I finished a book

Today, captive on a summer coach of corporeal ghosts,
All desperate to free their cramped limbs
Brought on by this sweltering perpetuity of moving and yet

Staying dead still.

And me?
I am the least tangible of them all.
An entire being lost
In the flesh and blood of these characters that I know
Better than myself.

Their lives are
Succinct
Chapters.
Beginning,
Middle,
End.

If only I could follow such narration,
Break from one turgid existence and the
Personal purgatory of my sentence:

The M11: Manchester to London

Here. There. Is no beginning or end but
Instead two places where my faltering roots
Cannot grasp onto something more...
Solid.

But as the bus trails to a halt,
I turn the last leaf.
Flesh and blood evaporate in a flash of

The end.

half an hour? i don't know, i think it was more.
it felt like yoga for masochists by the end of
it... but then i was "repenting" for something
i did 2 nights ago... ****** off 6 times in
the space of a few hours to rekindle the memory
of that fatefall night in st. petersburg...
i ended up with the superficial palmal branch
aching (flexor / abductor pollicis brevis / opponens
pollicis)... basically the grip...
there is scaffold outside my window at the moment,
the roof is being fixed... it's march and
winter can still bite at you, esp. if you're a scaffold
post in the night...
            i swear, it must have been like 40 minutes
in this "yoga" pose...
        the concept of the anti-crucifix?
       it could have been it...
               buttocks perched on the windowsill,
feet crossed propped onto the arm support on
the chair... then the right hand gripping
a scaffold bar, then leaning toward:
what would be considered a dumb drunk trying
to do theatre by falling off a windowsill...
             but **** me! scaffold posts in england
and in march? you realise your hand can elevate itself
to the sort of grip that a crocodile jaw is capable
of... i was perched in this "yoga" pose for the already
stated 40 minutes or so...
                   i wasn't keen on impressing anyone
in the vicinity spying on my in the night...
          in the meantime i read the article about
cynthia nixon playing emily dickinson in her new
movie...
camilla long writing two critques at the movies,
the films? personal shopper starring
kirsten dunst... oh wait... stewar...
           and the revamp of beauty and the beast
starring emma watson...
    then it got weird as my grip on the sub-zero
metal pole of the scaffold tightened and i was
still dangling on a "cliff" edge of the windowsill...
(god, the things you do to write something,
    downing a raw egg and then jogging on
a treadmill would probably imply more to the writing
process... evidently i'm not that kind of person);
the next article? diana vishneva complaining
how current ballet dancers aren't gruelled to replenish
the standards of tradition...
              she's 40 pushing to state: i'll be dancing
till 60...      if only footballers had the same optimism
to knuckle-buck their craniums into another
dive... oh right... soccer... apologies for the trans-atlantic
confusion... tiptoeing into a foul tackle...
                   i don't know this fetish with mermaids...
i also fancied a ballerina... vertical splits... light as a feather...
kama sutra 2.0                   mermaids though?
   it's like this meme that was trending way back
in 2008... two pictures... mermaid on one side...
fish head with female genitals on the other...
  which would you pick?
                     saying that... i've seen bolshoi productions...
well... one... but one is enough after you've seen
the english ballet theatre in the royal albert hall
  performing swan lake...
more like a stampede of mutant centipedes...
or just wildebeasts... but i blame the venue for the stomping,
i could hardly hear the orchestra playing, but fair enough...
the royal opera house probably has better surface...
but then... the bolshoi production was pristine,
nearing silence akin to cats prancing...
                  what i am willing to consider is comparing
the bolshoi to the mariinsky...
            i have no idea how the two would compare,
first time i heard of this ballet house (pardon my ignorance
if you have heard of it prior to me, today)...
           and then it was onto sarah crompton's
article on the english national ballet...  
                     once again: i swear i heard a stampede
          of wildebeasts in the royal albert hall...  i'm not sure...
the surface was too hard? why was everyone clapping?
               i know that swans are a protected species
of birds under their patron that the queen is...
                a bit like that gymnastics question...
                                        i just heard a ******* massive
centipede wriggle with the number of swans
on the dancefloor... they play tennis in this arena,
so i don't know: too multi-purpose to allow a ballet
performance?
                 so back to the yoga pose... gripping the scaffold
bar and leaning off a windowsill with my feet propped
onto the arm support of the chair i'm currently
sitting on... finally! the former pain
                in the arm moved toward the
   flexor carpi ulnaris... and that was the end of
the "yoga" session... not that i feel guilty in the first place;
     just something that happened...
                     funny... if i held onto the scaffold beam
a little bit longer, i'd get to read pop album reviews:
   - james blunt (the afterlove)
                              - spiral stairs (doris and the daggers)
          - the dime notes (the dime notes)
           - zara larsson (so good)
                              - the jesus and the mary chain (damage and joy)
what?! they're still active?! **** me...
                       - spoon (hot thoughts)
       - charli xcx (number1angel).

Watching documentaries about your trendy bands.
The 'Creative Process'. My shaking hands.

I'm inspiration and envy and my own constant shame
Because I'm still Lost to Larsson but by a new name.

I find meaning in nothing and nothing is mine.
I find meaning in water, in four inked red lines.
I fixate and form cycles, I'm Beckett's star act.

I make all these references, I muddle all that.

I'm an artist, I read, these aren't my own thoughts.
I'm not troubled, just open,
And I'm not really lost.

So what can I believe in? Hell, what can anyone?
**** God. **** 'The Classics'

I'll believe in being young.

Ellekari Larsson is haunting my radio tonight,

My lungs burn once again,
As the smoke enters and leaves my body,
Floating lazilly upward to form a blanket of roiling grey.

I looked at my bookshelf today,
And realized with a start,
That I had a shelf of momentos,
Of those who were long gone.

A folded flag,
A well worn tie,
A photo of a man and boy both laughing,
A teddy bear and a cross made out of a straw,
All snapshots to help me remember.

Times that were better,
Even some that were worst,
But important all the same,
For aren't the most important lessons those that hurt, even if just a little?

A charcoal rubbing of an inscription,
A Tom Clancy novel with a dog-eared page about halfway through,
It hurts to look at these momentos sometimes,
But it feels like a betrayal to look away.

The piano and cello amble slowly along,
Like pall bearers shouldering a weight upon their shoulders,
Both physical and emotional.

A copper disc embossed with hands held together in prayer,
An antique Mr.Goodbar tin,
Containing an ascot and a box of matches.

The song slowly comes to an end and I can finally look away,
Take a drag from the cigarette,
Nearly burnt down to the filter,
As I get lost in my thoughts again.

I can't fall in love without you
please don't fall in love without me

by: Zara Larsson

had to switch, i drank all the liter bottles
of Russian Standard ***** from
my local Co-Op,
   which was on offer at £19 a pop...
and wasn't going to spend the night
with a 70cl ***** length of ****-poor
pleasure...
      but?!
Whyte & Mackay was on offer
on the liter libra...
   same price... finally! some palette grit!
a perfumery!
some scooth no. troix!
              **** the lemons and the *****,
give me the whiskey with the limes,
and?
     pepsi max... diet pepsi?
diet coke? coke zero?
    the list of the non-contenders...
made dinner...
    an onion sauce with decent slices
of beef...
             thickened with cornflour...
mash...
            butter... but no crème fraîche...
**** it, do the classic approach...
pour some milk in...
serve the whole sha bang with some
mangetout...
thank you, very much...
but i'm sure we're less than ******
posit on being capable on
     improvisation...
  oh... by the way...
you know what happens to the retards
when their parents die?
     you want to know?
i've seen colt bulls herded better,
readied to the slaughterhouse,
than these... "graces from god"...
   i've seen them...
              remember,
i was misdiagnosed as a schizophrenic...
i know what happens
on these ****** retreats...
the parents die?
guess what? OPEN LOTTERY!
   of course there's one benevolent
20 year old hottie, start-up...
but you ever see the one
who plays the butcher's ***** when
she's nearing 50?
  no *******...
one ****** takes our his pokey
and starts jerking off in public...
well well well...
    ha ha!
             circus friendly, is he?
better keep him with the bears...
built like a ******* brick *******...
like der bla ßter
          (paul larsson) -
still a ****** jerking off in public...
giggling...
    and then the parents die...
oh god... Cornwall tactics of herding
cows for their clotted cream?!
   or how cows are treated
in southern Wales?
        yeah... compared to these
retards... i've seen better, done,
with animals... ha ha!
          mind you...
i'm not much for animal cruelty,
but i've had been harboring this wild,
idea...
an interlude of a soft spirituality,
away from mixing whiskey,
or *****...
     i dare say, i once called beer the
**** of the gods...
    mouth and nose morphed
into a snout, sniffing the neck of a bottle...
cider...
    hmm... Eden... the forbidden fruit...
liquidated...
    **** me!
            the devil's ****!
ha ha...
                 with so many gods,
but only one devil...
   follow the vector...
  oh... by the way...
if you hear anything about the Baphomet
statue
in Arkansas?
   perhaps pagan...
  but... did you know,
it came to popularity,
  under the secret society of the Templar
crusaders?
   the Templar crusaders were burned
at the stake for worshiping
Baphemot... a disambiguation of
Mahometh (Muhammed, zee prophet)...
     perhaps pagan in origin...
but... from what i've read...
the Templar Crusader Monks
incorporated a secret society around
this worship...
                    lost a P here, gained a H
there... let's face it...
   Φ = Θ
          (put the key into the keyhole)
twist, and the door opens...
now i'm really looking
forward to this cider... ha ha!