i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!
I.
i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
is actually a planet - due to its colour -
it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
and on the canvas
of the night?
sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
question is... is that *mars,
or is that venus?
**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...
II.
did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
or XII or...
with a dot?
not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in: YOVR POINT?
just wondering
how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
ȷokιng around...
what with the iPod...
why shouldn't ι,
come ιn -
and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
why, even, bother?
and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
cedιlla, ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?
III.
it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...
personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
looking down on it...
the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -
(0,0,) LH ******* A
RH index finger N -
that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
notably? SHIFT + (?/) key -
*******...
but for the apostrophe?
the (@ ') key...
which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...
IV.
- interlude -
--- -- - - - - - - - logic -- - - - -- - bomb -- - - -- -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -
V.
it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
netzach - respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
from the the head - to the base
of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
no aware of the spacing?
question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
VI.
why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
boom!
thunder, lightning...
the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
literally...
the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
probably your typical day
on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
god...
there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...
VII.
oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
**** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?
