there was a time when and there was a time where,
could space be given the same
"whereabouts" and roundabouts
            those traffic no-about everything... i think

       ?

                               ?          i think to ask a question

or i think to exclaim in a silent eureka of:
i am here!                    i was there!
this memory-eureka of consciousness
without that protractor of: i've found it
but rather:                               i am

   !                 ergo                   astounded...

i am tempted to buy Francis Bacon's
     drunken sorry note replies compiled by michael
peppiatt...
  then i'm not too sure
since i was tempted by Witold Gombrowicz's
  Kronos, similar but not quite, quite similar...

scribble scribble: best effort of a writer to imitate
painting a doodle lap-lap train wreck
damsel in distress some Hitchcock... alabaster blonde
fêmme fatale (f'ah t-pat-al)
               the shortening of the A unlike
anything <scribble scribble>

                     i remember those two summer ago
getting drunk and cycling not spotting a *** hole
flamboyant acrobat onto the tarmac head
first face tattoo of blood and scab second

then at the London Stadium
heat and porous artifacts
books unlike bricks
but then what is a library if not a building
within a building...
books = bricks
                        some hack of reading enough
will create a supra-architecture of deconstructed ego
or the variation of ego as spider and
thoughts as flies
            
or                     or... watch this space for adequate
spacing...   especially now
this allowance for all the forest and none of
the journalistic monopoly on what's printed...

sinking in... the printing revolution without actual
print...
i'm still settling in, choosing not to glorify
any romanticism associated with writing
poor Alexander Dumas and his arthritis of having
written so much with one hand
must have decapitated his head
to ease up the strain on the writing hand
and so many typos a sea of typos rivers of typos
unlike now...

but whenever i used to sip a whiskey
and smoke and only after i watered the flowers
i planted in the garden late in the evening
on a late May evening come 9pm it could still
be regarded as evening rather than night
i'd contemplate Dune and
think: no moisture in the air
but surely for winds to exist there must be moisture
a planet with no moisutre
is also a planet without the winds...

little meditation aid: no help...
recently i've picked up clues as to a new writing
patterns... all Eden serpentine
of writing while propping myself on my elbows
will only cut the blind QWERTY know-abouts
of letters on a keyboard
like i'm a musician...
now sliding from the bed and kneeling
before it to ease on the strain on the elbows
and revel in:

when it comes to books and movies...
and... an orthodox priest of the convent of the one book
cult...
i have been robbed of reading the Lord of the Rings
for over 20 years...
but i've started to rediscover the antidote to
terribly bad music of the current exhaustion
of celeb culture and the privacy imposed
by gimmick status without statues of men
who accomplished the bare minimum...

i am moving away from music and instead listening
to the elements...
the elements as:
the rumbling of the earth,
the sound of the winds,
the sound of a fireplace...
the sound of water as waves
the sound of water as raindrops falling on a tin roof,
i need to find 10h+ of the winds moving
through a pine wood...
i haven't written this freely for some time...
a 3 year a 18 body (also years, although morphed,
given our age difference)
hiatus "hiatus"...

  who is to say i don't appreciate the maximus poems
by Olson like an appreciation for cubism
for post-modern poetry is also a footnote
in what began as an obsession with Ezra Pud
because no ounce to the pound or
that liter of water as an hour of fire
is equivalent to the oily worm bits of momentum
of electron ******* magnet
not gravity if gravity is then
sooner in binding of metal in a microscope
but what is the eye if not
a microscope and a telescope and a periscope
and the underwater demons of eggs and glitches     (?)

i will reclaim my need to read the Lord of the Rings
using the audio book,
i will reclaim the book and enjoy it once
and for all by falling asleep to the audio
and how much of what was written is almost precursor
and no adventure and no cinema
no quickened false step left to imagining
and reimagining
and to think there is so much of so little
within the confines of being the digesting sense-body
but then isolating or rather adhering to
the sense-***** of the eye:
the heart too a sense-*****:
on the whim of every emotion...

i have never experienced such an amicable
break-up...
i have never experienced such an amicable break-up...

that the eye can be isolated better than
the brain
and that the brain is no more than a schematic
of counter lessons and revisions
and whoever has the most sway innovative
for rhetorical structures of keeping
faces intact and **** warm and ******* the potentially
only, only clue as to why life is worth living
because between me and you
a tree or a mountain will not read these words
nor will an omni litany of a deity
inspect with her and his C.C.T.V. Huginn & Muninn..

although chances are in the singularity of fate
by count: enough chances of the same creates
a potency of fate and if no will then at least
a dream of: sacrificing ordeals for perchance ashes
of benevolent circumstances...
an aging process... of simplified mortal quenches
calmed... like the non-associative demand
for thirst to also be a bitterness of taste:
but since water is tasteless there can be no bitterness
associated with thirst
yet bite a grapefruit and you receive
bitterness and a quenching of thirst

but thirst is not bitterness nor is it sweetness
but prolong the thirst and chances are
you might associate thirst with bitterness or sweetness
or drink water fused with having
to make-out flour to, say, thicken a sauce you're
cooking...
impress that water and flour with
a fermentation process and...         oh and...

but i will reclaim the Lord of the Rings
by listening to the audio book since the movie captivated
me akin to Captain Rob Roy Spychala
who went to the cinema to see Bruce Lee's
Enter the Dragon like 30 times
while i went to the screening in the early
2000s like 10 times...

                  cGh physics...
                         as much as is concentrated upon
a c²              (squaring, non-linear)
      yet depicting linear travel...
i'm more concerned with the stars as static
in that travel is made impossible between them...
therefore no necessarily associating energy
and mass with the speed of light, squared: traveled...
but rather the speed of light: cubed...
static...
                 C³                       bit conker of a plocker
somewhere lost on any vicinity associated
with Pecking Ham and fools and horses and what's
to be left with 50 years of ancient, televised lingo...