after two poems of mine turned into horcruxes...
gone... fizzled out...
unsaved... stashed in the draft section...
at least one...
my heart ripped out and sliced up...
i don't even know whether or not they were
any good... but sure as ****: they felt good
having written them...
502 bad gateway... what what drug?
                    or that whole ctrl + c fiasco...
- only today i came to the realisation that...
there's only one thing superior to getting
drunk...
while watching roaming stars at night...
and of course sister Luna...
it's... sobering up... while cycling...
esp. into central London...
just so you know... i'm all for narratives...
and seeing so many faces all at once...
placebo solipsism on each and every face...
before there's an "encounter"...
like today... a faulty back-break...
the just-eat guy started to sir me for attention
catching up to me near Liverpool St. station...
we got off our bicycles
and... come to think of it...
i started to gesticulate with my hands
more than i'd otherwise like to...
do we gesticulate with our hands less
when people have become more familiar to us?
otherwise, no:
a faulty break on a bicycle...
the eyes and the tongue were not enough
to express my plight at being unable to help him...
or fix the bicycle...
my hands were expressing what i was already
saying: i wish i could help you...
but i have not tools...
- do you know any shop handy, nearby...
that might address my conundrum...
- i've cycled all the way from Essex...
i might have spatial awareness to greatly respect /
admire traffic...
but a bicycle shop that does on the spot repairs?
haven't the foggiest...
but... since it's your back-break that's broken...
while the front-break still works...
- so i showed him how he should take is slower...
for fear of "capsizing"... going over the bar...

  to exist is to be seen...
what's not to like about third person subjectivity...
is that... objective... enough?
respectable language use in the realm
of essay?
i was probably seen doing my highly antiquated:
robot stranger meets robot stranger...
in the great antithesis of the forest
that's the whole concreteness of: concrete of
the London pave-
      well... there's also a river... "somewhere"...

yes... there's only one sensation on par if not
superior to getting drunk...
cycling... having ***** of brass when a roundabout
comes "to mind"...
or a dual-carriageway where i guess i average
a speed of 30mph...

after a long session the night before...
oh god... how much balances on
ingesting that "hair of the dog"
bottle of cider...
  bowel movements at least... equilibrated...
or rather: like a bear at the end of his
foraging run of binge... topping up with
plug-hole fibre - & fibrous stuff... fur etc.

- why is it that i don't dream...
i can't remember the last time i had an elaborate
labyrinth to "work" with...
most of the time it was a dream about
my mouth & esp. teeth...
bones are eternal?

end of this meditation...
there's nothing more sublime than getting drunk...
esp. when writing...
a welcome distraction: "distraction":
well... so i don't turn into a *******
pickle...
but sobering up while cycling...
it's not a Beckettesque-Freudian mash-up
mind you...
that thrill of momentum...
that thrill of having to respect
larger... bolder: IN BOLD objects...
on the roundabout utilising them...
mostly buses...
or those 100 or so cigarettes inhaled when
cycling into heavily urbanised
"recesses" of welcome observational
stampedes of time in passing...

Brick Lane has become a favourite of mine...
for some obvious reasons when
i was only welcome to use the
centipede... like a proper tourist in London...
on m'ah ******* bike...
i never saw so much of the nitty-gritty
details of this city...
teasing all the streets with
embassies: proud dogs... flags flipping
and dangling in the wind...
queer in their own pompous extension
in this, here, a foreign land...

1 mile shy from havering-atte-bower...
to these kaleidoscope streets...
of inner congestion, coagulation...
and constipation...
so many faces to read...
so many lives to trace...
so much: forgetfulness...
      on my part... and their part too...
it's not like i want to forget
the pedestrian aspect of life...
but i'm on a road minding larger
objects: indicating when prompted
concerning the flow of the "river"...
while there "they" are...
the happily pedestrian...
  pedestrian-ised?
  stretching it... i know i am...

i've had so little of a prospect of continued ***
that... i had to seek alternatives...
drinking became the 2nd best alternative:
there's only so much you can spend
in a brothel before the objects dissolve
and a subject-matter comes begging...
sure... they'd say things like
'but you haven't changed...'
'you're a good man...'

i pity my genes... and that whole atheistic rhetoric
for what's worth what...
apparently nothing that might unhinge
me and turn me into a dark triad imitation prone:
ambition goading wriggle...
no signature...

    all of this... and nothing more...
i believe this has been a most eventful day...
a day: the least.