that i fear the fiend might come knocking... taking masks hanging on wall parallel the stairs... grating the wall while he stumbles down... that i fear the fiend might come knowing oh so little... that he just bought himself an £18 worth of Eclipse Mount Gay Barbados ***... and he just had a sip of it... fiend... border collie... can i catch him before the taste wears off? after all... even i agree with him... this ***... which doesn't look like *** at all... stands right up there... with the best of mr. whiskers and ms. ambers...
1
i promised myself a whole month of living inside my head... inside my head: mein kopf - i promised myself to not venture out of it with either fingers tongue or bruise: augen allein - mit: with only eyes...
i promised myself to not write phantom with phantom: most assuredly to not write in a drunken stupor - or somehow: drunkenly excited: Horace citing or in admiration for some ego-worm from dust in a library burnt down spawned...
i promised myself a month of living: if i were to use my hands it would be to fix up my bicycle... tighten the brakes... lubricated the chain and gear cogs... the wheels... bake two dozen rhubarb & white chocolate muffins... play a little bit of the guitar... work with a screwdriver...
make a pork & beef Hungarian sauce with plenty of peppers and chillies with smoked paprika and cinnamon for a potato rosti... or add some flour to the potatoes and make a potato-pancake for the sauce... certainly drink more coffee...
perhaps sip a 25ml sip of some expensive liquor to remind myself: sober: come earthquake or tsunami... i promised myself to live inside my head for a month: not writing or what i sometimes call writing: that crux of an exasperation from doodling... sketching: marooning myself on an hour where i could be doing something plentiful in the garden...
itching for soil beneath my fingernails... after all: sober might be just mediocre: where is that bombastic drunkard who would write: anything goes? irgend etwas geht... gehen weiter... go further... neu-nüchtern alt-nüchtern: but it's never the same...
only this time: i haven't given my word: or honour... i gave my hand in a handshake: i break that i might as well chop it off... and that's no good for a typewriter of any sort... i'd need a hand more dexterous and probably much bigger... and it would be just as well to have a 2nd thumb: thumb-either side... i promised myself a month inside my head: i even called it:
nüchternlücke... a hiatus of soberness... periods of 4 days (3 hours prior to sleep) of treating my liver as a punching bag - 4 days counting passing from lump to slime to all sweat and furriness:
masks in the hallway: down the stairs fell... perhaps more perhaps less than dominos... refrigerating a clock... freezing a cigarette... not even if the readership plucked 200 x 2... 400 eyes... i would continue thus...
reminiscence of those strained sober in-soma nights: work the horse on to a tight schedule... it was only a superstitious day three days ago... a Friday a 13th... an August a year two-thousand-and-twenty-one... i cycled a new routine...
2 hours during the day from Harald's & Harold's Hill / Forrest... and further afield like atte-Bower teasing a sight of ol' father Thames and the A13... through the village of Rainham to and through the village of Wennington...
bypassing Upminster via the pristine flatness of the county of Thurrock... Belgium? not as familiar... but close enough by comparison... and then full-circle back to Harold's & Harald's via Great Warley - but that's of course during the day...
by night an hour's worth of looking at Friday's, Saturday's and Sunday's clientele at either Hornchurch or Romford... not that much of a terrible sight... i must have looked worse when drinking...
such was my youth: only these days it would appear that the colts are pimping the mares... Hornchurch girls... classier than Romford girls... O moralist... let the butter churn... body against body: you're passing through, anyway...
- but at night when the air is thin speed becomes multiplied by at least 1.5mph... make that: 2kmph... just thinking of a date... i'd say to her... why don't we cycle these outer-suburban labyrinths... while listening to the soft moon: all downhill from the opening song breathe the fire - written by luis vasquez... Spaniard or -es-que... all the cure you can hope for... translated into dig: a 21st century hole... not of Joy or Depeche... bicycling at night: from streetlight to streetlight dragging shadows... air come night is so much thinner: less traffic to mind... no need for comfort, safety... no high viz. no headlights... headphones in... intuition... unconscious arithmetic of spatial coordination... i always felt safest at night... and using the momentum build-up of large trucks at a roundabout...
i must forget to have written anything good drunk: for that matter... this is all sober... sober judged sober feels sober the anchor of an "anhedonia": but only to excess!
by now the fiend would reply: past the 35cl mark... smooth sailing on the rough seas... otherwise... prior to the 35cl mark... boat crashing and toiling on a lake's serenity...
i promised myself a month inside my own head... to rekindle a reading list... the old Libra: never write more than you read: read more than you write...
away from the city on the Thurrock platitudes like lyrics from a Leonard Cohen song: you don't really care much for music, do y'ah? i've wasted my youth on music... probably as much on movies... now for the privy of a well-worked-out bicycle... no need to sing a praise for sparrows: they're off on their own chore of song... sober crow... eternal sober crow... gallows keeper... the bird than splinters a pine tree into a thousandth of a thousandth needle... then threads... ghostly cotton figurines...
2
a week passes: it's already too late to leave a carbon footprint, only circa dating... one approximate late, or later than usual... Kabul has been resurrected and is standing face to face with its original indentation against the mountains...
pity the other commentary: in Plymouth i see no need for psychiatry... not that... a Jihadi has any "mental health issues"... can't see the forest for the trees... well... it's like that joke i half finished...
an incel, a jihadi & a... pornographic actor... walk into a bar... like i said: half-finished... give terror its due where it's... not hiding behind some waterfall of milk... although... as all social commentaries go... give a jihadi a bride... and you'll probably get half the jihad... but what to do when the reward is rejected? by those who... would sooner **** their own mothers than **** with an allahu akbar?!
3
what ought to have been a month was only but a week... this inflammable whimper of time begun... by some yesterday... toward some: but even vaguer tomorrow... whimsical whimsical one two and three: a measure to count with... a measure to overcome a horizon with... from plateau to hill to a bundle of curated forest... a sea of Thurrock's wheat... kinder than the actual sea... i suppose no more than this... spare me more time away from this canvas of burning eyes and skeleton-key letters... i'll return to a time... when words were sacrosanct... and written by a priestly class... when they didn't pierce all things... so that things were kept intact... but not here... among the rubble... the atoms... the stretched audacities of a prison cast(e).