.*note to self: to make the perfect hungarian goulash, for ever capsicum pepper used, use a romano (sweet) pepper... bay leaf, allspice... pristine pork... no need for chicken stock... decently sizzled lard trimmings (from the pork)... a generous amount of garlic to balance the onions... chilli... and... a 2 : 1 ratio of paprika to smoked paprika powder: cooked generously for an hour+ having poured water into the mixture and some tomato purée... a decent cut of carrot and root parsley... and then... only then: the chopped tomatoes... salt to taste... fresh parlsey on top; yes, served on a massive hash brown (raw potatoes, grated, egg, flour, salt), with a sidedish of coleslaw... come to think of it: no... why would you add nutmeg to the sauce?
nicht ist mehr?
nicht ist noch -
a cough of Ernst Bloch:
and there i was thinking:
where does Franz Marc (blues horses)
and Kandinsky ever begin?
precursor to:
postcard poetry -
i'll watch me a painting and invent,
rather, succumb to: phenomenalism -
what with the senses already dimmed,
blunted to b & w and bad deutzsche grammar?*
walking through the mess of yesterday's town,
i couldn't but succumb to the allure
of a thought:
a thought that resurfaced just about
when i finished my going-to-bed-routine:
smoked a cigarette,
did the no. 1 & the no. 2 &
jerked off on the toilet,
smoked another cigarette,
drank a glass of water with
the prescription,
dressed myself in pajamas,
closed the blinds,
closed the window,
put on the headphones -
put on a horror movie soundtrack,
switched off the light,
lay myself in bed:
toiled in it for an hour...
hyper-excited by the prospect of
heading to central London
to pick out a cabbage vinyl..
ate a piece of chocolate in the dark,
followed by a decent gulp of water...
fell asleep...
but prior: in between - the allure of
the thought:
self-worth attached to certains
jobs...
and... how else to expand on this?
i reckon i'll write as much a decent
verse in the morning with
a coffee: than i will ever
(constipated) get out of a nightly
session with a bottle of amber-glug...
if only i was so desperate as to have
written some of this prior to
closing my eyes:
exposing my eyes
to the insomnia glue
of a brightly lit screen of
a brain-harvester...
comparison:
no one would really care to think
of a street cleaner as important...
well... for me:
if i could be a street
cleaner: i could have all the legs
and recycling heavens' wheels of
fortune to: blah-blah this sort of
wordings...
walking yesterday
through town i noticed two of them...
clean streets...
what could be more important than
clean streets?
dirty streets for rats...
but i could never...
never count a barista to be a barrister:
yet both could cite you
some sort of philosophy:
one would cite you something from
jurisprudence,
the other something from
what pedants discuss in an opera
prior to the curtain fall...
yet with a barista?
a strange hyper-inflated membrane
of self-worth:
noticed in a supermarket cashier,
noticed in a ekspedientka (saleswoman)
ekspedient (salesman)...
the more trivial the job becomes:
the more self-worth buds under
the surface: with no ulterior outlet beyond
the role...
like this shawl of glass full of
water: having more water poured into it...
(god, this looked better in my head):
how much self-worth permeates
from the face of a street-cleaner?
zilch...
ah... but how much of "something"
permeates from you walking
down a clean street:
indifferently -
you'll hardly think yourself
as garbage: staring at the blank canvas
of pavement...
yet the barista?
it's as if he knows:
i've just put on a kettle, boiled some water,
squeezed some coffee...
ergo? i have to "look" important!
the street cleaner?
do i really have to "look" important?
i know this is important:
what? whatever the hell i'm doing.
or at least that's how the narrative goes...
in my little head on my little planet
of cycling upside-down apes...
the more trivial a job:
the more self-worth needs to permeate
from the person given
a function, which, otherwise:
would conscript disdain...
the camouflaged workforce...
self-evident:
walking past a bank...
wait... weren't there 6 cubicles
here with cashiers?
em... self-service?
imagine that!
sooner or later
there will be talk of
the self-:
not being a philosophical curiosity,
rather a study of the past,
or the reaching out attachment prosthetic
of revealing a dead someone
a dead former profession...
crux hyphen:
i'm already part employed
as a supermarket cashier,
i'm already a bank cashier...
nothing new: auto-cue:
propagandist line, skewed news...
but there's still the blatant glare of
the staring match (and the missing E
starring - and the missing macron
on top of A in the latter) -
a láte(!) lātte -
rhythm (caffèlat) - cough-la-la-'t:
hey, scribble here, scribble there,
you hear it in English all the time,
the ever pertinent question:
how do you say that?
measure metres in inches
in: metric syllables no good...
'ave to git beck tou d' imperial...
yes: and because Dickens...
really really, wrote just any better
schlang than anglo-saxon Idaho...
self-worth: volumptous in certain
instances in public:
the same self-worth attached to...
would you really want
to have your shoes-polished
with your feet in the shoes?
i wouldn't...
trivial bollocks,
i know... but such is the beast of
self-worth disguising the trivial
nature of certain professions...
where would be the Wall St. broker
without a shoe-shiner?
boy oh boy: on the same dirt road:
shoeshine is that thick splodge
of canvas worth a twinkle 'ere,
a twinkle o' 'er...
airy-fairy: bottom's up and
flaky in the visage of the pompous
boston alto horn of
a Parisian kelner...
bulging mass: bloated larynx:
puff poof: the three piglets and
the asthmatic bad wolf...
quick... untangle me from this language!
i have a no-nonsense person
to speak to later:
and i can't be bound to
this metaphor Dali allure;
literally a square is a square,
red is red,
and escapism only in
a prosaic paragraph;
this hardly compensates
even the bare scraps of what is
a work of ethic of...
an ant.