O’Brien took
the comic
Sutcliffe was holding
and said

what the ****
you got here Sutcliffe?
give it back O’Brien
he went to ******

back the comic
O’Brien held it away
hey Davies
see what Sutcliffe’s

got inside
the comic cover
and he showed Davies
the magazine

of women
in all states
of undress
look at the **** on her

Davies said
give it back
Sutcliffe said
O’Brien showed you

the centre fold
of some woman
posing in a position
you thought

most uncomfortable
come on O’Brien
give it to me
in case a prefect sees it

and we're hauled
in front of Thompson
and get caned
O’Brien scanned

through more pages
with Davies looking
over his shoulder
where did you get

this magazine from Sutcliffe?
found it
he said
where?

Davies asked
somewhere
Sutcliffe muttered
where somewhere?

O’Brien said
Sutcliffe looked at you
then around
the playground

of the school
under my old man's shoes
in the cupboard
he said quietly

you looked at O’Brien
gaping at the magazine
his eyes peering intently
look at her Davies

fancy waking up
with her beside you huh?
Davies grinned
and pulled the page

to show you
the woman had a mole
on her left breast
you noticed

Sutcliffe snatched back
the magazine
and pulled
the comic cover

back in place
Davies laughed
and O’Brien said
you're a *****

young man Sutcliffe
you enjoyed the look
Sutcliffe said
as he stuffed

the comic into
his inside
coat pocket
and buttoned it up

any more under
your old man's shoes?
O’Brien asked
no

Sutcliffe said
just that one
shame
Davies said

you noticed
Mr Austin’s
sports car drive
into the playground

his pockmarked face
staring at you
from his car seat
Austin’s arrived

Sutcliffe said
you all watched
as he parked his car
then looked away

as he made his way
towards you all
the sky was grey
the start of Fall.

Ed Sutcliffe said
he saw his cousin
walk from bathroom
to bedroom (not his)

starkers
nigh on
had to push
my eyes back in

the sockets
he added
you muck pig
O’Brien said

you did it
on purpose
so you could
have a gawk

I never did
it was just
one of those things
never in a month

of Sundays
would I have gawked
Sutcliffe said
is she worth

the gawking?
you asked
o to be sure she is
O’Brien said

would Eddie here
be gawking
at a titless wonder?
no to be sure

she’s got to be worth
the eye strain
but not my cousin
Sutcliffe said

I’d not be waiting
outside the bathroom
to gawk at her
coming out

so say you Succy
you lecherous bronco
I think I saw her once
you said

hasn’t she got
white blonde hair
like yourself
and more curves

than the figure eight?
no
Sutcliffe said
that’s not her

that’s my mother
you’ve seen
you don’t gawk
your mother

do you Eddie?  
O’Brien said
what you take me for
of course not

Sutcliffe said
he’s just joking
with you
you said

nothing meant
Sutcliffe walked ahead
in a strop
four letter words

coming over
his thin shoulder
poor old Eddie
you sure take

the *****
out of him
you said
ah it’s nothing

O’Brien said
he’ll get over it
as the bishop
got over the actress

and sure enough
as soon as you all
reached the school gates
Sutcliffe was his old self

wanting a quick drag
on O’Brien’s smoke
thinking all
the old patter
as one huge joke.

O'Brien said
the whole girl thing
was a falsity
why waste your time

on them?
he'd told Baruch
yes why?
Sutcliffe said

in an echo
as they walked home
from school
along

the New Kent Road
holding a cigarette
to one side
a thin line

of smoke
coming
from his mouth
as she spoke

Baruch said nothing
about Fay
he just listened
thinking of her

as they walked along
his hands
in his pockets
his scuffed shoes

treading the pavement
his eyes looking
at Sutcliffe
at his blonde hair

and bright blue eyes
and O'Brien
with his shock
of brown hair

and his crafty eyes
I've yet to meet a girl
worth losing sleep over
he said

not a wink of sleep
Sutcliffe added
Baruch had seen Fay
the day before

on the way home
by the church
on the corner
of Meadow Row

she in her catholic
school uniform
clutching her satchel
her bright eyes on him

her fair hair
brightened
by the afternoon sun
how they had walked together

up the Row
she talking of the nuns
at the school
about the whole Latin thing

about the long list
of saints she had
to remember
he took in

her anxiety
her paleness of skin
he told her
of the pottery teacher

who ridiculed his pots
and how he did it
in front of the class
holding up the ***

and running it down
not that I care a toss
Benedict said
least not

about the ***
and they crossed
Rockingham Street
and up the *****

and there they waited
gazing at each other
the silence
like thin silk

he wanted to kiss her
but not doing so
she wondered
if she could get

nearer to him
maybe much closer
but feared her father
might hear of it

and he didn't like Baruch
didn't like the Jew boy
keep yourself free
of them

O'Brien said
girls cling to you
like leeches
and ****

the being
out of you
with their petty wants
yes wants and wants

Sutcliffe echoed
Baruch paused
by the hairdresser shop
by the crossing

opposite Meadow Row
best get home
Baruch said
yes me too

said Sutcliffe
hope my cousin's gone home
she's been with us
for weeks now

and always
in the bathroom
and wandering the house
in her almost

see through night dress
sure sure
O'Brien said
bet you hate that

and he laughed
and Sutcliffe walked off
home the cigarette
behind his back

held
in his inky fingers
see you around
O'Brien said

and wandered on
up the road
and Baruch
saw him off

and crossed the road
and walked down
Meadow Row
thinking of Fay

and that moment
he almost kiss her
how they stood
gazing at each other

he gazing
at her fine beauty
her figure  
and she fearing

her father
would know
and the nuns
at the school

always writing to him
about her
and what she does
and does not

and she seeing
Baruch there
feeling her heart beat
and sensed feeling hot.

Sutcliffe brings
a magazine
to school
(his old man's
he tells us)
and we group in
under the shelter
near the outside bogs.

He opens it
page by page;
his fingers shaky,
his eyes, blue,
enlarged,
peer the page.

Look at the state
of her,
O’Brien says.

I look over
his shoulder
at the naked dame.

Can you imagine
Miss A doing this
from our old school?
I suggest.

Don't make me puke,
O’Brien says.

What the ****'s that?
Sutcliffe asks,
pointing a finger.

It's where
you were born from,
Davies says.

Can't be,
Sutcliffe says,
I was born
in Guy's hospital.

Your mother,
poor cow,
has one of those,
O’Brien says.

Sutcliffe pulls a face
as if he'd bitten
a lemon.

Shan't look at her
the same way again,
he replies.

Turn the page,
I say,
see something other.

He turns the page,
a centrefold,
opens it out,
arms outstretched,
eyes widening.

Wouldn’t say no
to her,
O’Brien says,
scanning in
like a swooping air plane
to dive bomb.

Me, neither,
Sutcliffe mutters.

I see Sutcliffe's
inky fingers shake
on the edges
of the magazine;
the woman has big eyes
peering out,
her nose has an air
of: had your gawk?
We just stare,
no place
to waste words,
we stand,
open mouthed
and don’t talk.

You walked home
from school
with Sutcliffe
(O’Brien was off

with dysentery
which Eddie thought
was a load of ****)
along the New Kent Road

by the shop from which
you bought
a stamp album
and the silver looking

6 shooter gun
and holster
with the belt
with pretend bullets

all around
in little holders
and Eddie said
his big sister

was beginning to spend
too much time
in the washroom
getting herself

all geared up
for her boyfriend
and that his dad
banged on the door

wanting to get in
for his shave
( she’d used all
the hot water

her mother had boiled
in the copper
for the family bath
that night

and his sister
had bellowed back
I’ve got to look my best
I can’t go out

smelling
like a dead rat
and Eddie laughed
(his buck teeth showing)

and Dad told her
she’d feel his hand
across her backside
if she got  

too mouthy with him
so she shut her noise
and came out
all dolled up you

her hair all piled high
her lipstick bright red
her tight skirt
and Dad said

if you think you’re going out
dressed like that
you can think again
but she did

and that was it
and Mum said to him
she's only young once
but he just shaved

and moaned
and I could hear him
muttering to himself
and so Eddie went on

(O’Brien would have
baited him about his sister
would have riled him bad
but he was away

and Eddie was glad)
and so you got
to the corner
of Deacon Way

where Sutcliffe lived
and so you walked
across the road
to Meadow Row

and he waved
and you watched
his blonde cropped hair
and black uniform

disappear from sight
and walked towards home
hands in pockets
satchel on your back

scuffed shoes
kicking stones
onto the bombsite
home to tea

of bread and jam
then out with Ingrid
on the balcony
looking down

over the ledge
at the people passing
or kids playing
making a din

until her father
called her
with his rough voice
and she went back in.

Here’s your fare
for the bus to school

your mother said
but some days you walked

and spent the money
on doughnuts at the bakery

on the way to school
and you felt them warm

through the white paper bag
the baker had put them in

and you ate them on the way
then licked your fingers clean

like some fingery *******
and Ed Sutcliffe met you

in the playground and said
You got sugar around your mouth

and he pointed
with his ink stained finger

and so you wiped
around your mouth

with your tongue
until all was clean

and you said
That Ok?

and he stared
at your mouth and lips

and said
Yeah that’s better

and you said
Where’s O’Brien?

He hasn’t come yet
Sutcliffe said

but Austen’s here
he drove up in his sports car

a few moments back
you sighed and looked

towards the place
where he parked his car

red and flashy
I suppose he’ll be

in his usual
bullying mood again

said Sutcliffe
holding up

the clay pots
and saying

Look at this specimen
of a ***

and hold it
up for the class to see

Don’t remind me
you said

Austen’s a fink
with a face of pits

like the surface
of the moon

and Sutcliffe laughed
and it kind of eased

his nervousness
and you saw

in his blue eyes
that sharp fear

that people have
when another dies.

What's that
on your collar Sutcliffe?
O’Brien said

you got some
amorous sweet girl Eddie?
Danny D said

what is it?
I can't see
Eddie said

lipstick
I said
red stuff

where where?
he said
pulling at his white
shirt collar
with the red lipstick mark

he opened his shirt collar
and pulled it downward
how'd that get there?
he asked

your cousin still
staying with you
is she Eddie?
Danny said smiling

no not her
not that bucktooth *****
Eddie said
it must have been
my mum
she insists on
kissing me
before school

can't bring herself
to kiss your spotty skin
so kisses your collar
Danny said

she must have missed
Eddie said
how do I get it off?

who with?
O’Brien said
I ask that question myself
who's the lucky girl

what you talking about?
Sutcliffe said
how do I get
the lipstick off?

God knows
Danny said

soak it salt maybe
I said

but now
how now?
Eddie said

we walked on
toward school
Eddie rubbing
at his collar
with a greying handkerchief

that's the last time
she's going to kiss me
Eddie said

the red lipstick had smeared
more like a stain

it's worse now
I said
looks like a wound

thanks
he said thanks

you did it
not me
I said

what am I going to do?
can't go to school
like this

go home and change then
O’Brien said

I can't my mum's
gone to work
he looked at us
all tearfully

it's just lipstick Sutcliffe
no one's going to care
Danny said

of course they will
he said  
especially Thompson
you know what he's like
he'll have out front
for a right pasting
if he sees me

come back to my place
I said
my Mum'll put it
into soak
and you can wear
one of mine

you'll be late
Danny said

you go on
I said
we'll get a bus
we can make it
if we run

O’Brien looked at me
you're all heart Benny
all heart

so Eddie and I
ran back to my place
and he took off his shirt
which my mother
put in soak
and he wore
one of mine
and off we rushed
to school on the 78 bus  

Eddie all wide eyed
and I saw Fay
going to school
with her swaying hips
and blonde hair
and all I could do
was give
a keen eyed stare.

Sutcliffe walked
in a kind of shuffling his heels
kind of way
with hands in his pockets

and school tie undone
and hanging loose
you’d walked home
from school with him

as O’Brien was off
with dysentery
I find that pottery teacher
a bit of a ****

he said
the way he held up
your work
in that dismissive way

to show you up
you shrugged your shoulders
I hate rolling out
the messing clay

and I’ve no idea
how to make a pissy ***
than how to make
a pie like my mother’s

he’s a pockmarked
****** anyway
Sutcliffe said
and the fecking car

he drives to school
that red sports job
you came to the road
where Sutcliffe lived

and waited
I’ll surprise him one day
you said
I’ll make him

the fecking ***
he wants
Sutcliffe laughed
and shuffled up

the stairs to his flat
with a wave of his hand
and nod of his
blonde haired head

you walked over
the crossing
and down Meadow Row
by the bombed out houses

Ingrid was sitting
on the kerb
with her face
in her hands

she looked up
at the sound
of your approach
what’s a matter

with you sitting there
all glum?
you said
no one’s indoors

I’m locked out
she said
where’s your parents?
you asked

no idea
I knocked and knocked
but no one answered
she said

have to wait now
until they come back
when will that be?
you asked

God knows
she said
last time it was late
as they went to the races

and mum forgot
to leave me
the front door key
and I had to wait

out in the cold
on the stairs
until they got back
you should have knocked

at our door
Mum’d got you
something to eat
and you would

have been warm
by our fire
you said
didn’t want to disturb anyone

she said
she looked at the road
and closed her eyes
well come home

with me now
Mum won’t mind
and she’ll tell
your parents

where you are
when they get back
you said
he won’t like it

she said
tough *****
you said
she laughed

and got out
of the kerb
and stood
next to you

are you sure
your mum won’t mind?
of course she won’t
ok

she said
and you both walked down
Meadow Row
and crossed over

to the flats
through the Square
you knew your mum
wouldn’t mind

she knew Ingrid’s parents
and knew their ways
and faults
and his drunken voice

and pushed back hat
but as you walked
with Ingrid up the stairs
you never told her that.

What would
your mother say
Sutcliffe

if you caught her
at it
with your old man?

O'Brien said
Davis chuckled
into his sleeve

at what?
Sutcliffe asked
giving

his blue eyed stare
having it off
O'Brien said

you noticed prefects
at the school gate
ready to haul off

those who were late
having what off?
Suttcliffe said

eyes larger
his blonde
cropped hair

convict style
*** ***
you stupid *******

O'Brien said
running his
ink stained hand

over Eddie's head
Davis lowered his gaze
at the school gate

you eyed
the tall prefect
with acne

and a pretend
moustache
who stared you back

with evil stare
o'
Eddie said

I see what you mean
o she'd slap me silly
if I saw that

you all went through
the school gate
just on time

not a moment late
wondering how silly
Suttcliffe could get

and how often
he'd seen
or when

or where
and when
you looked back

the acne prefect
still gave
his evil stare.

only days have past since the end of the most
depressing period in the year:
in terms of music...

i welcome January as that month where i can return
to music, to serious music...
if it weren't for some of the songs
i will cite: i would find even more allure
in the Adhan...

but thank god or the devil for the month
of carol singing is over!
the month of carol singing is over!
the "god" has been born - we'll see him
in 33 years to come -
and with his birth the carol singing
can finally be silenced...

why oh why do i find christmas such
a melancholic period?
the carol... even if nietzsche found
reading thomas a kempis' imitation
of christ to be a depressive lot in life...
i too have read it...
and thought of the joy i experienced
for week in Taizé (Burgundy)...

Burgundians in France...
the Kashubians in Poland -
or the Silesians...
how seemingly loveless it is to peer
at intra-national entities...
with a dear eye scout for the details...
the germans love to sing!
wasn't it an austrian that came along
with an opera in german when
all the operas where still in Italian?
to be honest...
it sounds much worse in England...
i favor Händel... greatly...

john suchet can have his Beethoven ****...
his 52 week long saturday 9pm
1h show dedicated to the deaf dunk'e...
i quiet like the backdrop of Händel's
life... the composition for the fireworks
on the Thames... Charles II in general...
point being:
the carol season is over...
i can return to what keeps me well met
with countering any hunger for
new music, even from the genres
i'd appreciate more...

there's no: last christmas - wham!
all i want for christmas - mariah carey...
fairytale of new york - the pogues...
merry christmas everyone - shaky stevens...
the usual suspects...

all that singing for a stone's worth
of a sad little heart...

give me the songs of anon.!
llibre vermell of montserrat - stella splendens!
cuncti simus!
carmina burana - bonum est confidere...
minnesang - neidhart - meine die liechter schin...
refenbogen - gott vater sparch zu abraham...
hugo von montfort - fro weit
konrad von würzburg - hofton...
wolkenstein - wer ist, die da durchleuchtet...
german 15th century anon. - ich var dohin...
ditto - mit vrouden quam der engel...
neidhart von reuental - sumer deiner suzzen wunne...

and the last can go on...
which i find an alternative to classical when...
when jazz becomes too congesting...
there is always an alternative...
and classical music doesn't have to be:
the ultimate counter to modern music...
even if jazz helps...
there is an alternative to what's being
pushed among former newsreaders
who have become "d.j."-'ey-'eys...

how naive of my to have the following thought:
if german was to somehow disappear
from the face of the earth by a lightning bolt
and become a lake of tears...

would i borrow anything from
the 20th century - the anglophonic victory
and subsequent gloating?
or perhaps just a songs from
the medieval period -

and even if the medieval period was
as glum and ignorant as modern rubrics
of science demand -
a scientific can't leverage a joy -
with such certainty of knowing -
with so much certainty -
with weather forecasts...
i demand myself to not watch the forecasts
and beckon my moods on the weather
and the weather on my moods...
if there's anything organic to be retained
with regards to weather -
if i were a farmer perhaps i'd listen
to the annual forecast...
but on a day-to-day basis?
why rob myself of this last desire for
a surprise?
why be robbed of the organic sensation
bound to air, to the electricity
tickling the skin when a thunderstorm...
then there's a deluge and the frogs start
speaking in a crescendo of their
curriculum of barrage and referendum:
and simply fall with
the cats and dogs and reprimand
the man who bodly goes into down...
a man who takes an umbrella with him
out of his residence...
and never will never buy an umbrella
on the whim... being surprised...
what joy when all you buy is predictable...
when all you buy is... an addiction focus...
to feel any better:
how can one feel any better buying
an umbrella spotaneously?!
what greater joy comes from buying
an umbrella when it unexpectedly starts
raining!
and what of the joy of running barefoot
in the rain! what of the joy still harvesting
our eyes our ears our nostrils!
has science really served up the right sort
of an anaesthetic?!
that we are incubated by pure mind...
pure reason and all the trivia crescendos
any mind will want to warrant further...
when not a single ounce of joy in song
can be captured?
intellectual complexity of song:
progressive rock and hyper-inflated pop...
classical music you will never be able
to whistle to... will never be able to take up
with a guitar and play the skeleton...

perhaps edvard grieg's:
in the hall of the mountain king...
but only perhaps!
play me the skeleton accent of any piece
of classical music! from 'ear alone:
this... but the rest? hardly a whisper,
a whimper a whistling pete the piper would
have minded in inducing hyponosis on
the rats...
that whriling crescendo...
the bombast pandemonium reaching
******... the cloud of bats and satans descend...

who cares if peter sutcliffe wants his ashes
to be scattered in yorkshire...
my bigger pet peeve was that he wanted
the cremantion to have....
saint-saëns - danse macabre
to be playing in the background...
yes... for all it's worth: the shrill violin...
the: scratching of nails on a blackboard...
the running of a fork or a knife
on a piece of ceramic plating...

also of note regarding today:
- vierschanzentournee -
outside of the english-speaking world...
there's much more than merely
an Eddie 'the eagle' edwards biopic...
come on!
a world darts championship?!
darts?! the pub go to thing if there's
no pool table?!
that's gonna be an olympic sport?
so what's so terrible about ski jumping?
or the biathlon?
or indoor volleyball for that matter?
the english and their cricket (ok...
i concede to the genius of the sport)...
but lawn bowls?!
what's wrong with... nip'n'tuc pin bowling?
curling... that's also a serious sport?!
tennis versus ping-pong...
which is like throwing darts...
and those demigods at the olympics
with the very recent south korean women
in that sport of archery!
darts and archery... savvy? Lu Bu... Jumong...
never mind... a fellow "countryman"
of "mine" might win this tournament this year...
a дaвид кубaЦки... why would i upper-case
the kappa or the delta...
when the letter of curiosity is the... Ц "ts" C?

- liverpool's second team with the help
of Gomez... Origi... Lallana managed to beat
the first team of Everton...
boys vs. men... 18 year olds etc.

- i finally perfected oven cooking
butterfly chicken *******...
temp. at rest? circa 165° farhenheit...
circa 30minutes at 200°C...
the roast tatties looking pretty and smiling
at me with that roastie brown...
etc. etc. - but the juice on those butterfly
*******?
who would have thought that
stuffing the ******* with the skin still intact...
in between the skin and the meat...
a healthy nugget of butter either side...
fresh thyme...
au provence sea-salt (rosemary,
thyme etc.)...
succulent enough to make you forget ever
wetting your appetite for
a chicken thigh... or a drumstick...

- and finally getting what i want...
the mirror vanity project of:
not needing a turkish barber to trim my beard...
finally! i'll admit...
whenever in a barber shop and sitting
in front of a mirror...
i always close my eyes
and let the barber do his work while
i relax...
perhaps the presence of two bodies
in focus on a canvas of mirror is...
well it's not exactly a third party detail...
the subjective experience is beyond
the necessity of being captivating...
i can't focus on my face since
i don't have any compliments for it...
and a barber working his way around
the excess hair that i should,
technically, tend to myself...
i never liked being pampered by
feminine men...
although: a barber can become...
and butcher the whole thing...
then again: feminine men?
the men who cook, are... feminine?
perhaps they're not engineers...
they are not metallurgists...
but... a **** good shave...
a **** good meal, cooked to perfection...
they're no more feminine than
the other definition: the men of aesthetics...

today i became a man of aesthetics with
regards to: how i want my beard trimmed...
i became the gardeners of my own
garden of chin neck and cheeks...
side-burns in tow...
and the evil 'tash...
slim on the sides...
and a bulging uvula of hair dangling from
the chin and its vicinity...
the evil 'tash trimmed so i can sip
some god's blood / ms. amber:
forget god's **** and all that's beer and cider...
fake it making to sit hunched until 1am...
push this over the "finish-line" and
say adios today!

perhaps i once "glorified" laying out a tier
of "help" of the 3Ps...
the priest, the psychiatrist, the *******...
of the last?
well... imagine wandering the labyrinth
of the english outer-suburbia for long
enough... fiddling with bricks
with the tips of your fingers until
either rust or diamonds spark of the scratching...
i would do ever so often...
stroke bricks, harshly...
go up to the oak and fiddle with its coarse
bark etchings...
a week would pass and i would
have my fingertips readied
to bring before me an example
of human flesh...
was it was tender as ******* an oyster?

i needed to revive a compensation
of sensation...

i once made myself visit the barber
after a long repose...
did i find the barbershop experience
more: rivetting... than any experience
bound to a brothel?

england: prostitution is legal!
but owning a brothel... isn't...
if in amsterdam i was given both the freedom
to seek the advice of a *******
and... smoke marijuana freely...
this paranoia-shadow of smoking it in england
would... simply fizzle out...
i wouldn't be some obnoxious ****
trying to get my rocks off with the "gateway drug"...

why did i smoke marijuana?
i simply "don't know"... but of course i do!
it gave me an escape from
being congested with parrot narratives
of the cartesian RES COGITANS...
i experienced...
the most unbelievable due of:
RES VANUS... the empty thing...
no more thinking than if i were dead...
tightrope spectacular...
it would seem that nothing bothered me...
there were no petty social rubrics to be cited
or be bungled into: the sire of sight
before me: and a bending crux knee...

but there came a time when
going to a barber was... so much more than
going to a brothel...
of course: you can't appreciate the one
without the other in making the statement that...
the latter overpowers the former...
nothing of my grew that would have
to be trimmed and tended to...
i wasn't magically circumcised in
a brothel via oral *** to allow me to
enjoy *** more...
and since i can't be circumcised:
this caduceus of protruding veins entwining...
and since ******* is...
at best the closest i come to satisfaction...
and all else is: pretending and...
ensuring the other party is satisfied...

no wonder i would allow myself to showcase
all the possibilities...
before having to retract and state...
petting a cat... getting a haircut and having
my beard trimmed...
but since i can trim my beard...
and if i need a haircut...
i'll be satisfied with the Auschwitz
syphilis crew-cut...
so be it...

barbershop... how can these men sit
and stare at themselves...
it's different when you're doing it solo...
but i rather see the vampire
and nothing before the mirror otherwise...
i would love to see myself: "myself"
on the canvas: 'fairest of them all'
in the snow-white fable mirror...
otherwise there's me looking more
like a ******* over-inflated
pupernickle... pumpernickle that uses yeast...
and this bloated ****-head's face...

but also this barber: this harlequin...
i wouldn't mind sitting before a mirror
in a barber shop... if i could also see
this barber-harlequin doing his aesthetic trimming
on an empty space...
so i tended to close my eyes...
while in the brothel my eyes were also open...
this whole: milan kundera debate
about those who **** with their eyes
open and those who **** with their eyes closed...

still... going to a barber was more
than getting a *******...
she... and i just imagined getting
indigestion from binging on gulping down
raw oysters...
and how many oysters would it take
for her **** to be turned into the taj mahal...

come to think of it...
what is best taken from this spew of words?
no rhyme, no meter...
well... there's that umbrella spontaneity...
isn't there?! that ought to be kept...
in spirit of the times when too much
is made predictable...
when predictabilty is certainly least
warranted...

will there be: the evil of my ways?
oh sure sure... walk into a brothel...
see the Nazgûl waiting in the ante-chamber...
and you ask one of them: which one of you?
and this other replies: that is against the rules...
you have to chose...
******* strapped on... then pulled back...
imitation ***** and: evidently
******* ******* is a bit like ****** *******
in movies...
and you do...
but in the back of your mind...
you have: Solomon and his prayer being answered...
his "wisdom"...
and of course the harem...
and then you have David...
prayer or no prayer... sure-as-**** no prayer
when it came to killing Goliath...
and... David's harem of psalms!

but i'm pretty sure that circumcision should
be... something requiring a man's
permission... baptism shma-anabaptism...
abracadabra-water trickle blah blah *******...
that i can survive...

there's still this 15th century german music to mind!
which goes outside of current,
appreciation of escapist music...
shawshank redemption: mozart...
or jazzy jazzy bleu ooh blue...
there's medieval folk...
there's old christian music that's outside of...
and in the measure of retaining:
the Cramp... the Krampfmuschi...
not this ******* coral singing...
no wonder i'm always depressed...
i'm always depressed when they start to coral...
what sort of achievement is merely being born?!
oh... right... when you have an a posteriori
light ahead of you...
when you don't commit suicide...
instead you decide: nothing more fitting
than a public spectacle...
i will not hang myself in "private"...
i will make sure that my psychological agony
of those around that have instigated it...
will need a spectacle!

carol singing out of my own ***...
he might have survived... i don't doubt it...
in all the icons...
the nails were nailed...
not at the wrists...
not in the tarsus talus region...
if they nailed him by the wrists?
and the tarsus talus (leg foot wrist circa)...
oh yeah! he'd be walking! third day!
but if you have a hole in your:
just above the metacarbal digits?
and how modern t.v. portrays crucifixion?
that... he wouldn't be hanging by nails alone...
that his arms would also be tied with
rope?!
what's next ******* spectacular was
to be awaited?!

whatever the clues:
i have a night to catch...
a night that's deserving of my sleep...
and tomorrow...
will be: tomorrow.

I look like Raffa
(Rafael Benítez, Spanish football manager)
no ****!
you put a picture of him next to me
we look like long lost twins

but people don't seem to get
I'm not actually him

vilified by van drivers
builders on scaffolds
through open car windows

"oi Raffa you *****"

they don't seem to understand
he wouldn't be walking
carrying shopping
down the high street

I also look a bit like Peter Sutcliffe
but we'll leave it there I think

like i said before:

   i'm a sentimental schmuck...

but i've never, ever, never
heard a pop-grunge song

while, clubbing...

   say...
i can't decide between
soul asylum's song black gold

or blind melon's
song no rain

having grown up in England,
at the height of
the Brit-pop enterprise,
i wish i could have sentiments
allocated to Oasis...
or Blur...

Stone Roses... **** me...
going as far back as the Stone Roses...
sure...
Depeche Mode...
      and to an extent The Cure...

surprisingly the 80s had
very decent music,
Indie and what not...
sure... on the outside the era
looks pretty **** terrible...

but look into it...
and there's some pretty gravitas
sounds in the undercurrents
of culture...

hell, name them:
Hot Water Music,
Cage the Elephant...

               Dinosaur Jr.,
The Levelers...
                            
there was only music to begin
with,
and there will only music to
end it all...
the tirade of the angels attempting
to imitate the jazz sax
of Coltrane...
or the horn of Miles Davis...
or... for that matter...
   Chet Baker...
     white boy did goo'...
                 diddly-dotty-do...

because it's not exactly a bout of
nostalgia...
   nostalgia is a faking of
what eventually is bred by
a collective memory...

       no... i'm just a sentimental
*******...
         i've heard too much Slipknot
et al. of that era in clubs...
and Nirvana...

            so? i stopped going to clubs...
became bored ****-less
with the choice of music...

once, only once,
i danced to a DJ with some sense...
to Tool's song
stink-fist... only once,
only once... never mind...

                  and once... sometime in
Camden...
  watching a pretty girl attempt to
dance, or rather dance around
a fat boy to the song
dancing in the dark,
                   by you know who...

god... the sadness in her eyes...
she looked like an octopus
with the right count of extra limbs,
but all of them were limp...

i couldn't help her then,
i couldn't help her now...
   now... i'd love to go to a club
at night... and ease off the steam
and a stiff neck
and a stressed-firm back and
shoulder-blades...

    but the music choice?
it just started bugging me...
        there was only nostalgia...
and nothing to be said of
sentimentality...
curating the piquant
   oddities...

i guess the new mode of a DJ focus is
to combine...
music references,
with literary events,
paintings...
and what not, current movies...
i guess the new DJ outside-inside
the new public square needs
to hoard influences from
many sources...
   not music with music alone...

say...
when would you not make
the following arithmetic...

camille saint-saëns'
dance macabre,

boris grigoriev's
painting
   portrait of theater
director vsevolod meyerhold...

and the fact?
the fact that...
     either
  peter "the yorkshire ripper" sutcliffe
or...
   ian "the moors ******"
                                        brady...

requested this particular composition
to be played... while his body
was to be cremated...

whoever it was...
i'm pretty ****-sure am sure that one
of them, and if it's neither...
wanted his cremation to take
place with the dance macabre
playing in the background...

and then you look at grigoriev's
painting of meyerhold...

makes perfect sense...
    guess this makes me...

die neu platterennreiter:
                                         the new DJ.