and i have lived the life of a butterfly -
we all get a chance,
it usually lasts for half a year -
there's courting, there's even the remote
"concern": mystique regarding
a taste in music,
one might even venture as far as working
a ****** night-club job to buy
a mandolin...

it's a grand awaiting...
there's a cocktail of personality,
character building...
there are even scenes of carnal endeavours...
there's taking a bath together...
there's: using a ****** to ****
while she's on her period...
there's the 7 hour marathon the night
prior to the day you're about to leave...

6 months of a butterfly's existence...
in this ape cranium...
for all it's worth...
after that: en masse politico...
and this glorified: delay of gratification?
as in a train timetable?
and the "delayed gratification"
being nothing more than...
taking a train journey?

all my best instances of using language
are... probably exhausted...
then comes the bypassing tactics...
bulgarian prostitutes in east london...
again: there's no thrill...
but there's also less psychological baggage...

in between there's music...
i'm only thankful for having this existence
forced upon me...
because i can at least appreciate it...
i can't write it: but i can appreciate it...
perhaps that's the lowest ebb
of being a composer...
that... almost assured...
disdain for being able to write music:
but not enjoy it...
to be even remotely distracted by it...
i honestly can't imagine
Beethoven being able to enjoy music...

i'm waiting for the story about a painter
that went blind...
and painted blind afterwards...
paintings with a priori red and blue
and cubism and...
what emerged from the gob of
the cerberus a posteriori...
with regards to red and blue and cubism...

but my... how people have aged...
i fair no better: nearing 34 i can double my age...
i was buying a liter of ms. amber today
with some ginger ale...
and i fell in love with the cashier...
the usual suspects of: plump, short...
but eyes are wild and wide as the oceans...
it's almost as if she was attempting
to look for the inverted niqab...

what is keeping people certain
of an idealism around poetry and love?
is no one out there with a broken leg...
limping: "all of a sudden"?
everyone's an idealist... up to a point...
then some variation of existentialism
comes to the fore...
and when it does...
it does like a sour grape...

at best most satisfied with what life
has harvested...
a nuance here, a mistake on my behalf
regarding: what could have been
treated as friendship...
but otherwise before me?
a hell is: just a little bit worse than
where i currently reside...
a heaven is: just a little bit better than
where i currently reside -
which by such estimates is...
limbo...

big words: splinter wounds...
this is what it feels: remotely: "feels" like...
over-priced punctuation
arithmetic or otherwise...

at least with a vivid pain i could
imagine it better...
better as in: elevated above...
the numbing...
that crowns itself the king most
non-specific...
there's always something concrete...
but by the time it is allowed
a concrete argument...
there's that diffusion in the spirit
of negation...
since it can't be doubted...
there's that alternative en route of
denial...
if only one were to keep one's
dissatisfactions in great a number
and always incremental...
no life changing prospect...
no back-log of an event and its cascade...

if one were a tad more vociferous...
no matter... baron night awaits
with his usual constellation of stars
and... his desert of a dream that never comes
even as an oasis fata morgana...

indeed: sleep is a fact...
dream is the fiction...
i have the science... i don't have the Stendhal...
what's left? a sample of how somone used
language that did not revel in
terms & services post-scriptums...
no political obligations...
no heavily invested in character listings
and plot twists...
this is at best...
a raw cucumber...
one would wish for a gherkin...
it's a raw potato and not an oven baked
crisp and golden wedge...

it's a postcard of an evening...
or at least: nearing midnight...
you can sense this barrage of exhausted
recurrences...
when life becomes a preditable plateau
for whatever life's worth it has
lodged between the thrill of youth
and the nagging of hanging scythe
and the dead serious shadow...

at least this allows me a rare "insight"
into either the saturday or the sunday edition
of newspapers... with headlines like:
i don't need a man, i need a ***** donor...
the opinion pieces...
the restaurant critics...
this really must be a lived elsewhere...
it's not a life coincidental with me...
it's synchronised - but parallel...

i can find myself here: almost grateful...
melancholic - but grateful...
that... i neither have: in order that i might gloat...
or that i don't have: and allow myself
the chance to cook it myself...
i sometimes imagine why i would never
find myself in a restaurant...
it's that old saying:
some people eat to live...
while others live to eat...

the restaurant is therefore an alien concept...
i find a brothel more accommodating...
when i found it more accommodating...
but even that funfaire died a solemn wave-goodbye...

if there's a moral argument against brothels...
i find one for the restaurant...
perhaps i will never be a big fan
of talking while eating food...
esp. if... the conversation regarding this
seance... was usually reserved for
the people who would eat something they
just hunted...
perhaps...
talking while eating food is weird to me...
esp. in a theatre of a restaurant...
talking while ******* is also odd...
maybe i'm just odd...

then again: what's new?