when i start drinking i know that i have to start writing
after a few beers in, before the woman of my life Whitney
(i call her that, not Jack or Jim,
what, boys call feminise their guitars -
i have Whitney - auburn skinned and easy, as in
fluid - so before Whitney enters my dietary requirements
i have to write something - that thingy mag-jig
when someone is in a critical condition - in a life or
death scenario - that's me also - although i'm there
not between life and death, but within lost onomatopoeia(s)
of knock knock who's there jokes - but the dissatisfaction
with things - i need to encrypt - reinvent Persian
poetics - keep my mouth shut - see into the yet to come
sunrise - so few poets can actually make you feel
what they feel, poetry is plagued with prompting too
many others - why is poetry the most accessible art-form
and the least satisfying? i gather because it's mostly
unread, and easily prompting others to write it -
the other Pandora - let's just call her a faking Libra -
only in poetry does production of it outweigh
the profits reaped from it - people read little poetry
but write a lot of poetry - because it's the cheap-***
art - esp. in the pixel age of Beelzebub eye's
somehow all those shrapnel windows coordinating a
one-on-one vision - poetry is cheap, hence so many
adherents to practice it - yet so few to perfect it,
or if not perfecting it, at least adventurous and
gambling alike to hold fast to it's tornado essence -
the line: make it personal, but not too personal -
it's as if you had a life outside of poetry... you don't,
stark naked in Eden - and nowhere else, soon and if
applauded for such gesture you'll find less and less
people wanting to attach to you for your "private" life
exposures - if shame can be a Pakistani infused novel
by Salman Rushdie, then it can't be a western poem,
because fate of such weaving is de facto lost, forever,
people basically like their perversity than expressing
a curbing of such self-prompt-inquisitions for strangers' eyes
to scrutinise - indeed quite the reflection of an Englishman
and his house the castle. but the reason poetry has no
status in Western society unlike in Ancient Persia is because
it was killed off - it has no social respect because of
political rhetoric, it has no professional respect because
we have prosaic fudge-packaging writers with their
extensive lullabies of mundane talk and the odd dialogue:
the psychologists that don't listen - and the people
who say they appreciate poetry... but only if they write it -
for the majority of concerns, the Divine Comedy (e.g.)
has more footnotes than any critical work academia -
and i don't mean footnotes as such, but ~footnotes,
more poems... what poetry has come in terms of output
is like a newspaper - quasi-poetry (even with technique,
or none, apparently frailty makes something written
poetic, i call it butterflies in budgie cages - as insects
they heap up the behaviour of banging against the iron bars -
pretence flight - to keep beauty is to keep it sadistically -
and to release it with prior wants to contain it ends up
a masochism - against Nietzsche and partisan with Kant -
let's equate beauty with something that doesn't interest us -
let's poker that expression, what is beautiful is what doesn't
interest us - it's the porcelain effect - the fragility already
presupposed an advent of mortality -
grammar will never abide by the rules of arithmetic -
i will write my german with english grammar -
and i will write Latin according to the reverse principle
of compounding nouns (genus alba) - i.e.
white race - (genus ater) - dismal race - and no other.
- i write this just before Whitney comes along -
what a bridge, aged 40 and always there when the night comes,
we have three children, the first born Amitriptyline (now aged
25 of some unknown unit of measurement, dog years, or x7
to ours), and the twins Naproxen and Paracetamol -
with them i have been synthesising sleep for the past 9 years -
as any chemist would avoiding going cuckoo -
Amtriptyline was born anaemic - with Whitney stepped in
and sorted the matter out - a chemist will never go
with the doctor's orders - no chance in life - chemistry
is abstract medicine - any idiot can prescribe pills and don
the title general practitioner with a wage over £100,000 -
but it takes self-reliance to invert the note: WARNING.
DO NOT DRINK ALCOHOL WHILE TAKING THIS
MEDICINE. ha ha... fat chance of that not happening -
i'd be bonkers if i didn't, Whitney will tell you - o.k.,
the excesses of somnia (that variant of sanity, in- and
mm, you know what) are sometimes pointless -
but at least my brain becomes a rechargeable battery sequence.
alternative provocation - Charon's holiday -
i always wondered why the Greeks placed payment
for Charon on the eyes of those about to be cremated -
(liken Hindu, now very morbid - in what element would
man find no animal or insect incubated to survive -
in earth the worms and the moles, in air the birds and
moths - in water the fish and ***** and oysters -
but in fire? a godly endurance - and unto it i too would
like to return to) - two coins places on the eyes -
as if to remind the dead that the veil of materialism will be
lifted when Charon takes his wage from their eyes,
unveils himself first, then Styx and the future of what
greed and excess materialised - such a funeral would be
befitting in our age - as today, five pounds withdrawn from
the bank account, £0.43 in my wallet - a can of beer
at £1.10 - Shanghai math? perhaps, that's about to be implemented -
abstract Chinese v. Johnny ate 10 doughnuts and
how much time to burn the calories off? (latter being English
method of teaching - chemistry, abstract medicine, surgeons
excluded, they're not ascribed the title Dr. anyway,
as you'd expect, pristine butchers' association) - anyway...
i was two pence short of five-fifty, and as i outstretched my
hand with a 20 pence coin, 2x 10 pence coins, a 5 pence coin
and 3x 1 pence coins i dawned on me - the five quid banknote
was already on the counter - my eyes eyed the look in
the cashier's hesitation - the almost neurotic look of despair,
i was short by 2 pence - they weren't there, but
i just imagined that two Greek eyes were staring from my
hand - (i will not put overweight atypical of poetic strain
on the Cartesian equilibrium on the side of i am "Charon,
but it's only a sly-millimetre off from acting, so i guess
it ought to be included) - two 1 pence coins in my hand
missing - the over-suggestive microscopic panic of
the cashier - the opposite zenith of today's parabolic materialism,
for indeed we live in materialism's parabola -
the nadir comes with pennies on the street (thank you
Frank Sinatra) - how could even the most insignificant unit
of the monetary system be nothing more than a pebble?
if i were people, id pay respect to the smallest unit and pick them
up - otherwise money will become altogether useless -
if it isn't already - it's a great way to pass obscure laws
as in throwing a cigarette **** on a street and getting fined
£1000 for it... or how many killed off alliances akin
to family and tribalism - but seeing pennies on the street
is not a good sign - an astounding metaphor - a penny on
a street - i promise i'll not do a Simon & Garfunkel on you -
wormholes of ancient Greek perception lying on
cement, readied to be picked up - the resurrected Greeks
pre-dating Christianity coming back - their eyes
lying on the street - O the woe of our kindred having written
the New Testament - that we must return and see
the world once again for what it is, and for what it will
never be - in such an age, when in ours the old were still
mentally resourceful and not extinguished in soul and thought -
even in body - to this frightening sight -
we paid a penny for each eye when prior we were given
2 pound coins to cross the Styx - now Charon allows
us a penny's worth of glimpse into this world - for he has
no eyes of his own - a penny per eye into the great
seafarer of time's eyes.