what terrible news, the marx in me said it true, article heading: mental health gets only 1% of council tax...£664 million a year on ****** health... £111 million on tackling obesity. here’s a simpler explanation... c.d. is part of hardware... mp3 is soft-ware... get a scratched c.d. and turn the hardware into software... then put the virus mp3 onto an iPod, which is hardware... then watch the technological virology take over... the host hardware will break, given that the parasitic software is implanted from a sick hardware it was copied from.*

i was redecorating my mother’s living room,
for a handshake and the prize:
don’t interrupt my drinking pattern, woman please!
so i found to ancient scribbles of paint,
but then hid them like a treasure chest...
i also found the vol. no. 2 of kant’s critique of pure reason
under one of the pieces of furniture...
over a year i lost it... blamed everyone i knew...
but in reality the realisation came when i rekindled
the bookmark coordinate:
it took me two conscious years to read heidegger’s opus,
consciously defined by reading poetry on the sly...
with kant i ended my reading with the introduction of hegel:
antonyms of a pure mind - the third conflict between transcendental ideas -
i got the antithesis straight away... mainly because it spoke of freedom...
while the thesis spoke of the laws of nature and 1, 2, 3, 4, 5...
0 central...
it spoke of sequencing of events... it spoke of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
as paradoxical of 2, 3, 4, 5... and 3, 4, 5 and 4, 5, and 5.
i think i better translate this passage to exemplify the point...
i lost kant for over a year and the **** sizzled...
i kept heidgegger for a year and i came out wondering
why it should take someone 15 years to study aristotle by the man’s suggestion,
so i had myself the alternative:
philosophy begins with awe... well... so does tourism.
let's just say there are corridors at the junction...
we say i almost pickled a cat's paw with wet cinnamon
or ketchup to imprint a paw-print with the gaff quote:
i was here, i found the sound meow inexplicable,
incomprehensible... given the human complications,
i decided to utilise meow with randomisation away
from my superior intuition... whereby the phoneticism
of meow was less than my eyesight and hearing...
so i announced the whiskers and fur and snake-eye in mammal
with a meow... i used meow to communicate with the complex
vowel-consonant reason, but i found my intuition
in rachmaninoff's vocalise wordless song... with my ear against
the radio dreaming away... so said man un-attentive of me...
that i managed to mingle my instinct without the meow
asking for butter... and instead for the daydream...
diva lute diva tangled... diva es lute es flos...
there i was... the cat of abashed baptisms at the fountains of
the baptist with my head wetted...
careless for the dung bag walking partner, or the plaything
i was forced to take interest in... my casual...
fat for keratin, as if fat translated from man unto animal
to ask the boar for the daydream of the conveyor belt
with lost fur and gained fat...
off with my shirt i too graded the follow-up...
as a loss in the tightened woods of winter with the losing shadow
of the shadows of beckoned crowns not adorned in vogue.
but this was only 1912... five years before the revulsion...
before the revolution... five years! spent in the abode of harmonics
by the piano i tried to mistune to write a deathly haunt of presence...
operatic alphabets twisted me into recovering from
the foremost attraction of failure... the neglige of virginity lost
to the public's applause missing...
i too could have vouched a coming back: of spirals away from
the champagne starlight in bouquet crescendos,
for the simple minded aura of perfection - but i vouched
hypnosis as the adequate precursor of staging fright
as the lost composition rekindled into revisionary composition
regained - there too i found the picturesque familiarity
of unsung hilltops regaining strength in the longshanks' heels
as if by deed of achilles in strength regained...
to frighten the lowlands with that glorious fame of
being poisoned by the gratifications of excess in the untrodden path
thus trodden by ear and echo rather than foot,
into the zephyrs of the larynx-ballerinas upon mountain-tops...
thus there, among the content misanthropes -
i too searched orpheus' mirror and prometheus' stone
to be bound to an eternal moment that denied all
other eternal moments and furthered the denial
by not allowing a bullish billion of china
its existential prowess among nations so frequented
by scandinavian description.

Buttresses flew
too close to the sun.
Icarus repeated.

Monuments based on Ideas.
Prophecies based on Conviction.
Trust in a stated Axiom.


Only last for
as long as
someone believes in them.

.oh forget Disney H'america... technicolor H'america was the bomb... gentlemen prefer blondes... oh ****... no... the seven year itch... the Rachmaninoff scene... bell, book & candle scene... whoever the genius was behind the technicolor project, outmatched the Disney in 1950s H'america... little town America... big little ****-hole worth of Europe... eddi reader...more like: keep the cats, a woman may desire luxury, but a man a freedom... keep the town, the summit, the fireplace... keep your luxury... just give me the shadow, the sun, the moon, and the road: perpetually greeting me.

oh forget looking
for scapegoats
these days...
full blown schizophrenia,
happening,
all over the anglophone
world...
me?
i'm just looking
at the lampoons...
sorry...
lemmings...
and the English?
top the table in western
world...
they thought they'd be
bailed out by
the H'americans...
good luck rolling
that pin-ball...
not gonna happen...
they have their own ****
to deal with...
   it could have...
but now it will never
work out, no anglophone
alliance bail-out plan...
it's a ******* farce...
it's a bogus in the bogie
in the ******* coalmine...
forget the canary...
   ****... i'm seriously flipping
the coin on phrases...
FDR contra DJT?
  magic!
no... the politicians were always
going to place the card...
the joker... free-fall dance-loose
feet...
         my bet is...
it'll fall flat on its face...
the eastern European Achilles
heel of the europhiles...
that's a supposition,
not a proposition...
                     or thereby, pre-....
but i do love being a spectator
of rare sport...
en masse schizophrenia...
a nation, divided...
             what a load of *******...
the English thought that their
anglophone alliances would
last, would encrust them in
a new globalization mechanism...
even the ******* Icelandic people
think they're European...
what did the English think?
just east of Las Vegas?!
           an island surrounded
by a massive prehistorical lake
"facility"?!
no one is looking for scapegoats
these days,
there's no one to blame...
mea culpa, mea culpa...
    these days?!
everyone is looking for the lampoon
brigade!
- and let me tell you...
mea culpa mea culpa...
no one is looking for a scapegoat
worth kristallnacht;
people are looking
for a lampoon...
     or...
        karmesinrotherznacht,
the night of... broken hearts;
broken, crimson hearts.

There is an inch of sleight in this house – this cold chair,
a burst of cologne clogging a 20 minute stride. The stringent
air tonight blusters deeper than gashing sheens.

The little dryad of dew outside and the cadenza of frogs
after lambaste of rain. Whenever you sing, your voice
communes an immense pain, something unconscious of its
gravity, something that levitates back to momentary ululations

swelling in the grime of times and heady chances. A long stretch
of a day submerged in silence resembling a howl underwater.

There will be many sorrows and they will take form of doves,
assume the skin of the populace. They will come in a volume of
names pressing the linoleumed musk the way the body turns
maneuvering over the saltine, the mattress, juxtaposed to a lover,

a brusque aroma of coffee brushing away the calm demeanor
of the morning, dragging along the weight of its lassitude
towards the sprays of fern opening a dense ornate of forget,

you, in all places that pulse without recall – an obtuse
fish feeling its life in a surge of blue, overtime, finally knowing
    what it means *to sing and drone only words.

There were two piano pieces of Rachmaninoff's: Love's Joy and Love's Sorrow. Now she, the musician who lets the instrument cry for her, always chooses to play the latter piece. And he, the musician who seeks to pursue happiness with his instrument, asks her, "Why do you stick to sorrow?"
.
.
.
"So I can get used to it."

Molten web
of keys
& brass tumble
to the ear;
there's cane
sugar burning,
a thick crest
of moon, the
breast of night,
& the piano
is a violent
love, a brace
of stone.

The second
movement
arrives like
a galleon
with sails
of cries
& whispers.
The world
lilts. A scent
of lilacs
in the
hand. The
minor key
move is
devastating.
"I saw the
figure 5
in gold"

Then,
the dusky
iron of the
anvil births
sparks.
Wistful
lace of
yesterday
falters
in the air.
Trumpet
creepers
climb the
black trellis
of evening.
A closing
throb that
speaks:
It was
worth it.

by Ramond Carver**

You don't know what love is Bukowski said
I'm 51 years old look at me
I'm in love with this young broad
I got it bad but she's hung up too
so it's all right man that's the way it should be
I get in their blood and they can't get me out
They try everything to get away from me
but they all come back in the end
They all came back to me except
the one I planted
I cried over that one
but I cried easy in those days
Don't let me get onto the hard stuff man
I get mean then
I could sit here and drink beer
with you hippies all night
I could drink ten quarts of this beer
and nothing it's like water
But let me get onto the hard stuff
and I'll start throwing people out windows
I'll throw anybody out the window
I've done it
But you don't know what love is
You don't know because you've never
been in love it's that simple
I got this young broad see she's beautiful
She calls me Bukowski
Bukowski she says in this little voice
and I say What
But you don't know what love is
I'm telling you what it is
but you aren't listening
There isn't one of you in this room
would recognize love if it stepped up
and buggered you in the ***
I used to think poetry readings were a copout
Look I'm 51 years old and I've been around
I know they're a copout
but I said to myself Bukowski
starving is even more of a copout
So there you are and nothing is like it should be
That fellow what's his name Galway Kinnell
I saw his picture in a magazine
He has a handsome mug on him
but he's a teacher
Christ can you imagine
But then you're teachers too
here I am insulting you already
No I haven't heard of him
or him either
They're all termites
Maybe it's ego I don't read much anymore
but these people w! ** build
reputations on five or six books
termites
Bukowski she says
Why do you listen to classical music all day
Can't you hear her saying that
Bukowski why do you listen to classical music all day
That surprises you doesn't it
You wouldn't think a crude ******* like me
could listen to classical music all day
Brahms Rachmaninoff Bartok Telemann
**** I couldn't write up here
Too quiet up here too many trees
I like the city that's the place for me
I put on my classical music each morning
and sit down in front of my typewriter
I light a cigar and I smoke it like this see
and I say Bukowski you're a lucky man
Bukowski you've gone through it all
and you're a lucky man
and the blue smoke drifts across the table
and I look out the window onto Delongpre Avenue
and I see people walking up and down the sidewalk
and I puff on the cigar like this
and then I lay the cigar in the ashtray like this and take a deep breath
and I begin to write
Bukowski this is the life I say
it's good to be poor it's good to have hemorrhoids
it's good to be in love
But you don't know what it's like
You don't know what it's like to be in love
If you could see her you'd know what I mean
She thought I'd come up here and get laid
She just knew it
She told me she knew it
**** I'm 51 years old and she's 25
and we're in love and she's jealous
Jesus it's beautiful
she said she'd claw my eyes out if I came up here
and got laid
Now that's love for you
What do any of you know about it
Let me tell you something
I've met men in jail who had more style
than the people who hang around colleges
and go to poetry readings
They're bloodsuckers who come to see
if the poet's socks are *****
or if he smells under the arms
Believe me I won't disappoint em
But I want you to remember this
there's only one poet in this room tonight
only one poet in this town tonight
maybe only one real poet in this country tonight
and that's me
What do any of you know about life
What do any of you know about anything
Which of you here has been fired from a job
or else has beaten up your broad
or else has been beaten up by your broad
I was fired from Sears and Roebuck five times
They'd fire me then hire me back again
I was a stockboy for them when I was 35
and then got canned for stealing cookies
I know what's it like I've been there
I'm 51 years old now and I'm in love
This little broad she says
Bukowski
and I say What and she says
I think you're full of ****
and I say baby you understand me
She's the only broad in the world
man or woman
I'd take that from
But you don't know what love is
They all came back to me in the end too
every one of em came back
except that one I told you about
the one I planted We were together seven years
We used to drink a lot
I see a couple of typers in this room but
I don't see any poets
I'm not surprised
You have to have been in love to write poetry
and you don't know what it is to be in love
that's your trouble
Give me some of that stuff
That's right no ice good
That's good that's just fine
So let's get this show on the road
I know what I said but I'll have just one
That tastes good
Okay then let's go let's get this over with
only afterwards don't anyone stand close
to an open window

the klaxon carols of your grief belie the golden pipes of your madness.
the cherubs embedded in your lost happiness
slip through cracks in your voice. James Joycean.
the fugue, your discord dims, seeps through the gauze
of your field dress. your wound holds the root note
oozing Rorschach ~ Rachmaninoff
jungian etudes allude
to a deep you at the bitter end
gnawing on sweet bones to marrow sip
from the holy grail and -
a humble pagan ***. i greet you at the airport, barefooted.
found you
talking to a cloud
in your blue sky *****. it was shaped
like an anvil cloud in your iris
watched as you forged
lightning bolts -
fit to hinge
heaven's
door.

we had the same flight at two different altitudes.

and i loved you more.

[February the twenty-seventh]
My hair is unwashed and here is blood in my spit.
There is *** on my shirt, requires care to notice.
I have a headache and took two chewable aspirin.
My hand on my cock!
Five, say, ten cumshot salute!
Ready, Aim, Shoot!
I played with a toothpick, pushed into my gums
whenever the professor looked quizzical.
I pick my nose whenever I'm sitting,
smeared where -I can, -it sticks.
I can feel bits of mud, gravel on scalp
between hairs. Been digging, you see.
Sand in the bed, too. Gets in on the feet.
Feels like ants. I walk in from the site.
I feel armless, a little regretful I started
writing this.

-Took vitamins
-Did reading
-Call parents
-Get sleep

When Carter woke up I hadn't even closed my eyes yet,
had'm locked dead on the grain woman on my screen,
hand beneath the blanket--But oh, how the sun came in.
Carter couldn't move at all. He was sitting on that one.
There.
I knew I was going to die that day, sometime,
did when I opened the shade and Rachmaninoff's
op. 14, №6 You Are Loved By All played. I didn't, now,
but I might have a kidney stone.

the section in question is as mentioned in rachmaninoff’s
vocalise (op. 34 no. 14), first some symbology of numbers
in relation to kant’s thesis:

in a sequence
                                 (end)                                             (beginning)
                                           1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

   upon reaching 1 and
subsequently              0,

i find this to be unsatisfactory in terms of the kantian
equation 0 = negation,
unless there be an affirmation of non-negation, the use
of zero would have to take the form of coordinates,
thus the sequence would be as above but it would end
thus: (0, 0, 0) - given that the above sequence can be
seen a linear, given that it might reflect the essence time,
ending the sequence with 0 would only provide
“the end of time,” hence the need to change the whole
sequence ending with the other essence, space - and thus
the loss of negation, given from the beginning (0, 0, 0)
the following sequences are provide:
(1, 1, 1), (2, 2, 2), (3, 3, 3) (x, y, z), etc., which is the affirmation
i was looking for - movement in a three dimensional space,
the only other affirmative possibility is by ending the
sequence with ∞, which is transcendental positivism
aligned with ending the sequence with (0, 0, 0),
and not transcendental negativism of merely using 0;
nonetheless, this is my introductory fascination
as on offshoot of what is about to be translated
(i can't read philosophy in english, hence this translation
comes from a translation of german translated
into polish and now translated into english) -

antonyms of pure reason
the third conflict between transcendental ideas

                     thesis                                                  antithes­is
causality in agreement with the          freedom does not exist, yet
laws of nature isn't the only                 everything in the world happens
causality, from which all                      only according to the laws of
phenomena can be explained               nature.
in the world. for explaining them
it is also necessary to accept the
(self-accomplishing) causality
through freedom.

                    proof                              ­                                 proof
let us accept, that there is no other     accept, that freedom exists in a
causality other than the one in            transcendental understanding of
agreement with the laws of nature;    the word as a particular type of
thus everything, that is happening     causality, according to which
appropriates a preceding state, after  events in the world could take
which its next successive state is         place, namely the ability to begin
not sheltered from a certain rule.        in a way that's absolute of a
                                                              ­    certain state, and also in the
                                                                ­ same way, its series of successive
                                                     ­            *implications.

I'm a dulled edge,
getting dressed, put on your shoes
and sit on the couch, waiting
for the love of your life to come
walking in through the door, singing.
but she doesnt come,
fate stood you up.
no smiling face to greet you,
no reason to get up, to bathe,
to leave the house,  to cook,
to get angry, to feel anything.
the nights are long and full
of drinking with whoever can pass a
bottle. beer. wine. pouring *****
in the wine. blowing half your check
at the bar one night,  and the
other half the next.
and I keep thinking 'where's she at?'
today I woke up early,
took out the trash,  smoked a cigarette
watched the sun rise for a while,
turned on the radio, they were
playing Rachmaninoff, turned the
radio back off.
let the cat chew on my beard for
a while.
I've done just about everything,
what else is there?
so I drive to the store. grabbed
a little basket and put in
soap, two apples, an onion,
buy the wrong kind of cornmeal.
some kale and mushrooms.
instinctively buy some things the
last one liked (I'm terrified I'll never
be able to break that habit).
drive home put down the bags.
start taking out the contents and
looking at them,
placing them methodically on the
table crowded with paper and
***** dishes and crumpled
beer cans
and I stare at the sink
full of the same
and then I look at the
floor covered in garbage
and finally to the kale in
my hand.
"my god," I said to the kale "this
is how suicides happen."
I put it down, smoke
another cigarette and watch
the tree growing in the
courtyard. it'll be here after I'm
dead, one of the ugly stains
left in my wake.

She thought to herself,
"What if I am tired
Of living in a dream.
What would it be like
To wake up and
Everything stayed as it did seem."
She needed light
For that was the way she dealt,
Though truly she felt
That eyes look more beautiful
In the dark,
For then you can not see
How much they lack a spark.
The more of herself
This moment is taking,
Inside she is surely not making
Anything worth keeping,
Only a future that is breaking.
The thought of this
Always leads to her shaking.
Will they ever come back to this place?
The light shines now on a figure
She swore she could trace,
Which she knows will ruin her heart,
Yet she loves the way it makes it race -
How that beating-heart of hers
Rushed swift like some
Rachmaninoff Concerto,
How that mind of hers,
Waltzed around the room,
Not-knowing where to go,
Into those arms, and just
Linger there like an overnight
Stay at a luxury hotel,
And she will go and come,
Like waves on the naked shore,
Swelling toward tenderness,
The sun is forever orange there-
Now the figure is in focus,
Rushing her off her soles,
She never asked where -

- Lola Rose & Jamie F. Nugent

at unevenfall The Usuper snaps

open a stripped black umbrella, anticipating

an ocean of rain.

downed hard, underneath his half-bit face, Bacon's

1946: "Painting".

layed down for the groundswells of buoy bells.

his heavy footed dance discombobulates

the chest of tides, thickened to molasses.

clawing inlets that flash the Stygian

wounds of his sands.

Write a letter to yourself and where you think you'll be in eight years time,
the therapist told me it would unlock something in me and so I wrote that letter and put it under the clock on the marble mantelpiece.

Today at five forty three it occurred suddenly to me
that the time had come,
so I opened the letter
and read,

you will be listening to Rachmaninoff
or 'jacking off'
still slacking off
and backing away from today

okay
that's where my head was then
incapable of projecting

protected in a cocoon
wrapped tight in darkness
outside the back of but
soon and how the way then
is not now.

I suppose the writing was a good idea
even though
my head was up my rear
and shows me that not
everything is a tragedy
not everything
is about me
but
it should be,
ha
only joking.

Anorexic branches of weeping willows
Get played by the wind
A hungry man pushes milk on a trolley
Strolls by corpses for their sins skinned.
All this shines under morning rays of Melancholy.

Soft sounds of Rachmaninoff
Make nature in frames move
Holy is the feeling of freedom
Every escape of mine freedom does approve.
All this shines under morning rays of Melancholy.

Silver collars of workmen
All washed and left to dry
Empty parks and streets get haunted
As years go by.
All this shines under morning rays of Melancholy.

Hordes of suits pour in crimson rooms
Stacked with greed
From floor to roof
Indeed fast they run when they smell the truth.
All this shines under morning rays of Melancholy.

Shadows go around
Green dies and again is reborn
Every year with even less sound than before
Corpses still hang, God wants more

And all this shines
'Till one day it sets on fire
Burnt is the last proud buyer
Melancholy stands still, stopping to admire
Then walks away, She understands;
The world has expired.

i don't know why this conclusion hasn't arrived...
two outlets: prostitution and cooking...

there i was sitting for a whole day
paralysed by: something's "wrong"
   trying to see how far i could shove my head
up my *** to spot an ostrich...

before?
       amongst other things...
       online publishing?
              bit of a farce, isn't it, considering
the principal of ©...
    namely that, of all html outlets of
self- or otherwise publications,
  wattpad and only wattpad has
    an actual copr. in the code...
namely the inability to ctrl c through
to ctrl p...
        one ******* website!
       among the giants of publishing
which... apparently do not have any,
                        any! copr.!
so much for any prestige being gained
having words printed under:
vanity fair, e.g.

but then i started thinking about dinner,
for a while,
   ****** off 3 times to fine art (Bronzino)
and jada stevens and abella danger and
that's your pop culture, right there...

before thinking about what to cook...
****... haven't cooked a risotto for a while,
i remember my uni. flatmate used
to cook that **** all the time...

    oddly enough i even bought non-alcoholic
wine because i liked its pale colour...

and... some rachmaninoff on the radio...
gently adding the ingredients,
cooking from a butter rather than
olive oil base...
       sometimes simply frying,
but then suffocating the meat under
the lid to add tenderness...
       wondering about the amount of
scrubbed nutmeg...
   the double cream just at the end
or before the chicken broth to allow
the rice to slurp the moisture in?

after...

                  1 hour's worth of cooking
is probably worth 20 hours' worth
talking to a psychiatrist,
       or at least half an hour with a *******...
maybe even less...

     but i'll give it half an hour
considering that's how the "lowest of
the low" sometimes tend to charge...
  like it was ever about stamina,
or looks, or: yeah, sure,
   i really wish i was *******
the *****-types...

                        but an hour's worth of
cooking is probably worth 20+ hours'
worth of talking to a psychiatrist...
         chestnut mushrooms,
pork, just a hint of bacon,
                      definitely parsley rather than
basil...
   autumn theme: basil wouldn't
get past this mixture...

                    if they say that music
sooths even the savage beast,
                   n'ah...
                                cooking...
music these days can actually
    excites the cultivated man and makes
him... a meathead...
   so yeah...
                         you have the ratios.

ANY ONE VOWEL OF THE SINGER'S CHOOSING

The photo freezes
us into

this exact
instant.

Yet leaves out
the intense heat.

We locked into this
kiss forever

happening in colour
frozen in B&W.

Curiously there are no
insects in this

photographic world.

Yet so many
on that "then."

We are at once badly
smitten & bitten.

Our friend's song
also is not

captured
as the world stops

for just that
instant.

Her naked voice
stripped of words

her vocalise
tangled amongst

sunlight and leaves.

A fingerprint in purple
paint( added years later )

is not visible
on this

day of days
a thing tangible

as a soul
made visible

in deep purple.

The photo also fails
to convey

your lip's softness

the kiss's smell
of Chardonnay & menthol ciggies.

Sweet sweat
trickling into eyes wide open

our breaths
mingling.

I take in all
the photo elects

to leave
out.

The kiss
hidden now

by death...
...the death of days

and that infamous
famous purple fingerprint.

*

Vocalise, Op. 34, No. 14, is a song by Sergei Rachmaninoff, composed and published in 1915 as the last of his "Fourteen Songs", Op. 34. Written for high voice (soprano or tenor) with piano accompaniment, it contains no words, but is sung using any one vowel (of the singer's choosing). It was dedicated to soprano Antonina Nezhdanova.

Ha ha...I just like the phrase...it is the instruction to the singer and I had only heard it sung on an O so my friend was doing A...I...E...U...and Y versions for me! All this singing floating about as the camera goes click in the middle of a kiss and we are trapped in a b&w forever. It was going to be called WHAT THE PHOTO LEAVES OUT but I'm much more pleased with its present title! Singers tend to do "O" versions mostly! Although there is a theremin version!