i kept watching a few poetry reading videos
on the internet, and it scared me...
analogue after analogue...
          scared and angry poets shouting
and not one singing...
                                             oh man... they're
shouting, i'm blaming Ginsberg for this...
me? i'm the sort of man that sits up at night
waiting for his doctor to call him from
8 a.m. onward (time-frame? not designated)
                   while watching 1988's rain man
as the incompetent exaggeration of autism
thinking back to a poem about three
tiers of phonetic encoding
                                     and how that sorta relates
to how this autistic guy sees toothpicks
in clear number or how these geniuses
              of so called mathematical Olympics
are good at what they're good at, i.e.
    98723 + 2361 = ?
                                       like i am saying:
that's the key, a + b + s + i + n + t + h + e =
                  a good time... esp. if you have (cubed) sugar
and water to dilute the **** fairy into
                green milk... oh yeah,
this local guy sells the Hapsburg absinthe:
       £40 for less than 70cl... but at 95%... well you know...
    a soloist couldn't do better... but you need
    sugar cubes... got the spoon... only once
   in a blue moon...
                              but i'm serious
though... they can do numbers in the tip of their
little finger... but putting a and b together
        akin to something corresponding to their
genius with numbers? ask them about the concept
of money... well... that's me talking
about rain man...
                                     in the meantime i'm finishing
off my bottle of whiskey, at 6:33 a.m. it's
a dreary day, and i feel dreary tired,
            but on boy scout's honour... till the doctor calls
i'm sober...
                                         oh sure,
haven't seen a doctor in over a year...
                                       you can't these days,
you get cures over the phone...
                             and all they end up prescribing you
over here is paracetamol...
                        maybe that's better than with big pharma
in America...
                                lucky me, sleeping pills ******...
            but after rain man i got into watching
these poetry videos...
                              so much shouting:
rain man could be heard alongside having a seizure...
                   i just heard the same person
but in a different body... i thought i was hallucinating
for a while... and it came with the crescendo of
the mishap of weight v. mass and the Neil Armstrong
curse                     of yummy ivory plums
                            with a banjo accent... twang!
   babes are jaw-dropping-show-stoppers...
            they talk ******* like a plumber talks toilet...
               twang!                   and so hot with that
femininity                  bedroom politics
                                  straightened up -
           could be called evolutionary too...
                                    huh?
        you want my voice?                 i can give
you the encoding... but beyond this writing? pay up.
                        but yeah...
re-watching rain man was cool...
                             those poetry recitation videos though,
slams? yeah, slams they call them...
                              i dunno... maybe i'm too tired
and my senses are a bit dimmed...
                                 maybe sitting through
the sunset (English earl grey)
                       and now sitting through the sunrise
(English early grey)                   i'm feeling ******
and cactus like...
                                 or maybe i had that
moment of revelation: i'm a woman! and i'll
***** for all i care! burn the bras! burn the minis!
burn the thongs!
                                 dunno...
              drank the whiskey, smoked the cigarette,
ate a slice of pizza... waited and blinked from time to time
looking for uptight urban dwellers like
                a typical village idiot full of local mystery.