I just met God. He was on the 5.15 train.

"Death is not an event in life: we do not live to experience death. If we take eternity to mean not infinite temporal duration but timelessness, then eternal life belongs to those who live in the present. Our life has no end in the way in which our visual field has no limits."



— Wittgenstein, Tractatus, 6.431

The Annie to my Susan?

I've never known what's so damaging about a little nostaglia.





now that the scene's set, with so much as a little prompt:


did you sleepwalk your way as i stirred the pot of pit-cries from the sweltering kitchen to the patter of your the jungle drums, seething through the plaster from your den to the cornbread pattern of luau sways,a hazy heated path, a pastel fuzz. soft budding bass notes induce a nose-bleed.

I'm lost in Brighton

An ant in a cornfield,
the lanes run on like veins.
Don't lose your head now,
just remember and float
in enveloping memories of me
your distant comfort (a ghost).
And with my lungs,
the sinews of your heart smile
and our cheeks join in unison:
a single swoon, solitary sky.
With no destination
we can never be lost.
Only wanderers.

The Dynamism of My Concentration

what he said

"In our time it is broadly true that political writing is bad writing. Where it is not true, it will generally be found that the writer is some kind of rebel, expressing his private opinions and not a ‘party line’. Orthodoxy, of whatever colour, seems to demand a lifeless, imitative style. The political dialects to be found in pamphlets, leading articles, manifestos, White papers and the speeches of undersecretaries do, of course, vary from party to party, but they are all alike in that one almost never finds in them a fresh, vivid, homemade turn of speech. When one watches some tired hack on the platform mechanically repeating the familiar phrases — bestial, atrocities, iron heel, bloodstained tyranny, free peoples of the world, stand shoulder to shoulder — one often has a curious feeling that one is not watching a live human being but some kind of dummy: a feeling which suddenly becomes stronger at moments when the light catches the speaker's spectacles and turns them into blank discs which seem to have no eyes behind them. And this is not altogether fanciful. A speaker who uses that kind of phraseology has gone some distance toward turning himself into a machine. The appropriate noises are coming out of his larynx, but his brain is not involved, as it would be if he were choosing his words for himself. If the speech he is making is one that he is accustomed to make over and over again, he may be almost unconscious of what he is saying, as one is when one utters the responses in church. And this reduced state of consciousness, if not indispensable, is at any rate favourable to political conformity."

George Orwell, Politics and the English Language

idiosyncrackatic.

thought of that one myself.

Wednesday August 4th; 2010

Gelatinus disks of vertibrae quiver;
disolve into a lucid xylophone,
oscillating, slithering on my spine-
struck dumb by your insatiable instruments
(the hot gaze glazes)
in the vortex vacuum of etherised want-
purring verbs like devious cats.

Again in our fishbowl world of laughing gas;
again searching for the velvet anonymity
of seething allyways, curtains, doors, steps
walls
walls
boxes- devices to conceal
to ease the ecstatic acidic bile
the vomiticious swoons and desolation
of stumbling slurs.

tomorrows mythic guilt.

black pits

above us was deformity, cruel anomalies and the secrets of their brutality, and the churning sensation of bile which whirls when the forbidden is approached. i pictured the twelve stories of skeletal loss, disinfected memories, the stark neurosis of the flickering flourescents and a jungle of aporia which weighed on my thoughts as heavy as the physical building around us loomed. shadows and glass shards cracked and swooned, our drunk brains wading, our dumb-courage capsizing. on our palms, the grounds own dirt clotted the sweat which made climbing such labour.

i didnt notice it on the first entry, my eyes fuzzy in the black, but to our left, through the white door jarred open by the brave before us, was a grand piano lying on its side, its face smashed in, its white and black shiny teeth scattered giant tic tacs. it had been pushed down the concrete stairs infront of us, the sound could only have been magnificent resounding tolls of a brass bell, the crack and split of polished wood the crescendo. psychotic cackles of both worlds must have broken out from the hospital walls in applause. we darted and leaped between shadows and still puddles to avoid leaving our black imprints on the walls or to disturb the thick settled dust with our feet.

she was an infantile drunk, and the heave of her breath which seeped beer and cigarettes was repulsive and embarrassing in the disappointing tranquility of the main hall, which we entered with half-squinted eyes, expecting a human or other but finding walls, doors and stale air. i crept near to him, always between them.

an insoluble contradiction that would be my undoing, my coming undone.

this is shit.