( either thrown beneath the trodding gods' apathy and higher, rising, contempt - or having to squalor in man's pyramids - myriad grain on a heap - consort or meander in the dung heap - the mouthful of maggots - in this flesh eat flesh and the ******* of bone-marrow of a couldron of human intrigue... either... mad-riddled among the gods... or castrated and shamed among fellow men... in my cusp: a tenderness of beauty - an imitation bowl or at least 10 volumes worth of tablespoons - as that: a ferocious gulping down of water... and at what point is death merely a translator of the three factions... of the harvest: a perpetual presence as one would say: one born every minute... what personification what mythology when... one is always oh so busy... ) a lovecraftian pre-scriptum...
interlude: thomas and timothy take to dancing in limbo... thomas wears the stilletos... timothy dons the straitjacket...
and for lack of a better word... when the jazz comes on there's no one wearing corsets - or anyone who has any stoicism leftovers... no wise-up maxims no other in-depth and later let's call it life...
some call it lazy - some call it lounging - some even dare call it an ottoman safina in a harem - because... that better things to kneel on when there's a required: height difference... i can't imagine it otherwise... the jazz comes on and these words become: a blob of custard imitating bubbles as it bubbles away...
a stoic striptease of language... some have it in them... the raw edible parts that become a steak tartar... red garland anywhere but here... a miles davis quintet playing ascenseur pour l'échafaud... lift to the gallows...
it has become a terrible, a most terrible regret of mine: to be somewhat easy on the eyes and having a firm belief in education... too bad this ambitions doesn't translate into mandarin and back...
not gifted with an a priori outsider status... i have to compete for... what my father didn't beat me... but i do remember that one time my mother taught my a thing or two about leather and belt... but that's a non-contest memory... you need to be the christ and the father is asking for you to be crucified thus becoming the greenwich mean-time for over 2000 years...
shove a lovecraftian god into the affair... although i haven't read any of it, what's the worst that could come out of... language that will not end up being scribbled onto a postcard... or made into a conversation over beer... it either has to bloat and bamboozle my ergo-ergo into a pop: stray bullets... clinging into unwashed dog hairs dragging along... sweeping the cemented tiles...
the smell of a wet dog... the minor affairs of washing cats... the screetching and scratches... biscuit for a moon - a bite into the scythe... crumbling and slowly melting chocolate...
two engineers came to my house today... i greeted them with: i'm sorry... i forgot how to speak... i can write this: can you take this umbrella and braille? the t.v. was sorted: somewhat... i'll still have to phone up and deal with the nitty-gritty woodcrawlers...
a testament to: how to writer an, autobiography, any alternative to this...
i'm going through my jazz phase... i've had my blues phase... even by my current standards of laconic - i didn't write anything better... i just imagine all those autobiographies that manage to shorten the passing of a year into a single paragraph... then allow the ghost, and writer... to swoon in and scoop up some other minor detail to throw back into the juggling act of... a passing of a minute...
chip-on-my-shoulder! that's what "they" call it! being educated is probably my single most biggie of a regret... should have learned **** outside of school... it's almost a sin to have loved learning... but i never learned to be a terrible person... a con- and that suffix -artist... which is bad from the get-go...
here's to drinking and interludes with a lazy bladder! or not drinking and pretending that hours don't double when everyone else is alseep... and quadruple when the cats are sleeping...
because these words could somehow become an event - an informal get-together when the suits and skeletons are where they should be: closet bound... but no, again: but no...
some variation of diatribe ensues - and whenever you get a chance to exfoliate... to don language like peacock feathers... like some second to Konrad von Wallenrode - not the right history... or not... tare here: a tier above becoming better tailored... improv. sequentials...
smoking cigarette... feels less... less of anything... esp. less of anything health related... when listening to someone... healthily blow out a tune from a sax or a hornet's needle: a trumpet... the smoke is just the salt & pepper of adding to the mystique of a listener...
imitation of writing and painting... the nervous composition - tapping tapping tapping... in any case not a frivolous amount of "something"...
jackson ******* met... nikita the cossack... and.... cubism was left to a fate akin to christine chubbuck - that infamous myth of the immediacy of death... when you shoot yourself in the head: unlike Kafka who prescribed - stabbing yourself in the heart... too bad for the urban-myth of the cockroach dying of starvation when decapitated...
the great injustice: Kafka asked for his books to be printed to enlarged scribbles... they enlarged Bukowski's writing seeing just how... oh but so little... i call this: the statement of the nag... the nagging daughter of a father-in-law that would never allow... circus of words... they still print books by Kafka by people who are expected to read braille... while they print Bukowski's books expecting his oeuvre to become that of a Dumas...
i'm about this close to catching moths and sneezing bookmarkrs made from a dollop of dust... fingerprints and all...
a recurrent "theme"... akin to: perhaps he's wondering why someone would walk him into an empty prison cell... and shooting him in the back of the head... if he wasn't expecting him to lie in that cell for a forthnight to come!
to better respect the bass... whether in guitar form or: that sucker for the plucker and: no one was expecting to explain a bow readied for a cello to him... so... that's jazz...
i'm no better or: not exactly worse... whatever this is... i keep an immaculate list of affairs when it comes to the confines of a living space... i own two cats but my house doesn't smell anything related to the scent of their furr... or their **** or: god forbid the scent of cat ****... it really doesn't take away from cat's **** even if the male is castrated... apparently the pungency of feline male **** is not related to them owning a pair of testicles... i learned that... when i started to ******* by the tender, ripe, age... of being unable to produce any *****... so much for the dot dot clues... spasms of spam...
gregory corso had the voice... but unlike a bukowski... he wasn't doing a stoic striptease for: the most basic forward of minimalism... the lottery... and what's "better"... before the mirror and how one would begin to fashion beards and distinguish them from a moustache... the mullet from the comb-over... and the focus came in the shadow rather than... the pale ghost of the mirror... or the lake... before the mirror started to shine its sheen: snake shedding its skin... no leftover boots to walk in...
beside the bedtime 20th century ref. - that there are "too many poets"... not right now there aren't... well... there's enough of the rhyming kindred... but what i'm looking at is...
what if i had a fine peach *** to go with the whole: golem affair? thank god! there's "not enough" of us... wording misers... but there's plenty of... dissected body-parts clinging to the mirrors... i'm content...
one more for the jazz fetish... and no more for the otherwise... the "king" dons dawn as this crown... and the night for his shawl...
in a language that only children will understand... or borderline with... the image... there are scratchings on the wood... some believe them to be the schematic of a future table, or chair...
the interpolation of: soul as synonym of breath... plato's reincarnation... it was once upon deemed a lowering of the "caste" should a man be reborn as a woman... plato's take on gender dysphoria... idle words thrown against the wind...
i almost wish i were about to striptease into a stoic with a marcus "bukowski" aurelius... but my tongue starts licking the peacock and... i have to forget whether i'm moderately read... or whether i have read at all...
come to think of it... for those that despise doubt... i much appreciate this plethora of feeling... it's almost akin to being in love... a darker, love... how can one live with two certainties in life? one being the impeding death of all mortal itches... and the other: per se negatio - i.e. negation?
to be in love is to fall in love with teasing and with doubting... to be reminded of it is... a labyrinth of ecstasy! faith and negation are just extreme certainties... science the paradigm... but doubt... the plethora to hercules' hydra... queen of thought and the mind stuck to a pole... peddle the wavering quivers of the winds united...
then again: my words are not needed for the many... or the better excuse: insubordinate failure of a man... reaching a grandfather status and a... jolly ol' christmas to boot!
children: that one most prized asset of excuse... to every other subsequent fancy of events either being: to one's expectation... or... lacklustre... sodden with grief to sink into the depths of a watery grave... of not having met expectations to have given "it": the original investement in!
we could almost... unanimously ascribe ourselves to a forgiveable wanton of: raised in a nunnery... raised in an orphanage... raised without psychoanalysis or gender dysphoria to mind... raised feral... oh me... and my current concern for a jazz fetish.