i was working in greenwich once, never mind what
i was doing: the view was great -
the bursts of air and i had myself imagining being
strapped to a longboat all the way to harvest
knowledge of iceland and greenland...
and bring back a vision of a snowman...
but at the greenwich waterstones i came across
a rare find...
i still don't know why i didn't buy the whole
trilogy... it was there for the taking...
why i didn't buy the whole lot i will never know...
unless there's some alternative universe for me
to visit after i tot this one...
j.-k. huysmans' Durtal trilogy...
then again... perhaps là-bas is not the en route,
the cathedral, the oblate...
what did i pick up?
something better than a hardback edition...
an aubrey beardsley's 'of neophyte and how
the black Black Art was revealed to him by the fiend
Asomuel' (from the Pall Mall magazine...
june 1893) - so much for... Urotsukidōji:
legend of the overfiend...
that... castrating ***** anime from
the depths of the bedroom tax from
soy-sauce-tokyo...
but a Durtal will never become a Julien Sorel...
the first love, that of Stendhal's the scarlet & the black
when it was only a movie...
with rachel weisz and ewan mcgreggor...
no... Durtal would never become a Sorel...
but i had the entire trilogy in my hands...
whether là-bas is called en route...
it's a dream... come to think of it... there's a...
thinning of a 10 year gap...
the day when memories start behaving like
dreams: on the current day...
so i didn't have the trilogy in my hands...
i can remember the covers just as well:
la cathédrale and l'oblat;
perhaps en route wasn't included...
on the shelf... i wouldn't dare mingle
jean des esseintes from À rebours into...
salt mine comparison of... what Durtal...
what Julien Sorel would never...
this quest for the hafiz...
perhaps i did see four books next to each
other... in the greenwich waterstones...
no... come to think of it...
there's no need to it as such...
whether there were four books or three...
À rebours wasn't on the list...
i've heard of comradery in the world war one
trenches near Ypres...
i hardly need to hear of it in a marriage...
****-wit hard-on of a would be "dictator":
just like me... with a personal library...
and some music stashed in 80s quicksilver
discoball disks...
and some liquorice vinyl: mostly jazz...
for the love of books:
roman polanski's: the ninth gate...
it's a book it's not a mirror: nor is it a puddle
or a lake... but most importantly...
it is the ever present cat...
how will i ever sleep in a bed...
that isn't... that isn't prior to me sleeping in it:
warmed by a *****?
oh that's bad... as i was in love was:
which was oh so terrible as...
god... to have to fall asleep on my worst side
of the body... till it was numb...
how it was necessary to siamese ourselves
to sleep... the slit neck and the breaking
of the cucifix under a... heavier burden
than after the passing... it started to rain...
that apparent: no **** sherlock moment...
of glass eating mirror... how...
but narcissus only saw a ghost being reflected
in the primitive mirror -
he would have to wait until night to see
a reflection in glass... or at least banish his shadow
from the confines of noon to peer at his face
within the ripe hours of his testament...
prior to the mirror prior to the mirror...
there was only the ***** and:
let's pretend i look my best...
just pretend... there was no "divination"
of the visage... i sometimes forget that i can look
at myself, in these vampiric insults of a reflection...
what i crave is for someone to objectify me...
will a cat ever caste an "evil eye" into your scrutiny...
extend the hand... show the cat all your fingers...
to express the bounty, the gift,
the emptiness in the chore of the mandible thumb...
and will it not look elsewhere?
darting squint to and fro...
as much as i could love women...
there was only one... ms. amber that kept me...
toe-tied but at the same time dancing
to an exhausting effort to... clinging to:
the death shall resound with praise...
and this body of mine...
should my shadow accept it...
stand in the orchestrated hall of a kitchen...
candle-lit whereby a rose will tun from
red to purple when enough candle flame
is looted for the purpose...
as all... not all: but me... grit their teeth...
grit their teeth until a shrapnel bite is gritted of
with a sublime fashion to conclude
a wake...
*****: that pensive spirit added to
a lemonade... which is such a burden that...
i almost wish to have written a chapter of
a scandinavian harlequins novel...
what good is a mirror...
when the only good ever came from how
others perceived me...
this... acrid slab of bone and flesh...
this blood this flush of quasi-flesh and blood
in the confines of marrow...
to borrow but also to break
the rims and the canvas skeleton...
to lord over mr. sponge-brains...
and all these, other... details...
piquant palettes of taste...
a cat doesn't know that:
one doesn't eat where one take a ****?
perhaps from the same gob...
one doesn't ****... but sure as *****...
one eats with...
peculiar wormholes into what's best
advanced as: well a cat is not equivalent
to keeping a turnip lucky...
as a cat is not a dog...
i always welcome forgetting the leash...
and if it was an alsatian... i keep forgetting
the muzzle...
cats... solipsistic bonsai tigers...
no: but every other mercury rising...
it's hard to come across an immediate affection...
notably among animals...
once i tried it with a herd of horses...
pretending to be holding a sugar cube
in my hand... i was almost hoofed in the head
dead... the moon was singing...
while the horse retorted:
there's no sugar cube, or apple in your hand...
i'm merely nibbling on your fingertips!
hoof! just missed my 'ed...
perhaps i was lying...
but what isn't a lie when walking through
a forest at night?
the moon has to be a lie...
your shadow has to be a lie...
i might have dared to take a mirror with
me on my nocturnal promenades into the forest...
but then again...
that would be akin to...
taking a candle-lit into a market square come
noon... when no shadow is ever made
available...
for the love of books...
it's hard to want animals to like you...
let alone love you so that they are necessarily
inclined to sleep in the bed you're about
to sleep in, interrupt you while you're typing for
some tickles and giggles...
cat's life...
as i was most "pressured" to peer at...
taking a shower while pouring water on the back
of my cranium for a simulated
******... at the moment / point where
the neck ends and the skull begins...
the crux of the occipital bone: less protruding -
or so i'm told...
i tend to forget the genitals or *******
at this point of extracting pleasure...
who is to be loved,
who is unloved, who is better loved...
who's just a ******* fern, with a bias,
to begin with? isn't that the usual poetic
rat-fest of this and every other current
output / outpouring?
who's love is the madman's love?
i write: and then i recoil...
i wish that i might always recoil
into braille: ⠞⠕
⠎⠑⠑
oh but i am bothersome... if china explored...
every other one child state policy...
i would always be at odds
come the measured sentiments...
otherwise the cats...
without the leash or the muzzle...
left to their own device...
sleeping in the bed i will
sleep in twists and turns
of... snow white and the sulking dwarfs...
of which there was a count to mind:
notably a 7 fold...
when drinking is a "problem"
while you're too preoccupied with writing...
then there's no point
of making a Friday night an adventure
with a limping boast for:
how much anyone might,
at any time... ever... drink...
i call it a sharpened syringe intake
of both violins and harps...
when the time comes:
there's that... breaking of glass
crescendo... the shock & awe
biltzkrieg "innuendo"...
there's that high pitch...
hanging knot of the noose vowel
"sigh"... elongating itself into
a measure of: the length of a serpent...
i fall asleep listening to horror movie soundtracks...
that cats are exposed to seeing ghost
from behind, having to peer at walls...
perhaps cats do not see shadows:
they only see ghosts...
bonsai tigers and demigod sphinxes...
blind-dating Artemis with
the bunnyman...
a lazy hook: no advice...
refining the "concept" or a rock...
even if equipped with a chisel...
come, frankly, a rock is still not a mountain...
"one" calls it an escape from both darwinism
and feminism...
in the same one defines a piano:
it's not a pineapple...
it's not an apple... it's not a pear
or an afghani altar of the dowry...
some feudal **** load and *******...
it's not quite a lobotomy...
it's a safe haven of tax + a niqab...
because riddled brian is the half-cheese
chess piece soup steward and...
the bus links need to be left open...
a potato ≠ a bottle of *****...
oh but it does... it does it does...
i forget the moment i drink...
when i start to drink...
solo does the soul best...
so little or so much of the unnecessary "talk"
surrounding alcoholics anonymous...
i will grieve the bibliophile woo woo
clan...
they take a photograph...
but then they might just stand
before your body beside
a coffin...
and... "eureka"!...
john wayne wins an oscar
for: true grit...
he finally made it!
- way say loan'g gone Sally! way why with
tht spaghetti drool of y'ers!
i dare you: to daft punk me...
i watch a cloud with as many
instructions as must be assembled
for.... the cloud will **** rain...
and i... shaman primo...
will juggle knee-caps
and rubber-***** and... the better fold
of an elbow waiting for a riddle...
otherwise:
it's called a sour-cherry tree /
seasonal dieting... honey bear
poo'k ch'oop... luvvie bit by two bears
honey dew... ms. housewife 1950s...
selling compliments
as household burdens...
of which none are to be "had"...
the love of books...
otherwise known as the chopin nocturnes...
the better "half" of islam
was written by... khadijah **** khuwaylid...
first wife surahs...
the rest is... camle jockeys rummaging
in the hill-top confines of spain...
bruising french cargo ego...
i love cats, i love books...
god please me to endear a love for dogs
when not having to use both
leash and muzzle... to pet a dobberman...
is enough: most enough...
i will love a book more than a woman...
beside some "added on"...
some romanian folklore...
a mongol invasion will set you back
200 years...
who were the mamluks...
who were the janissaries...
the brain-washed few...
what's best: is what has to be borrowed...
enslaved...
otherwise i call "her": timid Timothy...
the best of my life is a tomb...
the books and the stale air of flicking through pages...
the interludes of a harpsichord...
being played... becauae i know the difference...
if it is a piano... but it isn't...
there's a demand for citing Venice...
and the manufacture of glass...
and...
a bottle of ***** is an unbaked potatoe...
while ms. amber is a squared mile of
timid autumnal green... in that it's something
extracted from concentrated wheat...
and barley and rye...
and... this... figment of my imagination...
the hungarian tokaj -
i could almost, most assured... cry...
after each and every other single word
i write...
the violin shrill coupled with the escaping
vocals beside having to stratum guise themselves
into an opera: opera least welcome!
let us entertain the circus primo!
for the love of books...
the lesser case scenario of:
what does it take to barrage oneself
with a to mistake a cushion for a goose...
most certainly not the post-mortem
of the 72 virgins as promised...
why wouldn't i call
muhammad the little solomon?
i'll reiterate...
muhammad is the quasi
small ibn solomon...
queasy: first comes first...
muhammad whittle solomon....
not so great...
not akin loitering... surrounding
average shlomo greeting his dues...
his davish'am... psalms are not
to be questioned by sonnets
or jazz improv.
the gargoyles: novem portis...
dead-blank stares of
stone on wilting welcome, via hubris...
borrowed from the confines
of swedish cinema...
begotten by berries...
the Bergman in all of us...
it's time to make ammends...
bid the readers goodnight..
than the all-encompassing compact...
a mother due,
a grandmother due...
and say...
i arrived... but i am most certain:
to leave without any darwinistic burdens...
because: as much as i loved women
as ******...
women would never adorn the stale
perfumery...
that's better "lisped" by,
by books;
a clarinet of suspense is...
always the bounty of an escaped presence
to mind.
in the old narrative:
to love a ***** is to able to love all
women...
look toward a book... toward a piano!
better you sift through dust
and shadows! lick a gravestone:
if you're lucky!
