god, what an awful 48 hours,
insomnia without my anti-depressant
25mg pops and
painkiller: pain-keeper...
**** sicks from the top
and you get a chance to form a reply,
or rather, a reply comes out
to the sithering event horizon
like... anything might...
i blame the change in climate,
after all an island climate is so much
different to continental climate...
vaguely, what the hell did i do
for the past two months?
spent it with my dementia prone
grandfather and:
a neurotic grandmother...
watched one act of lunacy that
you probably wouldn't forget,
trying to stop my grandmother
from calling my grandfather names
e.g. to idiot! debil!
while he decided it
was 9am at 2am in the morning,
walking out of the house in his
pajamas...
and: lost... an abyss behind the
days... fell, broke his coffee table,
looked at me with bulldog mouth nearing
frothing...
lunacy theatre...
but try calming a scolding
woman while trying the dementia prone
old father to go back to sleep...
even though i did cook
for them for two months,
sometimes we'd sit on the balcony on
Sunday and eat, the most perfect
poultry roast, roast tatties and a zingy
salad...
and i'm not that bad at
fixing up a kitchen,
the bare minimum since these aren't
the sort of people who need fancy-fancy
details...
freshened up the walls in a pale
canary yellow,
painted the furniture sides and details
white to match up with freahly
bought grey wooden chairs...
refreshed the floor,
sure, linoleum... but it was
originally linoleum, and...
i'm apparently pretty good at it...
not to mention i did manage to
to finally finish H. Sienkiewicz's
nights of the teutonic order (krzyżacy) -
because i had to watch
the Aleksander Ford film...
only today i remarked to my mother who's
not even 60 whop began walking
with a walking stick,
matriachal and murmuring under
her breath in the candle:
to imagine such will...
(a) not enough teutonic knights for my liking,
(b) the film had to avoid so much
plot embedded in the book...
(c) why the hell do i identify
with these knights?
introduction with conrad,
i'm guessing,
and all the fanciful names...
e.g. frederick von wallerond...
names as pristine as **** uniforms:
you almost want to have them...
but this is a story about the dawn
of the 15th century...
you have Hastings 1066 in
the west...
and you have Tannenberg of
1410...
maybe because
gott, mit uns! sounds so hard-on
while listening to
an alle krieger by und ein...
or?
see... speaking english,
the "almost" unrecognisable
version of german...
you... become fanciful,
with a history...
almost attempting to be closer
to home...
with an intact psyche at least:
not bothered by a tongue per se...
werner von tettigen:
kommen auf!
and that lightning krieg just last weekend?
public houses in Marienburg...
angel session:
****, forgot my genitals!
forgot my genitals i said to her,
can we pretend
i am both the mouth
of Vul' and the tongue of Phal'?
Lusva was born
leeches stuck to
the mime language of hearts.
funny you should say...
**** usually sinks to the bottom
and then back up...
michael rotondo...
we heard that one surface...
but only a week later,
in a respetable english publication
that's the times:
style supplement...
a certain francesca segal
moved back into her mother's house...
two children and a husband
towed...
but no... nothing of
the ordinary:
mickey was saying:
i'm like air... sometimes there...
can't defend him either...
i know, the minor
detail... 6 months in...
but then there's the oddity of work...
can anyone even comprehend
michael getting the sort of job
francesca has?
now all that i want to do
is work in my pyjamas, within arm's reach
of a well-stocked fridge
and a hot kettle...
it's these little intricacies of
the story...
i'm happy to have "suffered"
past the 48 hours thinking:
why did i accidently steal
ten quid from a teenager that
started to mouth me off when i bought
him 40% rather than pissy-juice friendly...
and the moral conundrum is
with the already drunk or sober teen
who can't keep his mouth shut...
****... when me, Peter and Kieraan
were growing up, we'd be buying
cheap cider from the local indian corner
shop and play snooker at
the local youth club...
ah man... there's hardly a point...
there's a psychotic itch, a taunting line
you don't want to cross confined
to the word: loo sir...
****, that's hardly metaphorical...
low ner(d)?
see, already soo'unds better...
****... why did i even begin this
narrative?
oh, right...
the fatherly concern for
the oedipus son...
yet the daughter
always has a hard time with
her mum...
household grievances...
it would have been a nice theory...
had i not the capacity to look for
Charon with two coins on my eyes
when i look at a *******...
****... it's like the heart could never be
as pristine as to involve a me
in the whole affair...
it must be the whole oedipus complex
inverted-stigma...
apart from the commentary
*******...
i guess i'll have to bury mine...
properly... unlike i buried her cat that
was poisoned by my neighbours...
poor ******... hope you like
the piece grave i hacked off...
don't worry, it didn't belong
to anyone,
stacked like in a jewish cemetary...
who knows...
maybe i buried a holocaust victim
into a body of a cat, that now lazes
around ha-shem's throne?
i still need to find that teenager
before his "uncle" finds me and give
him back the ten quid...
drank the ***** though...
funny...
michael wouldn't have this sort
of problem if...
grandparents...
but then you wonder about
michael's parents...
so... we much of your parents
lately?
there's a 1 in 4 chance that
one of them is still alive;
mine was 3 in 4 till about 5 years ago.
