two way street, with one route i write
something good, but then all exhilaration
to this weird form of despair
of sheer disappointment
when i couldn't suckle out
more than i already did.
the other route is filled with
a prolific output -
a kaleidoscopic antagonism
of mundane example that
8 billion of an animal kindred
will share - then the sheer exhaustion
of this route - there's no restlessness in it,
there's no wish to revise it, erase
any conjunction necessary vulgarity,
it's what it is -
like when i dislocated my index finger,
and the pain wasn't there,
numbed by adrenaline from the shock,
the soothing adrenaline -
not the typical ***** of the stuff
mountaineering or paragliding -
the subtle junk of the stuff...
sitting in the hospital laughing,
flirting with nurses - 'i'm watching you!'
'sure sure nursey, give us a flirty wink back.'
no need for pain killers, walking in between
the a & e hall watching the bonkers drunks,
feeling so adrenaline filled i started
to say i'm a poet, oddly i speak posh essex
when drunk... haven't spotted a cockney
on my tongue yet... if i do i'll tell ya
of the pear in the salt shaker (shakespeare)...
then with this sickle cell anaemia girl,
asked her if she liked jazz, Us3, great group
mix of hip hop and jazz... you tube that band:
hand on the torch... kiss on the hand:
merrily may you fare through this night:
thumbs up or index finger pointing right.
finally i get to pronounce hungarian surnames,
asked a bar mistress in a pub once: szasz...
that's sas zaz or shash? she didn't reply...
the surgeon came in... 'two options
after looking at the x-ray... anaesthetic
injections... or just a straight pull... injections are...'
'just pull the **** thing, it's getting annoying.'
looked at a piece of paper with the surgeon's
surname on it, ending with -sz,
so i asked what the phonetics were:
ends in haramash?
yes he replied;
finally! my search was over!
can i get a copy of the x-rays?
sure, but no public disclosure via social media, ok?
sure (by hand, my bones, copyright with fingerprints).
but you know what... really...
on the depth of all this?
bull fighting... a sport macho spectacle...
one bull, a ring, a guy with swords... poor bull
no steak from him...
nietzsche wandering the southern hemisphere
of europe for sunshine and fresh air...
if i had the money...
first stop the faroe islands for the grindadráp (whaling,
orca esp.), and last stop probably there...
because imagine if bull fighting was as barbaric as
the grindadráp... it would be like that story
about 2 fish 5 loaves of bread = 1 bull
fed to the spanish coliseum throng:
we're talking many orcas - feeds a village for a year,
no beef tapas nibbles in sight for the fiesta.
