it's just one of those nights
when you just feel like...
a bottle of a chilean
malbec would finish
the day off, pristinely,
having just watched
Wolverhampton
get beaten (2 - 3): just
by West Ham, watching
the football with
the ol' man...

               thinking:
i'm not the son he
deserves and he's not the father
i deserve...
although... best to not know...
otherwise it's still him:
61 and me... nearing 35
and... if it were
for some sort of a housing
ladder...
some socialist... circa 1983
in a soviet satellite state...
a day after having cycled
probably over 50 miles
from somewhere
in north east greater London
to Canvey Island...
on the way back of course
there would be a detour
on the flatlands of Thurrock
just before
the M25 and Upminster...
but it's also one of those
nights where you can't
for the love of god
find a corkscrew
and there's most obviously
a cork so it's not one of
those *****-caps...
and... to improvise...
well pushing the cork in
was an idea...
tried the thumb...
then wrapped a toilet towel
around a knife and pushed...
like i might have pushed
a constipation
of a yogurt abortion... clotted...
no no...

resorted to making
a makeshift corkscrew with
a makita drill tip...
that half of the cork
was butchered out in shrapnel...
evidently the rest i pushed in
and then had to... sieve any remains...
although... on the tip of my tongue
i can still itch to taste cork...
but it's one of those nights...
over the Easter holidays
a conversation with dearest
grandma...

while the dead managed to throw
a horseshoe from the wall...
a tomahawk was in play between
sister and brother (mother and uncle)
and... considering what bad luck
my father's side of the family
had with family building: could i be
patriarch material...

i thought... a major relief that...
35 and given past luck... of this lineage...
i arrived at a cul de sac of events...
of which: the dancing dead
and the superstitious living...
apart from the clockwork bouts of
fear concerning old age...
how almost has to be undermined
when fathoming this:
more assuredly a solo escapade...
this lack of investment in a "future"
of child-rearing...

now that i'm slumped into
a crayon-oyster sort of position
slumped with a belly for a jug
of wine...
and my body ferments
while my thinking turns into a peacock
of verbiosity / teasing verbiage...
i tend to conjure up the hours
of freedom on a bicycle...
eyes-that-gobble-down-a-horizon...
a wind that "speaks"...
a sun that glistens with silver-membranes
added to all things that come
into passing...
an almost complicated ownership
of feline breaths....

Convey Island...
before me the great mouth
of the Thames...
and also before me: the soothing
brood of the north sea...
somewhere, "elsewhere" a name
of a land most associated with
Danes...

no message: but a floating cork
in a bottle...
it's this life so almost forgiving...
cowardly lenient and to have moved
away from any attempt
by extroverts
to instil pointless dramas into it...
a sample of where my eyes
have wandered to:

in braille or katakana...
   syllables that can mean something
than have prepositional value
akin to: to and tu:
    to (this) / tu (here)
       ⠞⠕   (ト)
                             ⠞⠥   (ツ)

i had to return to something
that might allow me to escape these
letters, for a while...
hell i've tried concentrating on runes
and Cyrillic, Glagolitic...
and Greek...

        the best i came up with
was            ж = зъ
                           ш didn't work
    since neither cъ or cь
                     could invoke... the caron...
above the s: for the hidden H or Z
of sh-ee-ring... h'ush-ing...
             even though                   cь does exist...
   środek - centre...
  although i hardly know
whether cъ does since...
                                       cъ ≠ š = ш...

if i'm this supposed "atomised"... ahem...
"individual"...
then perhaps i need to see language
atomised: into more complex constructs
that have to borrow from
other tongues beside
the english variation of
vowels: and the vowel catcher H
(of the tetragrammaton)

and consonants: a B's not an Ab
but a Be(e)
a D's not an Ad but a De(e)...
however an N's not a *******
(k)Ne(e)... since it's an eN... no?

language has to become
less conversational when i write...
less and less conversational
if i am this: walking abortion
sort of shrapnel...

because i feel that less of tribal
monkey **** flinging: i am...
gin + mulled wine...
who would think tonic is
worthwhile?

i should be saying:
it's more important for me to not utter
such  readily available noun
but like a jew's jew sort of a friend
i cower under the auspicious suspicion
of ha-shem...
or the tetragrammaton...
because NGGR shouldn't be
a most sacred word...
in my thinking cage...

  no?
           i guess the remedy comes
from even less conversation that
i have allowed myself to prospect: or hope for...
less conversation...
less and less...
here's toasting with my fears
and enjoying the last scraps
of familial ties
of son, mother, father...
and sort of pulling the thick-threads
of narrative along...

however loser posing i might appear
to be...
no luck in me attempting
a Goethe patriarch status...
wedded to the lock-up
with the disintegration
of the Arab dream of having all that oil
but... less and less of the camels...
and therefore less of the structure
of father-figuring out
a shadow of a mother...

modern burrowing ****-up
and cuckoldry antics of events...
here's to no pleasure:
to not have left behind shrapnel genes
to have left pillars of salt...
here's to time! here's to the tyranny of
this sea without echo, water or waves...
seashells... no seashells too...

here's to the misery of being
Tao-content...
here's to the salvage and no need for
glowing egg-heads clamouring
crab-buckets and the plateau of
the pristine... effort... shared oh of course
also shared...

the end.