i don't exactly remember how i read j. joyce's finnegans wake, but i read it, that grand interpretation of premature dementia of his daughter, never read it aloud, but i read it, and maybe that made me skew into some sort of symbolism, the attempt to capture too any sounds, perhaps all sounds, and enclose them in inexact onomatopoeias written down - dyslexia and excess spelling - indeed, once your intended creativity disappears, you begin to become entrenched with the few original ideas you had - then you begin to repeat yourself, crafting tombstones of your mind - so many shared lives, so few given a grand grave of being entombed in a familial grave.

difficult books, like Ezra's cantos i read in
uncomfortable positions,
usually on the windowsill, in a pseudo-akimbo
of a turk, one leg tangling the other under
my buttocks -
it eased the eyes to become eager and spur
the reading fascination on -
i'm not really a book worm as such,
i had six beers with me,
i climbed the hill leading unto the Essex
village of Havering-atte-Bower,
drank, smoked cigarettes, finished off
the 2 remaining cantos -
see, for a man i could do this,
a man who wrote a book...
i could never do such a thing for a woman
who'd written something...
it's called the brotherhood, otherwise
a marriage would have taken place -
once i reached the peak of the hill leading
to the village, a slight drizzle -
but it didn't escalate into a thundercloud,
thank you;
so i sat there, first watching traffic and smoking
and then started to annihilate the Pisan cantos...
on the horizon that old torture rack
near the roundabout - the *stocks,
behind me a church... a thief only walks through
a village once as a free man, indeed, then
clamped into the stocks... more than feet,
hands and feet... the church behind me...
cursing the cross / spine like that...
they still have the stocks in this village...
a husband and two girls were inspecting it
trying to find a culprit to make an example of
how the contraption worked...
i told you how it worked... then one villager
emerged from a house with a little blonde boy
to play football, kicked the ball high up intending
for it to land on my head - he apparently shouted
'heads!' - but because of headphones i didn't hear it,
it missed, then he tried to apologise -
after i finished the cantos i wished him a good day -
****** - you ever see that video with two idiots
playing about with a basketball in Trafalgar Sq.
and they bounced the ball against this huge gorilla's head?
you know what the gorilla did after the two idiots
tried to hush the "joke"? he got a glass bottle
and smashed it against one of the idiot's head... ha ha.
funny now, oh much more funnier than that
basketball trick... plump pluck of a plum...
boom... on the pavement, a Mike Tyson moment...
(yes, and by comparison, i'm a ******* albino chimpanze)
once finished i plucked a camomile flower
from the village lawn, put it at the end of
the Pisan cantos... give it a month and the
camomile will be mummified... dried out...
books are better than the intended pyramids...
you can mummify flowers using books,
give it a month and the flower will be dried out;
walking down the hill took a scenic route
listening to little birds and woodpeckers via
https://goo.gl/1eU4zB (the wooden fence proves
the route is inhabited by footprints from time to time).