.for two days a song was haunting me, seemingly unheard before, hidden in the deep recesses of my mind - unrelated by sound or memory... yet burning itself a presence regardless of my faculties... restless... i had to take a walk through bedfords park, havering country park and hainault forest country park - through sun and rain and two bottles of wine... twice seeing bambi and at times scuttling like a rat / misanthrope from the unusual traffic of these parts... to finally find peace... Borodin's prince igor!

there's just enough of gloating to have to muster...
before some grander detail has to take form:
i've been trying to capture the song
i want to listen to: but it's hardly a genesis
of an #A... or... whistling...
             kik kershaw's the riddle?
                         it's not - now that the hindsight ("spoiler")
is presented... it wasn't a bach aria:
or a batCH... well: who's the good surd?
'ere boy... vat's a good tau: ba'ch...
     the would be baчelor: j. s. baχ...
                            a juggling act of... less than...
what james joyce's finnegans' had to offer:
and more: the diacrcrcr-detail-of-antics...
       pop sort of reference points?
                   would they be... if they weren't...
for the per se reasons?
                  details are in the noumenon -
that... axe-folding: exfoliating lesser demand
for: **** in machina...
                                      the sort of details
that mind: the over-simplified woman...
and... the terrible complicated seance of...
when witches were detailed about...
their broomsticks were to be replaced with...
vacuum cleaners... terrible details of
"unnecessary" complications...
man of science man of technology man
of engineering and man of mathematics...
much later... the man of linguistics and...
the troop of ballet dancers... the choreographers
and the composers...    

i have taken enough days to gloat...
working an addiction in reverse...
a bank-roll filled with: plenty of nicotine...
and chem.,
           just waiting for the completed
day... an exercise in language:
and jack daniels bubblegum:
pale blue... blueberry images... gluttons
of colour: those pearls...
back to music... back to music...

   i wanted: rather than tried...
to fathom a pause in the construnction
of the res cogitans: with the usual
punctuation markers...
it's hardly a semi-colon...
          a full-stop... a comma or a full-stop...
hardly the detail of syllables
with diacritical markers...
    hidden letters...
rare in english that sheer and chisel
should come together...

i was thinking of a punctuation marker
to block of all narrative...
not a mere punctuation marker -
not some apostrophre...
                precursor to the possessive article:
's..              's...
even the russians do not have
what i already have...
         namely... дж...   джик is an approximation...
something is hidden within...
dzik itself (boar)... dzikość - wildening...
        a lost attribute for the civilized man...
   дж is... slightly off from the intended:
   дз - while ж (rz or ż-art - joke) -
              is... well... it appears...
but is a few letters apart...
       for example in: drzeć (tear - ter:
not tier - nor teer - backwards to forwards...
latin diphthong of æ) -
                        to tear paper into pieces...
   a tear ran down my cheek...
   to have read: rather than... to simply: read -
and... the reed - a stalk of a bulrush...
               the eastern lands...
                      synonyms and two best known
aliases: the birch tree and the bulrush wetlands...

this is the only best: approximation
of a song akin to Borodin's prince igor...
that can't be hummed... unless heard proper...
not from an abstract of memory...
conflation of adjectives?
abstract is more an adjective than a noun...
for this presentation...

      hiding letters like a good 'ebrew...
           surds detailed with apostrophes...
mollusk legs... exercised...
  a day later and the extreme cigarette high
is "missing": not found...
   щыт "vs" szczyt / ščyt -
                 no less congested than:
                                       dość! enough!

from the initial fascination of working
english into greek...
                     things had to translate themself
into "mordor" regions: Ruś, Krym, Tartar...
the Caucaus...
                        and the Turkic dwarf plebs
of mythical Constantinople... takeover...

- with thinking i wanted to capture:
res vanus: the empty thing...
       a synchronised: symphony of...
with what's being emptied...
while at the same time... with what's being
filled...
the years passed when pacing
with a heart of a turtle...
compared to... the heart of a mouse...
i call it: no known noun...
              to think is to have the heart
of a mouse... easily agitated...
no room for lost narratives...
      hell: better still... without haikus
and all those condoms of denial and...
delayed view-count murmurs...

          a case of: res cogitans:
a thing most animate...
a case for: res vanus:
   aa thing most inanimate...
         it's... a slingshot... a strain on purpose...
it's an incremental addition of purpose...
it's a punctuation mark akin
to: lost the linear...
up toward the copernican east we go...
and then back toward the flat-earth
project of... being able to read a map:
topography... without: the need for 3D:
3D the copernican: it's all very imaginary...
vector alpha:
points beta and gamma...
to find punctuation: a silence...
a bit like... finding gravity...
which isn't a sound... but if it was...
it would be... the sound of falling rain
on leaves or lead plating of a roof...
or... the sound of recycling...
of water... in a waterfall...

by now all the ******* readers have
disappeared... there's no more...
instagram haikus in the system...
there's the drone drill sequence...
a very distant humming sound...
perhaps an impromptu crescendo of
variations of a cat's meow...

absolute: total: шит... more like шитышит:
    шыт if i was... to be honest...
   sheets of paper... floating about...
                    well... i too once thought:
those russians... with they cyrillic...
but no diacritical markers...
      well K in a mirror: ж...
                      no one told me about brining
mirrors into the project...
     sh-ch-
sz-cz-                щыт - height: well... zenith...
bl-ы'h bl-ы'h: blah... blah...
       it's a letter: the russians call a "sound"...
like the english should start calling
the letter "g" or the "h" a >sound<:
surd...    an apostrophe: gnome: 'nome...
gnosticism: 'nosticism...
                                 'alf the 'arvest...
prop'er: cockers and pouch of punches...
   very ******* irish sober to me...
brings all the harlequins and loon'doon'ish
to the backyard for:
                   milch-schütteln-und-schäkel...

and then i return the cork back onto the corkscrew...
as i pa'k - my... packaging... CCCP... comrade...
the folded soviet shop...
don't worry terrible ivan... there's a new shop
in town... the iron has morphed into silicon...
see-through curtains and...
this virus... did more damage...
than any... brave lion of the jihad would ever...
circumstance of the affairs of westminster bridge...
they would "epstein" one through
one in a while...
                 to **** chicken the populace
into a cucklicking KKK strut dance of:
burning hoods and bras and crucifixes...
and ******...
                              conventional... formal...
language usage? please reserve that for...
the golf course and business talk...
                write? write what? a kandinsky?!

yes... a big hello ******* from
tiktok and twitter...
1 minute videos and... 180 characters...
         i feel constrained... claustrophobic...
if... i can't write an imitation Dickens chapter...
1000 words is ******* lemonade...
2000 words is... regurgitating a day's worth
of a newspaper... saturday edition...
which includes the editorial and the magazines...
3000 words? a truly rare thing...
      given that... conjunctions and their details
are not counted: ' - is both an apostrophe and a surd
letter... t'at all depends: on the "v.a.t."...

the whole point was...
finding excuses to write about quitting smoking
are other... they were all fine: crack ******* smoked
when the levels of nicotine were dropping...
the upper body was exercised...
but the legs weren't... mollusks and oysters for *****...
or... toes...
to count... oysters for toes...
but when the legs have been exercised...
and a balance has been reached...
there's little to gloat about... about...
quitting smoking...
there's a need to say: the glory of the tongue
and its palette when walking...
the budding beauty of things surrounding me...
all blushing envy of the green...
  self-respecting green and its almost
teasing green phosopherscent insomnia
in the rubric of the sun: next to wake...
next to hide... a bud of bishop hues...

insomnia green of the forest...
                     poor bambi (x2)...
                    zinfandel rosé!
count! syllables! nurse! scalpel!
zin!-f'ah-del... rou-s'eh...
                              oh remind me of the night...
and the forest... the blinking moon
by count of clouds obstructing its glee...
turned into a melting moon...
spray-painted over the leaves with
its last will of agitated: clingy mercury tinge...

the debate: "debate" wasn't about...
i took 3 days to gloat about quitting smoking...
there are more important affairs to mind...
notably! notably?

example!

la traviata is an opera in three acts by (giuseppe) verdi
set to an italian libretto by francesco (maria) piave
                                                 (verbatim: i.e. borrowed)...

there... they cite... the composer...
    who doesn't need a first name, since: verdi is...
synonymous with verdi and opera composition...
but...
         yeah... you need to mention the first name
and the surname of... the libretto: francesco piave...
the opera...
      music... and... the words...
well so much for the music...
but... last time i heard... a violinist holds...
a violin and a bow...
                         what's the opera singer
to hold? the melody? no! he needs to hold...
words...

   today i passed a family in the forest...
a mother, a father... two children...
                   and a grandfather...
maternal / paternal... i don't know...
i was already on my second bottle of wine...
the woman asked me:
   'will we get back to the car park if we turn
around on this route?'
        i was already eyeing them with
a curiosity prior...
i uttered the words... 'you should...'
          not... 'i hope so... since i'll be
testing that question'...
or 'you will...'
                           several minutes later
in my own solipsistic interlude...
            you should... i swear to god...
sometimes i say something and can't
see letters behind the sound...
      like: i shouldn't really see: meow...
behind the sound a cat makes...
since... a cat doesn't just make an: ego sum: meow
universal statement...
there are variations...
    'you should'... i repeated...
slightly drunk and... whatever... i didn't see
any letters in the sound i made...
           for once... not the last time, though...

to abide in such joys from a past -
chevalier, mult estes guariz -
                 to cite charmlemagne and prince rolo:
the scandinavian convert -
who's (whoz: not who is) descendents
were the morphed vikings: the normans...
who conquered england...
        since the predecessors couldn't...
walther von der vogelweide:
                    palästanalied...
all through the german autobahn...
                   the word... AUSFAHRT!
the lands owned by the lithuanian who
married: and by marriage became converted...
from the last pagan prince of europe:
enclosure rhapsody of caged
elephants: prior: mammoths...
  the estonian bulwark...
von meer zu meer (von baltisch zu schwarzes meer)
these jagiełło platitudes of envy... chełm...
      sch'war'zes...

begotten not made: blistered...
the scarf of colour to capture the frenzy of
autumn... a shawl best worn to...
loot the colour and suffocate the subject
with: no past a dream and a dream
without rucurrence...
to borrow from the past as much
if not more from fiction!
to say: once they pickled Barbarossa...
come the third crusade... disgruntled oath-breakers...
sought the prussians...
and the lithuanians... and all that land
to the east...
had they only known... what the prussians
would make of the absence of the saxons
of the pomeranians and the bavarians...
i wasn't there... no...
but a romance is a romance is:
here's to... no ode to a ******* sailor:
capn' ahab... or the rodin instruction
knee deep in the mud at ypres...
or the mass-graves of german youth
or: how kaisser wilhelm and that in-breeding
crew of familial ties tore europe
on the altar of the bull...
before this bourgeoisie whittle adoolph HIT!
came about and charged the former
bitzmarck ***** and the elites with...
eh... the story is so told and so old...
"they" couldn't fathom the middle-project
of the khaki and ******* not coming
from their... high-brow... aristocracy...
better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven...
choir boy whittle adoolph said:
i'll borrow the schnurrbart from chaplin...
after all... with a surname like mine...
a ****** or a chaplin is no... WIN-D'SOR!
yes... apostrophe 'ere if not to hide a surd...
it's to elevate punctuation...
for the sake of syllables... the hyphen is not
enough... vowel catcher tetragrammaton
invocation! the first arm of the god:
the second arm is for: ha ha ha! laughter!
cynic and satyr!
            eh... let's leave the stoics to their
love of labouring over the fate of oysters!
protestants and pre-destination-alists...
clarvoyant calvinists!

                         from the decadence of a "lost"
empire... what "pseudo" history is to be
resurrected... romanced...
the angevin empire?! that there is a past...
the "lesser" dream...

a patrick and andrew a george...
and ef bwy newid troi (he who...
altered path) -

troedfilwr - petty velsh:
quasi-silesian / kashubian / little warsaw
of the "bigger picture" masovia...
CAPital neu...
          
- ever write something...
at a snail's pace: crow pecking...
because a moth has just flown into your room...
and... unlike... holding a seashell to your
ear... to find the ivory shore...
and the details of false echo of... galloping
waves...
you clench your hand...
and hear... fluttering... like the sound of...
desperately falling rain..

madame butterfly is an opera
by (giacomo) puccini, with a libretto
by luigi illica and giuseppe giacosa

the magic flute, k. 620, is an opera in
mozart to a german libretto by
emanuel schikaneder:

           der verk is in the form of a singspiel:
singing and spoken dialogue...
my demise: the awe... interludes of...
theatre... in an opera!

               rushing rushing and... kandinsky
the colt serenade kind...
  with... canvas... and an auction house
of reserve that... fridge magnet enterprise
of a single mother of... 6...
              
you couldn't get an opera...
working from the carmina burana...
the... libretto... thankfuly...
constricted the music...
you'd only get what you already have...
a medley... opertics instead of an opera...
sketches of an opera...
    the whole custard mess...
the rhubarb the rasberry "finicky"...
         the Goliards and the... gonnards...

               were diu werlt alle min
               von dem mere unze an den Rin,
               des wolt ih mih darben
               daz diu chunegin von Engellant
                lege an minen armen

the quid pro quos and the... anon. circus
spectacular sheen!
  
  what is the composer without the libretto?
the violin player has his violin and bow
attached: like some... frankenstein's take
on an elaboration of an autumnal fallen:
leaf of: a "false" limb...
dire desires for a lingering crescendo...
of a piece... without an overture...
bothercome children and the good life...
nothing worth clarifying the nouns:
to a supper... a goodnight...

                       bedtime with nabokov?
my take... well... it becomes apparent...
when... the local... easily accessed by the many...
avenues of love... are exercised...
what remains? taboo...
and once the taboo is... investigated...
invested in... well then...
there's that all overpowering tease of
thought not materialised into a will...
a 14 year old girl... below the mark...
she's 16 and i'm 18...
and i'm not her... cousin and this is not
israel...
                  after a while... the only *** available
is... the forbidden type...
and there's... so much freedom in
what's forbidden... when it's only thought...
the complex: θ(ought) complex
that becomes φ(inking)...

              the moment "she" starts to
perceive the mirror...
       and you're looking into the concept
of time and of glass...
  
but then... there's... the libretto... and the composer...
the rare event of: richard wagner...
where there's a schizoid... bilingual...
"in theory": der kommissar working 7/11
on the advent of: neu-muzik zu kommen!

  queen of the night aria contra...
my sleeping karma - satya - ahimsa...
that one: "last" cigarette...
me... a wife and a child...
        tidy... if i only aimed at...
the fraction to no effect...
the wife and the sole child...
i'd be doing all the proper details...
a wife and... the hungarian model...
of at least: towing 2...
      hardly an embitious venture if only
towing the holy trinity of:
fake hey-gay-zeus fake myriam fake josephus...

not looking for queen of the night aria...
   nor satie's gnossienne no.1 sampled...
ezio bosso - under the trees...
           vittorio monti
jean-paul egide martini {/^.5.p 6^)_(0$drd...
toast!
it was... bothering me... started last night...
took 6 rough miles to get the tune
out from my head...
into a coffin... of sorts...
it was... borodin's prince igor! all along!

p.s. re-flex: the politics of dancing...
       duran-duran: the reflex; ******-pointer-ler;
h'american pie contra dad:
   the gay bar: electric sexes und siebens:
hefyd...                         deutsche bankschisch...
zeit (time) and the ruschischen:
              цeit... always conflated as...
indistinguishable by a ****** / lithuanian...
           цeit - bißcuit... crumble: чarcoal...

hey presto: a *******... voilà contra eureka!

Borodin's On the Steppes of Central Asia

Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute.  But it is magic still:
While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute.  Beyond the landlord’s window,
Beyond the power lines and the ***-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:
A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is stained with victory.

Borodin’s  "On the Steppes of Central Asia"

Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute.  But it is magic still:
While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute.  Beyond the landlord’s window,
Beyond the power lines and the ***-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:
A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is stained with victory.

Borodin: On the Steppes of Central Asia

Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute.  But it is magic still:

While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute.  Beyond the landlord’s window,

Beyond the power lines and the ***-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:

A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is glorious with victory.

21st century has only provided us artists, indeed "artists" in terms of being able to read musical scripts, rather than write them, a bit like that fable of the two "intelligent" law enforces: one can read, the other can only write; all future art will only serve a pardon of plagiarism, and a clarinet player will be as much the artist to have produced borodin's prince igor polovtsian dances, as borodin himself, hunched in silence hallucinating each and every note.*

i use to cycle mad across the platitudes,
i used to play squash two times a week,
i used to pump iron in the gym thrice
a week, i used to scale the crag in
edinburgh with rock climbing shoes,
i used to weigh 80kg at most...
and if my memory serves me right,
i never got laid, now the bubblier me
at 115kg i'm more content than when
i served such pitiable vanities of an
invisible catwalk;
i used to eat fruit compulsively,
and drink only once a week - conscious
of the calorie intake -
now i eat fruit scarcely, and drink every day,
and at 115kg i'm more content than when
i was so self-conscious to be involved in
feminine games of chase / reward / chase / reward,
that game of translating pavlov;
as it turns out there's a fulfilment in a celibacy
without a monastic decree, as the joke resounds:
dentist sooner a suicide, chemist sooner a bachelor.

Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute.  But it is magic still:
While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute.  Beyond the landlord’s window,
Beyond the power lines and the ***-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:
A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is bright with victory.

Someone demands an immigration czar
Which could be interesting: a crown, a throne
A double-eagle flag, the border guards
Singing a Troparian while on patrol

On the Steppes of Central Texas 1
The Czar in progress royal comes to see
His happy villagers waving MREs
From behind the merry Potemkin wire

The Czar, contented, turns his escort then
To Petersburg, and lunch at the Little Red Hen

1 Cf Borodin's "On the Steppes of Central Asia"

between too much wine
and a sensible glass
of whiskey -
  just two cigarettes -
    and in bed by midnight...
   (suppose i too hope in vain
and better lie to myself)

i only came across
   Balakirev because i was
reading
a Tomas Tranströmer
poem...
i didn't like it...
   Balakirev...
          somehow i quickly
found...
something more
to my taste...
Cesar Cui -
     kaleidoscope for
violin & piano (op. 50) -
but i haven't
heard of him prior...

tomorrow
i'll look up the rest
of them:
charles ives,
        john j. becker,
  wallingford riegger,
henry cowell,
  carl ruggles...
   all who i haven't heard of
before...

but that i have
heard of Rimsky-Korsakov
and Borodin
and... well who hasn't heard
of modest "night on bald
    mountain" mussorgsky
  (but only because
of that)
well.. looks like beside
cesar cui i have
heard of 80% of
    something:
  obviously not the entire
opus just like
i wouldn't expect...
    something or other...
it's terrible to write this
autobiographical
sketch...

   it would be so much
more to have the "time"
(patience?)
   to throw out
the television...
   starve myself from
this canvas of bypassing
editorial scrutiny
and listen to a good hour
or so of BBC Radio 3...
esp. on a saturday
at circa 10pm - 12am -

no... this is not
terrible important...
          it might be a vanity project
p.s. / n.b. or...
            
    sensible: enough
of tamnavulin by timid glug
until i get a hint
of

      (a) nose: a whiff
   of apple or toffee or honey
with marzipan / marmalade

(b) palate:
      mellow pear, creamy peaches
pineapple and some
demerara sugar...

      i'm no connoisseur:
   so i doubt whether or not
i'll pinch any of these supposed
rejoices of budding...

it's also not that terrible
that somehow i end up writing
about reading -

i'll slither into the bed
and end up claiming the constellations
with the same
predictability of: earphones
and Christopher Young's
Hellraiser soundtrack
(1 and 2)...

             so much for writing about
love and women
and "ideals"...
when i'm the one about
to cocoon myself with
a horror movie soundtrack
to nod off to...

it's not so terrible...
it's impossible to have to sleep
with anyone -
i tried to entertain sleeping
with a cat...
on the side... on a folded
arm...

         it's this seriousness
of a placebo-solipsism with
all the freedoms and...
well... routines...
       in fiction it might be
deemed a penalty to
be denied the chance
to father children...

i've seen it in the park:
men who invest in their children
hoping they might
become footballers... etc.,

terrible business... having children...
probably marriage to:
i suppose Frankenstein's monster
could find better outlets
to moan his existential qualms
over than: that i might
subscribe to mating...
courtship...
            
               i doubt i might enjoy
a Cesar Cui orchestral suite...
or that Beethoven could get away
with writing something
for only piano and violins...

it's not terribly important...
give it enough time and enough
monotony of the sea -
give it enough stubborn mountains
and enough...
of anything as highly sexed-up
as an insect's life-cycle...

        how else to pursue
life: the most belittling grandiosity
escaped (from time to time)
thus gravitation to
something resembling
   an automated purposiveness
of "veneer" of self-importance...

it's comforting that
     so little can be lived for
the purpose of solo -
i'm starting to appreciate
this little of everything...
probably more than it
could ever be allowed...

          it's absolutely necessary
to feel intact
at some point
    having to disappoint
death as the method statement...
and all that
without towing along
any homosexuality:

        for all its worth
an *** like Porsche leather /
peaches... **** like
a marathon milking "project":
yes, that all these prods
are intact: yet not
necessarily invested in...

         it would be enough
to master this supposed state
of "cowering"...
not having to invest in so much
expectation for others:
the most gentle variation
of apathy:
whenever breaking into
a trainee / novice critique
of an aesthetic -
an aesthetic that comes
as unconsciously as
a heartbeat /
bowel movements as:
music on first impressions...

how life can be made simple
is probably a focus
on a peacock's tail
of biases...
           without a clarifying
imperative...
it's not that important
to have an argument...

  notably:
if duality is animate...
  then a dichotomy is inanimate...
i want to burn orange
until it becomes brown...
nothing: concretely -

to listen to violins like it might
be an imitation
of a scuttling mouse -
or an itching scarecrow...

thought:
would it be best to curate
a cure for an itch by...
  scratching the sore inch diameter
or... pinch it away?

quirk... no... not here...
no thank you...
some things have to remain sensible:
i.e. a life lived
without having digested a
self-help book...
     3 years spent reading
a philosophy book: on & off...
between other books...

somehow always finding oneself
a persona non grata
when listening to a video
on: "self-help"...
             my self-help mantra?
placebo-solipsism...

the drifting in and out of:
off solipsism...
the eloquent quench of:
if by thought you could denote
either thirst or hunger...

i think i've settled all my
moral ought(s)...
          taboo: none, really:
i thought -
         ought i?
      i ought: thought, i...
    because of this punctuation...
like jazz and jigsaw
puzzles...
   or playing chess on
   houndstooth print...
(hahnentritt in german...
                          pepitka in ******)

the best cigarette is:
when it's smoked half away through...
extinguished...
then relit and...
      all that tangy smog...
and almost wet newspaper take
on: if hue could be a taste...

if rain could be fathomed
as sparkling i.e. carbonated water...
all this and so many
unimportant events in a life
that are never to be riddled
with a grandiosity of
children... labyrinth a tool too:
Mr. Minotaur...

there's curating the eyes
when the snow is falling
in a cemetery at night...
in the nearest convenience
of a star: via replica...
there's this ugly-beauty of
it being associated with indigestion
and sickly-sweetness -

there's also a memory
of childhood and... cotton-candy
and a stump that
was... but never really was:
a "pretend" throne...

as of yet i'm still bothered as to
how / why...
subjectivity is deemed
something / somehow less
than... the zenith that's a nadir
that's objectivity that's
the encyclopedic
             trivia / pub quiz
  regurgitation after regurgitation
of c.c.t.v. sat-nav *******
squeezing: juice-ups -
tease of tangy - not borrowed
from Irene a tangerine... etc.

such that:
i am subjected to...
willingly or not...
more things and "things"
than...
i am subjected to
the queen of england...
because of rain
i have to loan a mushroom
for an umbrella...
objectively:
****** weather...
subjectively...
it's not a science or a pet-peeve
project of regurgitating
sharpening objects...
that subjectivity is somehow
less than objectivity...
that there's this "magical"
right, objective cursor...
                  
i am subjected to much more
than what...: and because
objectivity will not allow
certain facets of the bare minimum
of a lived life...
how subjectivity is less
than objectivity is only
a gimmick for
how rhetoric is conducted...

      i am subjected to:
always the case...
given... how many instances
are there where: i object to...
      it's no less no more...

  for example:
eating an apple... objectively...
well...
but being subjected to:
a desire for an apple...
that's the whole sigma carousel
of intrinsic "paraphrasing"

last "thing" i want is
to be objective and of a "sound mind"...
via regurgitating facts...
by being a factoid surf:
any other noun and all
the misnomers available...

horrid world when seeing
a subject-object dichotomy...
                  notably: via rhetoric...
a language trap...
with it: all the sour notes...
even if it were the most fine
of a whiskey...
roughage...
   creases and bones...
                words like a cascade...

via a memory of a maxim:
Wittgenstein on the concept of
a thesaurus -
                            quiz me sore as
sorry: tautology...
otherwise a lessening in eloquence...
otherwise simpler:
a crimson burgundy -
   a red red...
if i were being honest
and i pinched a robe
of a bishop...
from a purple a blush of
cherry... vinegar (&) Bolshevik...
balsamic to allocate
the vinegar...
and working: auf:
           on the note of colour...

you know what might have
happened if a
Zukofsky talked alongside
a John Berryman...
                because it's so impossible
to be human...
to be human in the mediocre
range without
being either Cain or Abel
or Jesus to be
this drop of salt and ivory
and stink...
  to be human as regrettably:
no offense:
lived part and parcel...
  something to do
with electricians and
bus-drivers...
something authentic /
predictable...
then again:
if i were to be the sort
of corrosive juice
on the collective memory
fabric where
Elvis sits pretty...

                 getting better
at something doesn't help...
ask Samuel Little...
i guess he did come to late
for the whole 20th century
bonanza of celebrating
the offspring(s) of Cain...
        now for the king rat
and the art of scuttling toward...
if they get me post mortem...
only then...
sooner i with half a loaf
and enough pigeons
to **** on Trafalgar silly...
more blitzed up than...
a 1940s milkshake
of the Loon-do'un skyline...

that might pass on the name of
a Henry Neele...
        not that it might matter
for him... most certainly not for me...

that the 20th century is:
beside (having been) a lived...
this long exhausted: lineage of life:
"something" within
the confines of events...
otherwise just plain dandy
eventuality -
that pursued no:
clarity, clarity of judgement...
if was the biggest ask...

it overcame the i
he was lost to they...
me was never a my
who troubled
      this when and this how
and via sober
asked: who's who...
                 wafer tug at
the tragicomic tool of...
a face like a mask...
contorting the imbecile
toward....              a harvest
of sieved i.q. points...

    too profound i.e. not expected...
i suppose i might vote...
this whittle doodle o' mine:
   is that scrutiny of
forward 'inking.

she came overnight, well, maybe just two nights ago,
but only today i felt her during the day
when i cycled like it was supposed to be a Sunday
afternoon...
she came with her frostbitten fingertips & lips...
i thank her for finally doing away with the pleasantries
of Autumn...
Autumn in England always felt like
Summer in Scandinavia...
something so temperamental so befitting my
disposition... centuries must have passed since
my ancestors didn't move a muscle from
these abodes...
she came with what i can best standardise
with the Bauhaus song: bela lugosi's dead...
don't ask me how: the why is somewhat self-evident...
like an elephant is... but a mammoth isn't:
or rather... like the mammoth was...
right now... a song is wrecking havoc in / of my mind...
i can hear the lyrics, somewhat:
just like i can see forms in dreams...
beside the usual abyss the odd humanoid form...
no... i can't hear the lyrics...
i can hear an Amazonian shout...
it consists of only word...
   it's burning my mind to an impossible unrest...
all thanks for Maanam's nocny patrol
album... i've had this episode once already...
with Alexander Borodin's Prince Igor...
it took me several years to decipher what
the music i remembered i remembered...
since... a ******* elephant stepped on my ear
& a donkey fresh kissed me while
an oyster ****** up my breath...
mein gott! why this song, why this song now!
why is it ravaging my mind with such
unrest!
  it's a pop song... but it's not in English...
no... wait... it's in English... **** me!
   now it all makes sense...
(the) Pretenders... i'm a mother!
                         i'm a mother!
             i haven't listened to it in a while...
- she came with such surprise...
it only took her about 3 days but at least 2 nights...
to change Autumn's gown into her ivory & pearls...
mother: dearest sister... i welcome you...
with incestuous glee...
finally i can drink a little & be drunk with this little...
i can huddle with a bathrobe in the middle
of the night, with some hoodie underneath
some t-shirt too... a ****** of wool on my head...
smoking like a choochoo flying Scotsman...
she's finally here? is she?! she has finally come?
to drown my sorrows away...
the times when sprinkles of rain will settle on
the ground... by night they'll be like paparazzi flashes
of a photograph being taken...
head tilt to the left, head tilt to the right...
a frenzy of diamonds left on...
the dreary concrete pave...
illuminating my eyes: dare i blink...
red carpets stretching far, far: into the sky at night...
diamonds on the pave...
and all that's happened...
water froze... time froze... space expanded...
a breath that i can see in the cold...
im die kälte... ein shatten ist erzählt zu brennen!
brennen mein zweiter-wenig-schatan...
brennen! wärme mich!
perhaps i ought to borrow some pan-germanic tongue
beside mere German...
eh... Dame Winter doesn't do "her" justice...
Fraulein is somewhat degrading... although:
n'ah... Ms. Winter... i miss "something" from time to
time too...
      gå glipp av... forget the Scandinavian origins
of Germanic, later English...
morphed by an addition of French...
point being: vinter ist hier!
enough said... best enjoyed...
beside the seasons of spring & summer:
sure... the body must appreciate them...
but... but the mind appreciate winter & autumn most...
they are the seasons to be reflective...
with all the abundance: our progress leveraged
a snooze button or something?
when spring comes & summer with her abundance...
where people are probed to reflexive orientation...
in late autumn and throughout winter
i can reflect... in that guise i can believe myself
to be a seasonal writer... if i'm a writer at all...
doodler, scribbler...
i'm just happy she's here...
i can finally see the volume of my breath...
i can herald the dichotomy of...
when outside... against the wind when cycling...
hardened ******... itchy shins from the cold...
i can return to... pseudo-bear-skins and candles
and... the most welcoming solitude...
every single alcohol drank tastes much better
when... the air... is as cold as the liquor poured...
although... to properly enjoy the hardened "stuff"...
*****, whiskey... the temp. in the air ought to
reach a Siberian frenzy...
but when it comes to beer or cider...
at least the insects are sleeping...
you can take out a garbage can without a bother
of juices from the heat...
you can luckily avoid the maggots...
danke der kälte!
      nein lästig, kleine fliegen:
nein (indefinite): nicht (definite)...
             nichts (nothing)...
  there are two ways of ascribing negation...
one is definite (not), the other is indefinite (no)...
i best leave the rest to her...
i still want to drink two ciders but also
have 8 hours of sleep....
          this has been: PLEN-TY.

i feel like a *****, all this "D.I.Y." music "therapy is
coming back at me with a bite...
i must have listened to
eyes of the nightmare jungle - shadow dance...
i stopped counting...
i truly exhausted the song, i exhausted myself
on the song...
i guess it was the accompanying video that gave
it the extra credit...
with that video of Wednesday Addams dancing
to the song like that guy
from the video: happy boy... the Bolshoi...
no... the black keys... lonely boy...
yeah, reminds me of that dance...
i have honestly overdosed on a song...
it's never good to overdose on a song...
you try to return to the song come the third day...
it doesn't listen like a Buddhist mantra...
something worse...
the black angel's - assassins' creed opening
credit song... not even close...
i had to figure out a way to bypass the algorithm,
somehow...
what's on the menu?
hello, rubric:

- dansderpartementet - niagara
   (heavy focus on the bass guitar, oh, you need
the heavy focus on the bass...
to somehow marry rhythm guitar with the drums...
i don't need "extra" drums...
i don't really need rhythm guitar heading toward
solo territory),
stand out tracks so far... eurolight,
(apologies for the diacritical marks being missing)
hander av spindelvav...
   syster hamnd... my guess is as as good yours...
i'm guessing German...

- paralysed age - tragedia nosferata (2006)
i'm yet to listen to it...

- iamtheshadow - everything in this nothingness
   (2016)

- immortal - salutat (1987), gothic rock from
the Netherlands...

just today listening to some classical music
on the radio...
eh... sure... Alexandre Borodin's Prince Igor...
classical music is filled with "accents"...
the rest of it? technicality... "making waffles"...
it's waffling... it's digression...
it's sort of complicatedly, sort... erm...
boring? i still love it...
but... it can truly exhaust the attention span
of a man who... likes nothing better
than cycling on a roundabout in heavy
traffic... the closer i am to a truck that might mown me
down silly... the more thrilling life becomes...
and if it rains... it rains to a ******* laughter!
give me sleet, to boot!

i will not write anything spectacular tonight,
i'm only writing to keep up my own stamina...
i don't feel it, whatever "it" there is to feel...
i've been put of when listen to this one video:
fake numbers...
this one video had this many shares,
this many likes... the views where up there
in the category of: Wembley stadium...
i look at it via...
look how many of us are out there...
some subscribe to readership,
some, to voyeurism...
liking something make you... less anonymous...
i like high view counts & low response queues...

i value my privacy... i don't need gold stars
i don't need a public involvement to the point
where i might have to engage in conversation
with them...
say paparazzi about twenty times...
before you cough up Hugo Boss designed
the **** uniforms... my god...
the most pedantic army know to man...
what?! i can't admire their attire?
i'd love a black Wehrmacht uniform...
this steward business: shepherding people,
organising people to enjoy a spectacle is one thing...
i love it... but... i'm already ambitious enough
to be looking out for... more responsibility...
that's the thing with work... you always: want:
more!

Fulham was cancelled today,
hope for Oxford on the 29th & be placed
on the turnstiles, interacting with little boys...
a ******* caged gorilla...
last time i thought about fame
i was reminded by my pursuit of longevity...
i want to cheat a little bit of time...
ha ha! perhaps even wrestle Horace...
i won't even mention the H'americans...
fame... in its immediacy...
a waste of time... those that achieve it don't /
haven't really worked for it...
it's a self-given... load of *******...
sure... i want to be famous...
when i'm dead... in the meantime i want
to live my life... plan your life like that...
think about life after you're expired...

oh i'm pretty sure i'll be leaving something
behind...
but it's not like... Shakespeare is all that...
sure... Macbeth... the crowning example...
but... beside that? do i really need to pretend to be
an English teacher brown-nosing my time
over that sack of ****?!

come to think of it... i imagine myself being
the sort of person that... would find it, rather:
impossible to be rich... i think that being rich would bore me...
i'd have to escape into perversity,
i'd have to escape toward eclectic tastes...
Against Nature, the character of:
Jean des Esseintes...
point being i can do... all the things he does...
in essence... because i cut corners...
i can... do almost everything he does:
without the access of money...
and... i'm all the more happier for it!
beside money as being used for essentials...
i see no purpose for it...

like?! you'd sooner find me dead than
ordering something from UBER eats...
lazy, *******... *****! go to the shop!
yourself!
i don't want money, i don't want yachts...
sure... i might require a ******* once
every half a decade when one of my cats
stiches my eyes firmly poised at her raised
**** of an *** while grooming her...
but only then... when someone ancient is woken...
me... i want the perpetual night,
the perpetual winter... the perpetual struggle!
that, is, what, i... want!