some people, live the most spectacular lives...
and then...
   end up writing out a yawner...
a book so...
so un-bookish that it would be...
better suited to the comic-strip genre...

   and they live the most spectacular lives...
but... when it comes to writing about it,
you sometimes wish they treated their
mortal completion by...
   reading some books to begin with...

and then the paradox...
         is my life interesting, exciting or...
worth remembering outside of the realm
that's my self?
            ha ha ha!
the immortality of the inorganic tongue...
no!
   my life is the life you live
hoping for an escapism of fiction...
but i have no fictive imagination,
namely:
            i was semi-good at drawing...
but fictive escapism /
swindling?
                i don't think i could sell
you a bunch of bananas at a Cockney
market either...
    
i feed off what happens,
rather what could happen...
poetry is...
        what happens
         when what could happen:
never actually happens...
            it's the allure of the crudeness
of the art that, glows like
a phosphorescent ghost of a god
in minding:
  the counter evolutionary -
knowledge not passed in surd,
in silence... necessarily needing
to be elaborated, nuanced,
subjected to metaphor...

             that being said...
the people who have lived the most
astounding, interesting lives...
why the late interest in literature?
why even bother?
i'm wondering, because...
the other people... the people with
the most ordinary, boorish lives...
they can take to claiming literary
royalty...
  the mind is the world,
     and the world is but the confines
of a body...

people who traversed the world
are not supposed to write books...
sure, enviable lives, interesting lives...
but lives worthy of the content
of a book?
    not really, no...
didn't these enviable people ever
consider discovering the cinema of
memory, a cinema of nostalgia?
their ego taking a cameo route via
the perpetuated thinking
and sink into memory?
    and... like my dementia prone
grandfather... taking a moment
to relax, in a pseudo-fetal state
of consciousness?

     people of the engaging, living,
exploratory household
are not bound to books...
said people would find it better
to have been illiterate to begin with...
i'm pretty sure that edward thatch
was illiterate...
              
it's only when you couple
literacy with the sort of dynamic of
an edward thatch...
and the said people grow old...
and... instead of retiring to reading
books... they get the sudden impulse...
to write one...
notably an autobiography...

notably an autobiography is not
a genre whereby you take a holiday,
known as life, and then write about it,
"on duty"; i.e. auto- implies on-going,
automated, reflexive,
rather than reflective...

   it's impossible to read the works of
people who require to milk
the capitalistic cow, fully...
              "properly"... expanding
into books...
         like the Rocky VII autobiography
adventure of
    katie price...
  bogus or pretentious? who?
me.
                 i get it, a perfected engagement
of the lived experience...
but... please... you can't call this
a perfected engagement
of the thought experience...

the saying goes:
  the people who live, find thinking
claustrophobic,
while the people who think,
find living agoraphobic...            

  the former will end up writing
****** autobiographies,
with no scholastic nuance of language,
or, absolutely no knowledge
of diacritical markers to emphasize
punctuation...

buffer zone: fiction writers -
half and half...

yet some of us live the most mundane
lives...
yet have funfairs and carousels
in our minds;
hence we end up writing: so.