between too much wine
and a sensible glass
of whiskey -
  just two cigarettes -
    and in bed by midnight...
   (suppose i too hope in vain
and better lie to myself)

i only came across
   Balakirev because i was
reading
a Tomas Tranströmer
poem...
i didn't like it...
   Balakirev...
          somehow i quickly
found...
something more
to my taste...
Cesar Cui -
     kaleidoscope for
violin & piano (op. 50) -
but i haven't
heard of him prior...

tomorrow
i'll look up the rest
of them:
charles ives,
        john j. becker,
  wallingford riegger,
henry cowell,
  carl ruggles...
   all who i haven't heard of
before...

but that i have
heard of Rimsky-Korsakov
and Borodin
and... well who hasn't heard
of modest "night on bald
    mountain" mussorgsky
  (but only because
of that)
well.. looks like beside
cesar cui i have
heard of 80% of
    something:
  obviously not the entire
opus just like
i wouldn't expect...
    something or other...
it's terrible to write this
autobiographical
sketch...

   it would be so much
more to have the "time"
(patience?)
   to throw out
the television...
   starve myself from
this canvas of bypassing
editorial scrutiny
and listen to a good hour
or so of BBC Radio 3...
esp. on a saturday
at circa 10pm - 12am -

no... this is not
terrible important...
          it might be a vanity project
p.s. / n.b. or...
            
    sensible: enough
of tamnavulin by timid glug
until i get a hint
of

      (a) nose: a whiff
   of apple or toffee or honey
with marzipan / marmalade

(b) palate:
      mellow pear, creamy peaches
pineapple and some
demerara sugar...

      i'm no connoisseur:
   so i doubt whether or not
i'll pinch any of these supposed
rejoices of budding...

it's also not that terrible
that somehow i end up writing
about reading -

i'll slither into the bed
and end up claiming the constellations
with the same
predictability of: earphones
and Christopher Young's
Hellraiser soundtrack
(1 and 2)...

             so much for writing about
love and women
and "ideals"...
when i'm the one about
to cocoon myself with
a horror movie soundtrack
to nod off to...

it's not so terrible...
it's impossible to have to sleep
with anyone -
i tried to entertain sleeping
with a cat...
on the side... on a folded
arm...

         it's this seriousness
of a placebo-solipsism with
all the freedoms and...
well... routines...
       in fiction it might be
deemed a penalty to
be denied the chance
to father children...

i've seen it in the park:
men who invest in their children
hoping they might
become footballers... etc.,

terrible business... having children...
probably marriage to:
i suppose Frankenstein's monster
could find better outlets
to moan his existential qualms
over than: that i might
subscribe to mating...
courtship...
            
               i doubt i might enjoy
a Cesar Cui orchestral suite...
or that Beethoven could get away
with writing something
for only piano and violins...

it's not terribly important...
give it enough time and enough
monotony of the sea -
give it enough stubborn mountains
and enough...
of anything as highly sexed-up
as an insect's life-cycle...

        how else to pursue
life: the most belittling grandiosity
escaped (from time to time)
thus gravitation to
something resembling
   an automated purposiveness
of "veneer" of self-importance...

it's comforting that
     so little can be lived for
the purpose of solo -
i'm starting to appreciate
this little of everything...
probably more than it
could ever be allowed...

          it's absolutely necessary
to feel intact
at some point
    having to disappoint
death as the method statement...
and all that
without towing along
any homosexuality:

        for all its worth
an *** like Porsche leather /
peaches... **** like
a marathon milking "project":
yes, that all these prods
are intact: yet not
necessarily invested in...

         it would be enough
to master this supposed state
of "cowering"...
not having to invest in so much
expectation for others:
the most gentle variation
of apathy:
whenever breaking into
a trainee / novice critique
of an aesthetic -
an aesthetic that comes
as unconsciously as
a heartbeat /
bowel movements as:
music on first impressions...

how life can be made simple
is probably a focus
on a peacock's tail
of biases...
           without a clarifying
imperative...
it's not that important
to have an argument...

  notably:
if duality is animate...
  then a dichotomy is inanimate...
i want to burn orange
until it becomes brown...
nothing: concretely -

to listen to violins like it might
be an imitation
of a scuttling mouse -
or an itching scarecrow...

thought:
would it be best to curate
a cure for an itch by...
  scratching the sore inch diameter
or... pinch it away?

quirk... no... not here...
no thank you...
some things have to remain sensible:
i.e. a life lived
without having digested a
self-help book...
     3 years spent reading
a philosophy book: on & off...
between other books...

somehow always finding oneself
a persona non grata
when listening to a video
on: "self-help"...
             my self-help mantra?
placebo-solipsism...

the drifting in and out of:
off solipsism...
the eloquent quench of:
if by thought you could denote
either thirst or hunger...

i think i've settled all my
moral ought(s)...
          taboo: none, really:
i thought -
         ought i?
      i ought: thought, i...
    because of this punctuation...
like jazz and jigsaw
puzzles...
   or playing chess on
   houndstooth print...
(hahnentritt in german...
                          pepitka in ******)

the best cigarette is:
when it's smoked half away through...
extinguished...
then relit and...
      all that tangy smog...
and almost wet newspaper take
on: if hue could be a taste...

if rain could be fathomed
as sparkling i.e. carbonated water...
all this and so many
unimportant events in a life
that are never to be riddled
with a grandiosity of
children... labyrinth a tool too:
Mr. Minotaur...

there's curating the eyes
when the snow is falling
in a cemetery at night...
in the nearest convenience
of a star: via replica...
there's this ugly-beauty of
it being associated with indigestion
and sickly-sweetness -

there's also a memory
of childhood and... cotton-candy
and a stump that
was... but never really was:
a "pretend" throne...

as of yet i'm still bothered as to
how / why...
subjectivity is deemed
something / somehow less
than... the zenith that's a nadir
that's objectivity that's
the encyclopedic
             trivia / pub quiz
  regurgitation after regurgitation
of c.c.t.v. sat-nav *******
squeezing: juice-ups -
tease of tangy - not borrowed
from Irene a tangerine... etc.

such that:
i am subjected to...
willingly or not...
more things and "things"
than...
i am subjected to
the queen of england...
because of rain
i have to loan a mushroom
for an umbrella...
objectively:
****** weather...
subjectively...
it's not a science or a pet-peeve
project of regurgitating
sharpening objects...
that subjectivity is somehow
less than objectivity...
that there's this "magical"
right, objective cursor...
                  
i am subjected to much more
than what...: and because
objectivity will not allow
certain facets of the bare minimum
of a lived life...
how subjectivity is less
than objectivity is only
a gimmick for
how rhetoric is conducted...

      i am subjected to:
always the case...
given... how many instances
are there where: i object to...
      it's no less no more...

  for example:
eating an apple... objectively...
well...
but being subjected to:
a desire for an apple...
that's the whole sigma carousel
of intrinsic "paraphrasing"

last "thing" i want is
to be objective and of a "sound mind"...
via regurgitating facts...
by being a factoid surf:
any other noun and all
the misnomers available...

horrid world when seeing
a subject-object dichotomy...
                  notably: via rhetoric...
a language trap...
with it: all the sour notes...
even if it were the most fine
of a whiskey...
roughage...
   creases and bones...
                words like a cascade...

via a memory of a maxim:
Wittgenstein on the concept of
a thesaurus -
                            quiz me sore as
sorry: tautology...
otherwise a lessening in eloquence...
otherwise simpler:
a crimson burgundy -
   a red red...
if i were being honest
and i pinched a robe
of a bishop...
from a purple a blush of
cherry... vinegar (&) Bolshevik...
balsamic to allocate
the vinegar...
and working: auf:
           on the note of colour...

you know what might have
happened if a
Zukofsky talked alongside
a John Berryman...
                because it's so impossible
to be human...
to be human in the mediocre
range without
being either Cain or Abel
or Jesus to be
this drop of salt and ivory
and stink...
  to be human as regrettably:
no offense:
lived part and parcel...
  something to do
with electricians and
bus-drivers...
something authentic /
predictable...
then again:
if i were to be the sort
of corrosive juice
on the collective memory
fabric where
Elvis sits pretty...

                 getting better
at something doesn't help...
ask Samuel Little...
i guess he did come to late
for the whole 20th century
bonanza of celebrating
the offspring(s) of Cain...
        now for the king rat
and the art of scuttling toward...
if they get me post mortem...
only then...
sooner i with half a loaf
and enough pigeons
to **** on Trafalgar silly...
more blitzed up than...
a 1940s milkshake
of the Loon-do'un skyline...

that might pass on the name of
a Henry Neele...
        not that it might matter
for him... most certainly not for me...

that the 20th century is:
beside (having been) a lived...
this long exhausted: lineage of life:
"something" within
the confines of events...
otherwise just plain dandy
eventuality -
that pursued no:
clarity, clarity of judgement...
if was the biggest ask...

it overcame the i
he was lost to they...
me was never a my
who troubled
      this when and this how
and via sober
asked: who's who...
                 wafer tug at
the tragicomic tool of...
a face like a mask...
contorting the imbecile
toward....              a harvest
of sieved i.q. points...

    too profound i.e. not expected...
i suppose i might vote...
this whittle doodle o' mine:
   is that scrutiny of
forward 'inking.