Life is an untamed surprise
An cycle that will never end
On the way we see what lies
Around the riverbend

There’s so much for us to face
Much that we don't comprehend
But let us travel to the place
Around the riverbend

There’s much that we adore
And much we won’t befriend
So don't wait for what’s in store
Around the riverbend

We floating and dancing free
And at the same time we’re penned
But let's see what there might be
Around the riverbend

We don’t know our future plans
But one day you’ll apprehend
So why not soar to the lands
Around the riverbend

We don’t know what we’ll become
But we know it’s not the end
So don’t fear what’s to come
Around the riverbend

— OrcasTogether

.remember this youtube channel: harakiri diat...

i think this genre of music has a name: brutalism...
last night i watched 50 book recommendations
by the cosmicsceptic...
beside his oxford specific titles relating
to his philosophy and theology degree...
came the fictional books...
i presumed that i didn't read anything going
into this video...

i can be forgiven for not reading a christopher
hitchens when i've read some knausgård...
perhaps i presume to have not read anything...
because... i do quiet enjoy the act of reading...
so much so that... only scraps remain for me that
are: useful...

i can't imagine finding any use from a book
if it's not already in it...
apparently i'm not so under-read as i led myself
to believe...
but this is not about literature...
i was looking for a genre to encompass...
say... vomito *****...
the klinik...
the soft moon...
but i couldn't come to anything of worth...
not until i foraged for the more obscure...
the raw pulp...
primitive knot - ******* of brutalism...
again... the channel harakiri diat
has the music covered...
zeit und geist... i am the fire...
let's keep it clean...
i would go as far as to include
bohren & der club of gore: midnight radio
into this whole mix...

as much as i'd love to push for die krupps...
no can do... their stuff is polished goods...
vomito ***** is polished goods...
but there's still something raw about them...
once upon a time there was this "thing"
about doom metal... electric wizard... etc.,
but i can say... this new brutalism is...
by far... better than a gavin mcinnes diet
of punk... i never liked punk...
i never liked punk as i never liked rap...
hip hop yes and all that jazzmatazz fussion...
some solid grit...

after all... Romford, Essex...
probably the last bastion of the music shop...
a his-master's-voice with a vinyl section...
my idea of a tennis-court,
a cafe, a swimming-pool, a park,
a church even... because you can never really
own too many records...

and between me and you:
what's the difference between me and my neighbor?
he plays his music, mostly rap...
on the speakers... and sings along to the songs...
he finishes the day with some r'n'b and stops
singing... i take over...

headphones in, 6ft2 posture hunched in a chair
scribbling with chicken-pecking precision
some long lost "hierogylphic"...
and of course: in between some, literature...
but it was only about the music...
youtubers ruined youtube as much as
the "legacy media"... or the next will smith...
"vlogger"...

once upon a time youtube was a haven for people
like me: who only used it to find new music...
somehow the glitches started and the music video
recommendations died: youtube thesaurus algorithm
became corrupt or something...

would i ever sing-along to a song?
not if it's as raw as a stake-tartar and the dish
needs to be served with merely thinking to compliment it...
i'll repeat what i've already said:
gentlemen! the jukebox is ******!
- and i was the type to listen and then buy
a physical copy... even though i didn't have to...
i could go back and listen to the same stuff again...
out of principle...

no car = no car insurance no road tax...
no mobile phone = no... bill...
in terms of primitive knot, though?
would you rather go blind or deaf?
that's a tough one...

listening to primitive knot or watching
a latex lucy b.d.s.m. short *****-flick...
i know: it's the obvious synonym overlap...
but at the same time it isn't...
gimp suits or all those other unicorns of the bedroom...
but no... the most forbidden act i ever managed
to fathom in a brothel was a kiss...
one time i pulled out a ***** from a drawer
when she went with the money to the madame
of the parlour and coming back asked me:

do you want to use it?
*** to me is like rye bread...
it's not a ******* croissant...
toasting alone will do the trick...
language is already complicated by necessity...
of crosswords and the boredom
that most mono-lingual people feed not having
learned a crossword of bilingualism...
why would i inhibit this fact of voyeurism?
apparently there's something immoral watching
someone get pleasured...
perhaps i should find some rare footage of
a peter anthony allen hanging...
or Leroy Hall, Jr. at the Riverbend (Nashville, Tennessee)?
perhaps i should start jerking off on
a whim, from time to time...
over execution footage?

perhaps it's that sort of conundrum...
you see someone eating ice-cream and enjoying it...
you therefore? buy yourself a cone?
god almighty... but the added responsibility
of also owning the fridge and freezer
when that spontaneous whim passes...
after all... there's always that diet of...
the girls jerking off into the camera...
which is probably the least guilt-riddled form
of ******* on the planet...

hey! if she's doing it... and you sat down
on the throne of thrones to do the no. 1 and the no. 2...
let's call it no. 3 and taking a baptism later (no. 4)...
esp. if you haven't been circumcised...
at this point: i feel sorry for the circumcised men...
that do not live within the rigours of a hasidic orthodoxy:
the circumcised man: the subservient woman...
the circumcised man: the woman in a niqab...
i guess that's how it works, no?
imagine the problems...
if the man were circumcised... but the woman...
was not supposed to pay any sort
of "penalty"...

then again: one would expect to find the best
***** under the crucifix...
stigmata pin-head and all those dittos...
and heads... but i am a connoisseur... 1970s...
1980s... but it must be Italian...
no... not German... and certainly not English...
chances are: yes, French... but more or less
Italian... and it's always on a whim...
connoisseur... well there are videos where
you can find a pregnant woman parading her bump...
and squeezing her *******...
and that's about it...

i want to imagine what those 9 months
of pregnancy must feel like...
for better or for worse... the oral demands...
perhaps i haven't written about this sort of stuff
for a long enough period...

now an interlude where i smoke a cigarette
is bound to be... exquisite...

it sure as hell is the safest way to arrive
at some sort of *** that's purely plesurable:
a gradation of *** without consequences...
but is this a celebration?
a woman ******* on camera with
her toys is a celebration...
me my ******* and the phantom hand...
there's no theatre in it...
the utility of taking a ****, taking a ****...
doing "it"... then having a shower...
and then "repressing" it...
not having "repressed" it to begin with...

i did a month once...
i came to the conclusion... that i'm more impulse
prone, i was planning my next brothel
visit... after a month i was still planning it...
then i relieved myself and...
would you believe it? the impetus dissolved!
i don't know what these right-wing
europa-identitarians are coming up with...
so much attention on:
i enjoy reading as much as i enjoy taking
a ****... notably the constipated kind
but esp. more of the diarrhoea nature...
hello mr. **** hello mrs. geiser!

perhaps that's why i wouldn't ever be a fan
of ******... i enjoy taking a **** too much...
or perhaps i'm just too old fashioned...
but this began as something orientating oneself
around a music genre...
how did it come down to pornogrpahy?

jean genet: the thief's journal...
i was really hoping for something marquis de sade
-esque... there was still too much:

solo girl does her bit...
so well in fact... that... buying a *** doll
must only remain a h'american thing...
*** is already shamed when marriage comes
along in anglo-saxon societies...
notably the inflateable sheep or doll
on those normie stag parties...
*** and children and the joke is:
you can only have good ***...
if you're ******* for procreative reasons...
bypassing the ****** for the sake
of the children...

otherwise... well no ******* doesn't help...
if... there's no wife in a niqab in public...
or some kosher wifey either...

i still have mine and i will keep that...
as... almost... a security policy...
a prenup...

pauk-mumije (1982 bosnian post punk)...
perhaps brutalism is just post-punk?

i remember it quiet clearly...
i still can't fall asleep without listening to music...
as i couldn't back then...

otchim - james dean...
the bass and no guitar riffs until the chorus
comes... and... ha ha... it's in fwench!
just like i could **** her without listening
to really... atmospheric music...
by 2007 standards that was equal to:
the dandy warhols...
but that was 2007...

these days... hardly candles and
black sun dreamer - post-traumatic stress disorder...
back then it was candles
and type o negative...
the candles and... catching a mouse...
no trap... a labyrinth of obstacles
and she sitting on the bed giggling while
i played being a maine ****...
and i did catch the mouse...
held it by the tail... let it lose on the stairwell...
and then watch its traumatised body try to
find a hole... scuttle and then fall...
to a depth of a greater serenity of
a... vermin's suicide: with no monkey sing-along
of... this mouse has done the cheese...

and it was sad when i was naive and
i accidently killed my hamster in a similar
fashion... but some ***** Abel...
but at least the mouse allowed me to
circumstance a Pontius Pilate relief...
and she asked me: what did you do with the mouse?

oh... it committed suicide.

chicago research compilation... tape CRO15...
perhaps listening to the cure
or depeche mode was once a "thing"...
no... burtalism is not post-punk...
pisse - kohlrubenwinter...
red zebra - i can't live in a livingroom...

my one personal joke...
in england i started calling the livingroom...
the civilroom...
pokój cywilny - if it must stress the St. Cyril...
so it must: комната гражданский..
brutalism is not post-punk...

stiff little fingers... are punk's creamy pie...
oto - bats...
bodychoke - cruelty
       "            - red dog
       "            - the red sea
legendary divorce - age with us...

somehow more of my ****** valnetine...
and less sonic youth...

i do remember pretending to date...
at high school...
the first question was always a nervous
build-up to the question:
'what music are you into?'

weird party - acne puncture...

well would you believe it...
some of us are still after something that
finds no sort of aleviation
in the alternative that's an aydin paladin
video...

POPEiUM - papacidal coronation...
Münn - II. in defeat...
a john peel: a no john peel...
the sort of piano that makes
a debussy or a satie blush...
AMORT - die hexes...

the current standard of... the stoogers...
or stooges... and... air no concern...
the limbo artifact of ***...
formerly known as the... limbo pickling...
of the undead...
and all those that come with an eczema and
the scabs of leprosy...
and vampires: those syphilitic zombies...

susumu yokota, and all those stupid,
solipsictically assured cats, grinning...
menace of the grin!
full cheese impromptu with a display
of teeth!
a night promenade into the forest
listening to: demdike stare's tryptych...

i haven't tried... but from 1pm through to 5pm...
i could phone classic.fm and ask
for... a song to be played in my name...
perhaps i'll phone in...
if i catch the right "once upon a time"...
and find it... as i found...
christopher young's: something to think
about...

**** and music... many interludes...
perhaps some little borat-britain references...
and then: none...
per 1K there's a cult...
per 10K there's a counter-culture...
come the 918 apostles... of jonestown...
there's no leftover for no...
alternative...

the restless mind starts its exercise
in petty squabbling....
why weren't i the respected,
vatican proof for a plumber!
why wasn't i to become,
the undertaker!

i too feel: the claustrophobia
of the ensue of the paragraph...
what is primitive knot contra U2...
mainstream? sod it: knot it a blood
and a sundail!
blood dries... the mercurial mythology
dries a solidity of
something becoming more an echo...
and less a sodden-print of the foot...
which the tide will,
nonetheless relate itself as...
worthy of being erased...

the violin concerto...
the piano nocturnes...
and the symphonies...
and the operas...
later the ballet...
beside... a chopin would write a nocturne...
a debussy would write one also...
but...
debussy writes a nocturne...
satie writes a nocture...
but a schumann?! a schubert?!
they write a concerto!
none of their work could have been written
in solide with a solipsistic monologue
escapade...

perhaps i can only appreciate chopin via
his nocturnes...
otherwise i am not convinced...
the greats wrote.... symphonies...
operas... never accompany pieces
to make their instrument an oak...
a tree... and not something resdual
to later make a mahoganny piano / table
of...

pianists! you only hear of their prowess!
Liszt! Chopin! Debussy! Satie...
exclaim as if to: suprise the "audience"
with either knowledge or...
adoration?
can a violinist make the same sort
of statements?
a pianist will play... with an accompaniment...
he will never become the maestro
predisposition
of the polyphony...

a chopin only heard the piano...
a debussy only heard a piano: solo...
a beethoven or a mozart...
what violin solo? what of a violin concerto?!
is that a trick question?
old father bach...
no instrument: well...
shubert loved allowing a piano ****
a bunch of harem violins in a harem crescendo
of a concerto...

but a nocturne? the polyphony of...
the "polyphony" of...
two pianos playing side-by-side...

- the joint"laura's"1967 kk proto prog freak phych -
no, that's not it...
- and no... it's not omega - gyöngyhajú lány...
- well **** on me...
locomotiv moscow is not a band...
but an f.c.... beg your pardon...

as i do hope that i am wrong about
a minor "technicality"...
somehow classical, essential...
and nothing worth or being able to: hum...
or sing-along-to...
always serious and finding outlets
of a necessity in being: thought of...
perhaps there's this grand:

technicality of not finding oneself sighing
or crying for that matter...
vaughan williams is more required...
for the expanse of a cowboy movie
horizon...
or that technical term...
the: deconstruction of the dutch angle
in the perspective shot...

but we don't talk about *** as much
as we don't engage in it...
and we certainly don't talk about music...
the absolute brutal needs to be found...
a butterfly a lotus a kiss in a brothel...
all else is... the slaughterhouse....

this has been a...
no Friday night in Soho can match-up...
i've spent better nights in
Amsterdam...
and no... the red light district was
never going to be a cannabis cafe for me...
or some Vermont-esque quest for a better
pint of ale...
*** was on sale...
there was not real point of making
any money from it in the medium of fiction...
it was always going to be
ugly, frictive... below par of expectation...
but it was always going to
be fathomable... fathomable in a sense
of it being respected...
as a hierarchical undermining...

oh what since was, truly was concrete...
but the verbiage came along
and fiddled with the fog and the end-result
deems itself abstract...
there's the concrete of drought...
and the abstract of locust.
there's the concrete of a mountain...
and the abstract of a pyramid;
there's the concrete of death...
and the abstract of a mosileum;
after all... a grave is a coping mechanism
of someone who...
never began the inquiry... of mortality...
joking as a child might...
pretending to handshake his own shadow.

as i have found the antithesis of narcissus...
the man who fell in love with his shadow.

Some
Bleed blue
a bitter cold
river that drifts along ever slowly
Ever peaceful
Filled with thousands of perfect downy pebbles
each the exact shape and size
as the last
it trickles down all of the hills and mountains
to lower ground

Iced and frigid
It comes from the heart
to the vein and artery
to the lung
around the stomach and intestines
up the spine
down the spine

to the wound.

The bottom of the mountain is waiting
at the top of the mountain
And home is just over that hill
If more hills are the home you know.

And you will celebrate your birthday this year and next year with the same faces in different places and every time you slow down a little bit.
Which does not necessarily mean you are close to the top.

Whisper "nothing like a journey’s end"
Fire round the riverbend
Toes under sheets far beneath the sand
Smoke arise the dawn is high
She laughs to let the moment pass by
Whisper why, whisper why

Approval from a distant moon
Photography, an old saloon
Oh all this time, it was always just us two
Twirling round my silver spoon
A coffee stain, a baby croon
Oh you never knew, the song was you

Whisper downstairs where the music lies
Laughing bout late nights, long drives
Forgot our blues in the radio highs
Toss away all our plans
Build a new world with these hands
Whisper we can, whisper we can

dreamy days
summer
breeze
river walk
try not to sneeze.
talks about the future
can this really be?
forever if that is
make a wish
blow the petals
sweet forest mist.
marriage puppies
and dress rehearsals
chipping teeth and tv commercials
this feels euphoric
can this never end
this feels like love
just around the riverbend.

I hid away for a better day
I warmer day, a softer day
I fell into thorns
It had been day, the sun was bright
I wandered through luscious woods
The green calling out to me
But I traveled too far
And the sun grew dark
I looked straight into the sun
It blinded me
And I fell into thorns

I don't need to live this way,
Aimless and without cause
I wonder toward a cliff
I had always lived on the edge
Monotany is more dangerous than risk taking
Stop living your sedentary life,
It's killing you

I ran into the storm
And it swallowed me
I danced in the rain
I threw back my head and drank in life,
In all its glory
I let it swallow me
I let it engulf me

I became a river
An ever changing drop of water
I yielded to the curves of the riverbend
And I can never correctly see
What's right ahead of me
So, I just have to let it be

I'm a blind woman
Without her walking stick
I'm a blind woman, dancing in the rain,
Swimming in the river
Being swallowed by the storm.
And I'm laughing.

Eyelids lower,
the world turns dark;
breaths become slower,
an evanescent spark.

Thoughts fall like raindrops,  
I hear them bouncing off the roof.
Winds pull mist round mountaintops,
our hearts are not shatterproof.

Our minds are mirrors,
they reflect what we see,
a silver fragment of Reality glitters,
a broken image or a broken me?

Our souls swim in wanderlust.
Blood pushes in and out like a noonday tide.
From us our bodies turn to stardust,
a Heaven forever by the oceanside.

You are the Infinite in one being;
a dream with no beginning and no end.
In the lake between sun and moon sleeping,
stars float like lotuses to the riverbend.

Wake before the sunrise,
wait for colors to wash the sky vast as our love.
From fleeting darkness Light meets new eyes
painters dip  brushes into Endless Undreamed of…

Breathe the morning in,
my longing for you has eclipsed my heart.
The kaleidoscope sun warms my skin,
Every day we restart
...
Use my creation to start yours,
kundalini is the force.
The universe expands when every breath swirls,
earth and art born from one source
...
My hands have begun to shake,
like constellations all of us are connected.
If I happen to lose my grip we all will quake,
ripples of world within worlds are reflected
...
I will remember you in my glass mind,
crystallized and refracted, a consciousness clearest
Elements fade as nature undoes time,
in death be unified by mystical spirits
…

clementine
you are gone
dreadful sorry
you are dead
not asleep
you've gone to swim and play
with the fish, down in the deep
it's my soul you keep
clementine
what happened to that girl i used to know
you had to go
had to leave
some would say it was your destiny
some would say it was your fate
i fear i learned to swim too late
the ducks won't stop
it's on repeat
i hear it when i'm mining
i see it when i sleep
clementine
please come back home
i'm all alone
clementine
i'll come to you
with this world, i'm through
goodbye, my darling
i'll see you again
fear not, my haven
you're just around the riverbend

with the year ending,
i have a confession,
what do i really want in life,
keep me steady, rowing this boat,
down the river, keeping me afloat,
lift me up, reel me in again and again,
keep me up, i am not steady again,
i'm peaking on adrenaline,
down the river, over the ocean,
i don't want to drown today, so
lift me up, keep afloat
don't let me fall down,
patch the holes, in this ship,
that i call home,
make me smile, and make me cheer,
for what i've got to give,
so i can't row myself around this bend,
i want to soar, like the sea birds
don't let me swim with sharks,
until i've spend my all,
don't let me drown again,
and wallow in my tears,
just lift me up, keep me afloat
and keep me rowing down the riverbend
so lift me up, until my untimely end

Defective products everywhere.
I stepped on one while walking
across the grass that grows like hair,
where lovers were sitting talking

about the money they’d make
by selling defective products.
Anyway, it wasn't a snake
or a squirrel or a pair of ducks

mating, it was an escalator
coming up out of the ground
from Hell, like the old dumb-waiter
in the haunted house around

the riverbend, that used to be
run up and down in the old days,
until the Yankees came and we
each dug a few graves

for the bodies that belonged to
the souls that returned to Hades
after the war. It caught my shoe
and jammed -- ****** and defectively made.