another sober day, and another day spent gardening,
trimming hedges, forming bulbs from shrubs,
only yesterday i cut a 7ft tree to a hardly seen stump,
today the weeds got the treatment, while a
strange cohort of bees were flying under the decking
with pollen pouches attached to their hind legs,
a little colony, rebellious bees that escaped from
a beer keeper - all of this attached to a hope for a new
rigour: a new year or new techniques, an invested
in the discourse between Dionysian and Apollonian
poetics - only because it annoyed me that the man
who invented this conceptualisation actually thought
Goethe's poetry was the latter... the man died like a
patriarch in a bed, apparently uttering the words:
more light! he enjoyed the latter's rigour, a statesman
and a respected member of the established...
so long have i wished to remember how i wrote sober,
but there's an ulterior reason... i can't be left
with scraps of £9.00 as a bank account,
here's the arithmetic:
                      monday, wednesday,
                      friday, sunday -
                      £11.00 x 4 = £44.00
                      carton of romanian cigarettes
                      £4.00 x 10 = £40.00
                      a weekly saving of ~£50.00
                      (give or take)...
an hour with a girl: £110.00, entry fee for
the madam £10.00...
                                   how many weeks is that
to save up for the pleasure?
let's call it an even month of saving up...
i just remember that one time i was walking from
a pub tipsy... the rumbling in my stomach
was so great, it weren't butterflies in there...
honey bees! 10 metres from the brothel entrance...
diarrhoea... i **** myself from excitement...
i took the seat of shame on the bus, squid of ****
in my trousers, then a cab home with the cabbie
being polite enough to not mention the smell...
that was one time... it's what i learnt about
England and the "roses" of Devon and Stratford-upon-Avon...
cold like the lions of Trafalgar Sq., i've been living
here TWENTY TWO YEARS... guess what?
NEVER HAD AN ENGLISH BIRD...
i must really look like Quasimodo or something, anyway:
you just have to learn to compromise, a healthy
appetite for the carnal in youth - because who really
dreams of wrinkly lechery? even the brothel girls
said that to... one just said: 'who'd want to **** old men?
not me!'