hiatus awaiting

welcome are the nights,
with a chance of snow,
and me...
   writing practically nothing;
i guess the common ground
encompassed by a
acted out "laziness"....
    i can admire *******
and it feels
     the same dead weight of
*******' hanging weight...
        i sacrifice my lamb
on the altar of Slayer
and say goodnight....
  i like these nights, redying
myself for an internet hiatus...
    getting a haircut,
trimming my beard...
        it will be a most pleasant
experience,
being internet-free...
i can actually forget about
the dialogues...
                   for a month or so...
the whiskey dries out,
the will abides by hibernation,
the book is read...
time passes via
         a Maori interpretation....
slow, deathly,
unpredictable...
                 such warm wintry
nights when the snow falls,
and the fox scuttles about...
            are paid grievances
for want of dream...
                i write the least
because i belittled the most...
   zeit werden plötzlich halt...
        like i said: i pay my allegienace
to a tongue..
       i align with german
on a fetishist's whim,
not a nationality...
            speaking german comes
across as oral ***...
            scheiße ficken auster!
      i pay my allegiance
to a tongue, not the people -
  der zunge uber die volk...
            i reek of the kind of hate
that these zombie-people dreams of
the living become acrid...
         i am sodium and sulphate!
                              i watch
the shamanic dance and the *******
"ladies" in waiting...
                      i am the tongue
above the people;
    thinking comes later...
    last...
       the only increment of crafting
a nostalgia of carving
and a nostalgia of what's past;
****** the oyster with the serpent,
maggot, worm...
             there's nothing with
leverage of poetics...
              why has the thrill of life
and upkeep "suddenly"
expired from me?
         why has this quasi-
castration taken hold of me?
                   all before the
perfected mechanisation ugly...
                  doesn't matter,
as individualism dies
i am the one to inherit it...
                      die hitzig nächte
aus gefallen schnee...
und die tänzeln fuchs...
                                    zu sehen.
- perhaps a return to
the saxon rooting...
perhaps that,
perhaps anything at all...
what does it matter,
there's the troubling tomorrow
to pitch against...
             the lost beauty of
the sunrise, to the day's insistence
for love lost unto labour;
the abhorring obedience to
said, "love", and slavish schematics;
love is a pardoning word
in keeping things intact,
but not a word worth an ounce
of motivational value.

and due to CSFR (cross-site request forgery)...

      *Turkish Barbers

once more, the notion of the simplest pleasures in life, are the most rewarding; maybe i should be 30 to 40 years older to make such a statement, maybe i ought to be the colt-type bungee jumping and skydiving feeding an adrenaline rush... but then again once you make life slim of extreme pleasure, the real authentic pleasures come through in the most unexpected way, out of the mundane every day, a proud, strutting peacock - let's keep the intricacies of pleasures and experienced bound to a labyrinth of either such extreme experiences, or the heights of philosophical discourse... keep the pauper's share, allow the everyday form of grey separate itself: till you finally see the black & white.

it was about time, someone had to allow this
ruffian, this ***, this barbarian into society...
sure, a suit makes a man,
but since we're living in times of smart casual,
where ties are not required nor
the top button done up -
the next thing that makes a man,
is a well deserved, haircut.
i come to think that a haircut makes more
of a man, than a well attired suit,
call me old fashioned, or new fashioned -
but it comes as a shame to not bother
with a haircut, like i did for almost a year,
considering the angst of the baldies,
with their shining craniums exposed
to moonlight...
like ice converging to act as mirror
in a firming puddle on the pavement...
yes, i am prone to "forget", well, in actual
fact abandon any ****** aesthetics to
imitate a variant of Lent...
i give certain things up and fast in a much
different way... vain?
hardly...
you only notice the difference
when a girl looks your way after a transition,
even with a puffer-fish face from all the drinking...
but it had to be done,
someone really had to get rid of the barbarian,
this: feral *thing...
and who better if not a Turkish Barber?
i have to say... i lost my virginity to a razor today...
Turkish Barbers are the best in the world,
that's not an opinion, that's a fact,
and from what the result is...
women can't cut beards,
they can do a brazilian wax no problem,
but the ***** on the face?
ladies, leave that to the men...
and there's one in particular,
a local,
a very cameo parlour,
two seats, almost like a kiosk -
Ustun's -
4 chase cross road, romford, essex,
RM5 3PR.... cemil ustun,
phone number 07447752357...
i don't know what's better,
receiving oral ***, or getting a proper barber's
treatment...
i'm starting to think the latter,
since it's cheaper...
i've come to a conclusion,
forget inquiring into prostitution -
£110 for an hour of agonising *** acts,
i'd take an hour with cemil for
a £20...
first time i actually had
oil applied to my ****** hair,
and foam and blow-drying it into shape...
before i grew my hair like a, ******* hippy,
i never really had a proper barber experience,
and i've learned something important:
not all "feminine" professions are actually
feminine...
a barber is as important as a soldier...
and that coincides with:
well, if we don't really believe in
moral relativism but absolutism,
and if we don't believe in cultural relativism
but absolutism,
we can at least agree that:
every, single, job, is, important,
that there must be a professional relativism,
or that there is a relativism of labour,
since nature does not like vacuums...
every job is equally important,
in that relativism exists on the basis of
gradation, an "ablaut" of incremental changes
in "value"...
by not money has exited the original
idea that it's the source of
the trans-valuation of values -
point being?
£20 for a haircut and a beard trim,
£110 for some wacky fucky-fucky...
hey, that's five and a half sessions
with cemil...
barbers can out-compete
the necessity of prostitutes...
but you can only, really, come to such conclusion
if you've been to both...
and this has to be the most authentic
experience of pampering that a *******,
with her moral baggage, simply can't give;
but it ought to be noted once more...
the best barbers in the world are Turks...
must be the highlight of the Ottoman empire,
akin to the english coffeehouses,
the barbers of the Ottoman empire
probably had as much significance as
the coffeehouses of england...
and that's how the cookie crumbles.

Justum et tenacem propositi virum.
      HOR. ‘Odes’, iii. 3. I.


  The man of firm and noble soul
  No factious clamours can controul;
  No threat’ning tyrant’s darkling brow
    Can swerve him from his just intent:
  Gales the warring waves which plough,
    By Auster on the billows spent,
  To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix’d determined mind in vain.

  Aye, and the red right arm of Jove,
  Hurtling his lightnings from above,
  With all his terrors there unfurl’d,
    He would, unmov’d, unaw’d, behold;
  The flames of an expiring world,
    Again in crashing chaos roll’d,
  In vast promiscuous ruin hurl’d,
  Might light his glorious funeral pile:
Still dauntless ’midst the wreck of earth he’d smile.

Carstairs  had been waiting for the boat for three days and there it was, suddenly appeared. He had dozed and it had appeared. He trained his binoculars on it, but it was too far away to be clearly recognisable. It seemed motionless, becalmed in a sheet of unruffled water.
 
He had dug himself into a bank in the sandhills. He still had a little water, some raisins; there was a final cube of chocolate carefully wrapped in the whole of its paper. It was the thought of this hidden pleasure that had sustained him during the hours of darkness when the slight rain and the chill of inactivity had forced him to exercise, to move about, though always afraid he would lose his burrow.
 
From the earliest light of dawn the day had been clear and still. The sea birds had muted calls, the sea itself more a presence than a sound. The tide had steadily retreated beyond his expectations. He knew he had to wait for the arranged signal.
 
Turning on his back he looked at the sky. A few clouds floated hesitantly in the glazed blue. He remembered suddenly a moment from his childhood,       above the beach at Red Point. He had escaped his parents, his adored sisters, and hidden himself in the marran grass. He had lain on his back and felt himself levitate into the clouds. He had looked down on the whole scene, a waking dream. Those moments floating above the long Highland beach had never left him. Sitting in the examination hall for his Tripos that memory had come upon him; he had been paralyzed by it, unable to write or think. He had closed his eyes and strange geometrical shapes had ensnared him. He had felt extremely sick . . .and then very calm. He had returned to the task in hand, a translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, that opening passage describing Eurus, Zephyr, Auster and Boreas: the four winds.
 
. . . he felt something wet nuzzle his hand. A dog, a black shape no more. As he struggled to move himself a larger shape obliterated the sun and shot him.

So you had a conversation with god
Which one?
One of the sun?
Perhaps one of wind?
Several of those have spoke to me
Africus spoke first and told me of his heat
Amaunet said "I will chill you from head to feet"
Then came time I met
Auster, who said nothing at all, but belched out a cloud
Zephyrus came very early one spring
and spoke to me so loud,
"I mentioned you to other winds and they are on their way"
I have met with many gods
Which did you meet today?

You asked,
"What if my Sunday has passed?
That the week was all I had,
and I messed it up so bad."

And in cognition,
I ungripped my neck.
I saw a counterpart — I was not the only one.

I knew how it was, to dangle by the jagged pier.
And you knew how it was to choke by disregard,
that floating was impossible with a punctured heart.

When each door meant nothing —
used and crossed out in your likeness.
Where I waited for the Sun,
but my windows stay boarded up.

You scraped bottom until my first word fell.

I said,
"I am a prisoner. And I am the prison."
You said,
"I am a cage, with nothing breathing inside."

I was alone. And you were alone.
And then we were alone together.

You unpicked my fearful lips,
for my throated echoes.
And I reminded you that you
are the reason that beauty exists.

Of the endless books we read,
Auster, Hesse, McCullers, Graves,
we still found ourselves
written on the same page.

Our tattoos were marked like scars —
another hopeless attempt
to speak with ink.
Why not mar the skin,
if we lose only grace?
I used to believe perfection was false,
for I had never seen your face.

You pointed out
my large feminine hands.
Then with your modest fingers,
you screened the chuckles.
And all I pictured from that endearing sight —
my effeminate hands, sheltering yours that frigid night.

No longer living in a future that was all talk.
No longer imperfect — for our scars sat perfect with.

We found Sunday.

I am not alone. And you are not alone.
And we are never alone together.

i was expecting: a bothersome sobering stiffness -
in that: a tongue more rigid and less
maniable - to the extreme of: no less rigid
than rigidity itself implies -

but: this is it, die neu es -
   split second blues for some deviating
pedantry et al.: how many definite articles
are there in deutsche?
   herrman hier: das die der... den -
            pointing definitely at a distance
using the complexity of a telescope:
a horizon of the flattest of all possible flat:
Flanders.

- lately, drinking became intolerable:
    an iron maiden no less, no more...
               that listening to music was...
beside the sound of a crashing piano...    ?
the scratching of a fork and knife
on a porcelain plate... a nail on a blackboard?
believe me when
i say: a thin glass of water and a wet
index circling the edge -
               virulent humming of agitated
atoms...

beside: i begin where i left off...
    from the cinema calender of the abstract heart...
if there is sense to be made:
ex-dada it is...
               it's not hard but it is still
a cluster-**** of wording to have
either the cabaret voltaire in the background
while the trenches to the fore -
or the reverse -
                      
  this neu and the perfect litany
(ja, für jetzt): ernst... schlicht...  nüchtern...
to play on the antonyms:
rasch! bissig!
          like an aporte for a dog...

     neu ernst                /                  alt blau...

because i guess that's the beauty of english
and it's dish of the most succulent: sächsisch...
how it can be woven into a "hiding something"
sort of tartan -
                           on that unconscious
level: coming out of the trenches
               for a game of foos b'ah ah a'loon...
      
it's this cherry: and all around this sea of
clotted cream:
                          or rather: what came "borrowed"
when mingling with the gingerbread men
of a celtic persuasion -
remains on a roman garrison -
yadda yadda blues...
                                      
- no need to reread unless... reading it like
one might read a ted berrigan sonnet,
i.e.
      purgatory announces the grand festival
      the devil's water weeps on my reason
      the love policeman who ****** so quickly
      towards the bells of the white aorta dawn
      **** and ice go to bed under an amorous gaze
      rue st-jacques the pretty boys set off

and how we meet in the middle:
                   large lamp stomachs ****** mary...

   how else to reread a dadaist poem?
                    write anew: cut enough tabloid press
and find a top hat or simply settle for
a bucket?

it's not like i haven't gone through
the similarities... closest (of) kin...  
                              or however you want to look at it,
i.e. "mutated"...
             take away the consonants...
leave yourself five breaths...
            and have yourself a quasi-sputnik fun'oh...
      (e-i-e-e) towing along b, l & v
                      while (a-u-e) is towing along
                                         g, l, b & n

it's hardly a trick or a question or a trick-question
or some "reverse psychology" dynamic...
a verb: nonetheless...

             it is 10:06am and i am almost
done... a coffee has been drank, a cigarette smoked
and a mince pie ate:
caffeine nicotine sugar...
    and the wintry snap! of morning air...
nothing better to wake up... not even a shower...
caffeine nicotine sugar
    and the wintry snap! of morning air...
even i like the sound of that: hence...
                  on repeat...

   about 5 poems read and more importantly
ślicznie, pięknie: prozaicznie...
   something prosaic... to balance the poetics...
after all: i don't know which would
give me more constipation and which
    indigestion - the digestive system aside:
i'm implying... that fat sponge of
spaghetti herr Brian Eez...
                          
eine zunge
zwei zunge
drei zunge            auster
                               ohne ein schale
                               auf a hölzernFußboden

one tongue
two tongue
three tongue         oyster
                               without a shell
                               on a wooden floor!

vier? veer into fwench and... oh my... my my, my...
'nee bother...
aye?
that would ruin the most advantageous
morning: and there's still all that prior to noon
take on: in strife with calculated stride:
most certainly with airy / spacious trousers...

the dust settles...
alternatively: the sum of animation escapes,
the soft pouches and livery of Eden
slowly too... a shamelessness from peace...
best not cremated:
             for the shadow entertaining bone.