white paper, then inputted into a Turing machine, then Xeroxed onto sheaths of newsprint, and finally bundled in hastily baled bales. Such is my rot in life. For the time being, time, as you know, having very little to do with anything other than rotting and decomposition, I will fetch and parry and keep my mouth shut. As if I was to open it (agape) I would no doubt incur a most pernicious lashing from pirates and cutthroats, cunts the lot of ‘em. Now James, even though he was patched of eye and stigmatic, was not nor ever a simpering ass-Fuqua, far from it. But as I say nothing, or very little, what I say is of little import. I am a common man, not a man of commonalties or bad manners. At least to the best of my knowledge, which is negligible at best. Gods’night cunts and cutthroats, and my your ass cinch up into the hunch of your shoulders.
Its is three thirty Amerindian on a Saturday morning, yet I am still up and skulking in the rumor of my thoughts, as one with too few or too many is inclined to do. OCD advents such thoughtlessness, even when thinking, or cognition, as the mind-origamists are prone to intenerating, is of no purpose, rhyme or reasonableness. Then again (anon) what has reasonableness got to do with anything, or nothing, for that matter (mutter)? I dare say I, of all persons, would know, or, for that matter, care to know. Perhaps I will tenant sleep and be done with this unreasonable nonsense. But perhaps not, or never. One more 100% pure tobacco cigarette handcrafted by the Seneca Cayuga Tribe and off to sleep, for the time being, time, of course, having very little to do with anything, especially sleep. Gods’night again you lousy cunts.
(Aug 06. 05)
Today will be a day devoted to staving, in whichever and whatever forms it should take. Staving, as you know, is unlike slaving, though etiologically similar in appearances and concord. (Not the grape, but the appearance and simulacra of a grape). A bitter bright morning sky drowning in it’s own misgivings and bad manners. Who gives a Lord’s fuck, certain not I, as I have staving and trounces to attend to, not word-smiting and bad mannerisms. Those we will leave to the feint of faint, and those with lactose red scabs on the portals of their lips. Slaking cunts the lot of ‘em.
(Aug 07. 05)
A Talmud white sky, nary a cloud or pox in sight, gods’ be thanked and all cleared. I, as is the case, have arisen from a middling sleep, eyes two crust holes scarping the chasm of my nose. As for my hearing, I will leave that to Odysseus, lashed and tethered to masthead, deafened with paraffin, tallow and apiaries’ wax.
I neither pull up nor gasp
(for air)
As drowning is more forgiving
When pockets are weighed down with stones
Not gods
(or tomfoolery)
Not gods
(or tomfoolery)
A mouthful of Liffey and brown frothing Guinness, a rasher of skillet-fried kidney (or sweetbreads) then a busted nose and a sharp stick stuck in the eye. Fucking glory be told, I am not as mindful of my manners as would first appear, more, for that matter, as free of tomfoolery as I would like. I must get on with the day, what little is salvageable or worth the bother, and see what I can make of myself, or not, I suppose.
Or not, I supposed, as I accomplished nothing more than onersim, laundry and a worsening of bad manners. Clods’ night and all clear, as its time for sleep, jimmy legging and Ratman’s dreams. I should be so lucky, as in his dreams and rebuses I would at least find comfort, good manners and cheese.
(Aug 10. 05)
Twelve years today I awoke from unsettled dreams on a hospital bed in the detoxification Centro on Brier Street. I was one day free of alcohol. Now I am many days free though hobbled and unsettled in many other ways. If Kafka had been an alcoholic and not a tubercular Oedipus, he’d have certainly been my mentor and almsman. As he was not, to the best of my and Max Brood’s knowledge, I am simply a aberration to an otherwise romantic notion of literary alcoholic Fiefdom. So be it, so.
(Aug 11. 05)
A skunk hole of a day, trouble footed and not worth the bother or care. I will see what is to been seen and watched and get on with the day, bothersome or not, and tend to what is to be tended and conceived of.
(Aug 13. 05)
This is a no man’s land, a scullery of miss-thoughts and tired notions.
(Aug 15. 05)
I should be abed pluming my way to a late sleep. But as I am not, but rather sit here writing this dross and fecal, I see no reason to hurry into the nightmare of reason that Kafka dreaded each and every waking moment. How to avoid the dread, a question I ask myself all too often, sadly enough. Sleep is useless, as it encourages dreaming which encourages hatreds and misjudgments. Hatreds I could do with, misjudgments I cannot. To misjudge is to miscue, and to miscue is to encourage dread and more dread, and dreadfulness curries neither favor nor alms. Now you see the predicament, a no man’s land of bad judgments and miscues. I have had enough; I haven’t had anything at all. Time for bed and a reprieve from it all. Fuck you and the horse you roan in on. I’ve had more than enough for one day, more than more. Good night you dreadful cunt dreadfulness.
Or not, I supposed, as I accomplished nothing more than onersim, laundry and a worsening of bad manners. Clods’ night and all clear, as its time for sleep, jimmy legging and Ratman’s dreams. I should be so lucky, as in his dreams and rebuses I would at least find comfort, good manners and cheese.
(Aug 10. 05)
Twelve years today I awoke from unsettled dreams on a hospital bed in the detoxification Centro on Brier Street. I was one day free of alcohol. Now I am many days free though hobbled and unsettled in many other ways. If Kafka had been an alcoholic and not a tubercular Oedipus, he’d have certainly been my mentor and almsman. As he was not, to the best of my and Max Brood’s knowledge, I am simply a aberration to an otherwise romantic notion of literary alcoholic Fiefdom. So be it, so.
(Aug 11. 05)
A skunk hole of a day, trouble footed and not worth the bother or care. I will see what is to been seen and watched and get on with the day, bothersome or not, and tend to what is to be tended and conceived of.
(Aug 13. 05)
This is a no man’s land, a scullery of miss-thoughts and tired notions.
(Aug 15. 05)
I should be abed pluming my way to a late sleep. But as I am not, but rather sit here writing this dross and fecal, I see no reason to hurry into the nightmare of reason that Kafka dreaded each and every waking moment. How to avoid the dread, a question I ask myself all too often, sadly enough. Sleep is useless, as it encourages dreaming which encourages hatreds and misjudgments. Hatreds I could do with, misjudgments I cannot. To misjudge is to miscue, and to miscue is to encourage dread and more dread, and dreadfulness curries neither favor nor alms. Now you see the predicament, a no man’s land of bad judgments and miscues. I have had enough; I haven’t had anything at all. Time for bed and a reprieve from it all. Fuck you and the horse you roan in on. I’ve had more than enough for one day, more than more. Good night you dreadful cunt dreadfulness.
No comments:
Post a Comment