Jan 2016
i find looking at my library that reaches the ceiling
more entertaining that watching television,
to be honest i prefer watching inanimate things
more than those caught up in animation,
my memory becomes the film's director,
and my imagination the producer,
while many personae come on stage with my thought.*
woke up lazy, usual me, unusual me
when i think about it,
going to a catholic school we had to adorn
catholic school uniform,
blazer, tie, polished shoes, trousers,
white shirt...
i liked it back then: i have one specific sunrise
in winter to remember, having just
discovered jethro tull's aqualung album
when the mojo music magazine was still
in print and they listed the top 50 prog rock albums,
obviously the no. 1 spot was reserved for
pink floyd's dark side of the moon,
don't know why king crimson didn't win,
i guess the complexity of the matter didn't have the appeal,
but it was good, wearing school uniform,
having two / three days of your own clothes days
once you coughed up a quid or two for charity,
the point being... you can't tell rich from poor
if there's a specified attire... plus there's less clingy
exceptions to be made, less imagination involved,
less care for having to pick your next attire the previous
day to impress someone, less discrimination altogether,
as those non-uniform days proved:
a maths teacher said i looked like a lumberjack once,
mr. crickmore, ex-trader on the f.t.s.e. floor,
turned maths teacher, supporter of manchester city,
so i was wearing a three coloured chequered shirt
(blue, red and white), jeans (obviously blue)
and red converse... lumberjack he said... fair enough,
but the dim truth of it all is that reality is dull
off the catwalk, less creativity of cloth, it's more about
comfort, as i found when i decided to do a fox fur trick:
become like those inanimate things just a little,
be more peculiar and attentive when something changes,
starting from the digit 1, and then expanding into
a sequence we call phenomena - so i liked wearing
school uniform, i was, after all, enlisted into an army of
jesuit youth... although i rebelled having read a book
about heresy (mainly the gnostics) and didn't want to be
confirmed, and wasn't; but there's less discriminatory
behaviour if everyone wears the same all year round
and there's no peacock days involved -
and subsequently the days of my prime schooling
are remembered with less regret, and less adults
exploiting a semi-fact of how **** it was and moaning
and moaning about it just in order to sell it to gullible youth.
but today?
woke up, lazy as hell, the c.d. i put on to fall asleep to
was obviously finished, turned the radio on,
classic f.m., had to hear something breezy and airy
without larynx that the violins are, not to mention
the woodwinds, and the news, had to hear that,
the toilet was too far away (not really),
two bottles of coca cola, one almost empty,
urinated into it, ******* the cap, fell back to bed,
lay there for about half an hour, news came, heard it,
got up... made cinnamon coffee smoked a few in between
my "tuberculosis" coughs (it's minus 4 degrees in the nights,
i drink a few bottle of beer on the trot, hence the coughing),
had about 3/4 of a bottle of whiskey left,
went back and turned on a few compact disks (
i know, i was born too late to collect black vinyl 12", oh well,
80s silver craze), poured 1/4 of the whiskey over ice,
and instead of pouring the other coca cola's bottle content,
i didn't realise i was pouring something in
that, upon opening didn't fizz... AH ****!
yep, mixed 1/4 of whiskey with my own ****...
had to pour it away... but what a waste!
after that it was all downhill... made a tikka masala curry,
adding sweet mango chutney to a list of ingredients
too long to remember...
and upon my usual walk for ***** a strange thing
happened in the supermarket...
a gorgeous late 40s woman cashier inquired about my hands,
the longbow man's V to the french bandaged,
and whether my hands were cold... something
about buying muttons...
you see, i once wrote that the most ****** part of a woman's
body are her hands... ... ...
she was ****** flirting with me!
in my head a few minutes after it sounded like:
put your cold cold hands onto the warmest parts of my body...
as i said also, once: when a woman becomes erotically
pulverised the temp. in her mouth drops,
and the temp. in her... ahem... increases; juices flowing.
more entertaining that watching television,
to be honest i prefer watching inanimate things
more than those caught up in animation,
my memory becomes the film's director,
and my imagination the producer,
while many personae come on stage with my thought.*
woke up lazy, usual me, unusual me
when i think about it,
going to a catholic school we had to adorn
catholic school uniform,
blazer, tie, polished shoes, trousers,
white shirt...
i liked it back then: i have one specific sunrise
in winter to remember, having just
discovered jethro tull's aqualung album
when the mojo music magazine was still
in print and they listed the top 50 prog rock albums,
obviously the no. 1 spot was reserved for
pink floyd's dark side of the moon,
don't know why king crimson didn't win,
i guess the complexity of the matter didn't have the appeal,
but it was good, wearing school uniform,
having two / three days of your own clothes days
once you coughed up a quid or two for charity,
the point being... you can't tell rich from poor
if there's a specified attire... plus there's less clingy
exceptions to be made, less imagination involved,
less care for having to pick your next attire the previous
day to impress someone, less discrimination altogether,
as those non-uniform days proved:
a maths teacher said i looked like a lumberjack once,
mr. crickmore, ex-trader on the f.t.s.e. floor,
turned maths teacher, supporter of manchester city,
so i was wearing a three coloured chequered shirt
(blue, red and white), jeans (obviously blue)
and red converse... lumberjack he said... fair enough,
but the dim truth of it all is that reality is dull
off the catwalk, less creativity of cloth, it's more about
comfort, as i found when i decided to do a fox fur trick:
become like those inanimate things just a little,
be more peculiar and attentive when something changes,
starting from the digit 1, and then expanding into
a sequence we call phenomena - so i liked wearing
school uniform, i was, after all, enlisted into an army of
jesuit youth... although i rebelled having read a book
about heresy (mainly the gnostics) and didn't want to be
confirmed, and wasn't; but there's less discriminatory
behaviour if everyone wears the same all year round
and there's no peacock days involved -
and subsequently the days of my prime schooling
are remembered with less regret, and less adults
exploiting a semi-fact of how **** it was and moaning
and moaning about it just in order to sell it to gullible youth.
but today?
woke up, lazy as hell, the c.d. i put on to fall asleep to
was obviously finished, turned the radio on,
classic f.m., had to hear something breezy and airy
without larynx that the violins are, not to mention
the woodwinds, and the news, had to hear that,
the toilet was too far away (not really),
two bottles of coca cola, one almost empty,
urinated into it, ******* the cap, fell back to bed,
lay there for about half an hour, news came, heard it,
got up... made cinnamon coffee smoked a few in between
my "tuberculosis" coughs (it's minus 4 degrees in the nights,
i drink a few bottle of beer on the trot, hence the coughing),
had about 3/4 of a bottle of whiskey left,
went back and turned on a few compact disks (
i know, i was born too late to collect black vinyl 12", oh well,
80s silver craze), poured 1/4 of the whiskey over ice,
and instead of pouring the other coca cola's bottle content,
i didn't realise i was pouring something in
that, upon opening didn't fizz... AH ****!
yep, mixed 1/4 of whiskey with my own ****...
had to pour it away... but what a waste!
after that it was all downhill... made a tikka masala curry,
adding sweet mango chutney to a list of ingredients
too long to remember...
and upon my usual walk for ***** a strange thing
happened in the supermarket...
a gorgeous late 40s woman cashier inquired about my hands,
the longbow man's V to the french bandaged,
and whether my hands were cold... something
about buying muttons...
you see, i once wrote that the most ****** part of a woman's
body are her hands... ... ...
she was ****** flirting with me!
in my head a few minutes after it sounded like:
put your cold cold hands onto the warmest parts of my body...
as i said also, once: when a woman becomes erotically
pulverised the temp. in her mouth drops,
and the temp. in her... ahem... increases; juices flowing.
