burn-out flesh born from a scraping
sensation:
   tips of fingers numbed on
scratching bricks...
           before oysters of bodies could
be painted onto...
     some basic grease...

               well... when writing was
still fun... because the money didn't matter:
there was no money in this adventure
to begin with:
but there was the dimension
of diabolical joy: sometimes those
out-of-body experience fuelled by
bourbon and nicotine:
cackling: a magpie's laughter...

            sometimes writing into the silly
hours: going to bed with the sunrise...
i don't think it's all that necessary...
come to think of it...
    it's a bit like a nostalgia for
when Paris was circa 2004 - 2007...
and you'd adapt to some
club music slyly:
    mylo's destroy rock & roll...

          time to think about exercise...
6 months of revision to put
down the genetic embarrassment
of inheritance "tax" of high blood pressure...
all those nights spent
wriggling in doodles...
            and still no pursuit of rhyme...

riding into the sunset...
or at least riding in the early morning
before the major custard of traffic...
        to write very little to drink even
less... but to somehow salvage the night
and wake bright as rain...
fresh as an impeccable daisy -
    
buy a bicycle - buy a bicycle -
of course i'll have to trade in the bogus
idea of a viking street-bicycle...
not thin enough for the tour de france...
i'll need to trade that in
and get someone with enough
rubber and beef to prize a loss
of roughly 20 kilograms...

                      it's not like i can digest
new music these days...
lazily bbc radio 3 wakes me up
in the morning and...
                   that thrill of looking for new
music isn't there either...
a consistent return to the couch
for the ears...
           hamsters and wheelies...

   all better for the world too:
like a taoist mantra from so long ago...
the best way you can aid the world...
is for you to forget the world...
and for the world to forget you...
oh i'm sure there will come some
spontaneity postcard down the line...

midnight and 7am never seemed
to refreshing...
   or a sunday morning...
the scent in the air...
when walking to the shop
for some fresh buns and a newspaper...
it was raining during the night
and there's a mojito-esque breeze
in the air... although
the mint is rarer -
it's still there but thyme and rosemary
comes to the fore...

       come to think of it...
writing lines up with a depreciation of reading...
i don't believe you can write
and read simultaneously -
well you can - journalistic galore...
but...
       m'eh...
                     a return to the peace
of reading - someone else doing the
peddling -
                      perhaps no philosophy
books... yes... more fiction...
   the odd quirk of poetry...
                                on a quickened
sense of reflection:
reading a cereal carton's ingredients
or a shampoo bottle
while taking a ****...
                  
                       yes... quiet agreeable:
a mid-midlife "crisis" as
  escaped from...
                     investing in a bicycle...
and that song: sunworshipper -
ride into the sunset *******...
      ride! ride!

best with a sigma of self...
than this shrapnel self...
                    come to think of it:
yes: there's no sigma-self...
             but a sigma of self is better
than mere sharpnel...
           boost cool and collected...
                       that's that.