i'm not going to boast a genius status
as to what "grand" book i read
at a tender age of X...

well... divine comedy aged 16...
stendhal's the scarlet and black
circa...

it was a bloody long bus drive
from romford to seven kings
of the double 'ecker (cockney slang
and rhyme gave the existence
of the concept of surd letters,
or the other way round?)

no. 86 bus...

i can tell you what autumn feels
like in england,
when i was gravitating toward
a pavement arithmetic
and autumn doing the chores
before x-ray winter came
with its chattering form of
prone bone(s)...
came the stiches and the carpet
of dying leaves...
with more hues prone to
zenith brown and decaying brown
or hinting at cantaloupe...
than would ever come with
shy of chartreuse avocado...
rarely: a memory bound to colour...
after all...
memory is overpowered by scent...
and a sixth sensation that is
a sigma of all the senses:
and is a sixth sense -
in that it is a sigma of all the other
senses - in unknown ratios...
and is therefore obscure...

it was some dross month,
i was halfway through Dostoyevsky's
crime & punishment...
st. petersburg?!
i never thought i'd date a girl
from st. ptersburg...
well... her grandmother she
called her mother...
her dead grandfather she called
her father...
her mother she called her sister...
her father who i presumed
in her theatre of lies
was either her uncle or her...
her... surrogate...
or whatever the circus would
be willing to feed others...

i remember autumn and Dostoyevsky...
shuffling head down
past the seven kings methodist church...
i still remember that burning
memory: what song will i hear last?

we're talking capturing a feeling
under a minute?
thomas newman - any other name,
maurice jarre - carpe diem...
you only need a few seconds...
and the whole bullshit becomes
obvious: i had a really "bland" english
teacher... well...

i did teach myself english
as i taught myself to swim...
my english teacher...
a scot... merely introduced me
to jazz... and entombed in me
a sense of pop music that could
rival my father's...
yet couldn't... since thomas burns'
taste didn't go further than led zeppelin
or tickle the intricate "gore" of king crimson...

epitaph for a past girlfriend,
going to work on oxford st.,
5am sold her...
king crimson's epitaph:
central london's labyrinth
come 5am... parallel interweaving...

what would or could ever be
the last song i would ever hear...

if you can spare an hour
górecki's symphony no. 3:
movement 1. lento -
sostenuto tranquillo ma cantabile. Op. 36

what it requires to feel:
in order to neither think nor know...
but to feel as to be tuned
to the intuitive spark...

3 out of the 4 have already been
given...

ah! the obvious!
christopher young - something to think about...
all but these words are worth,
are the worth they cling to,
to be associated with the music thus given...

no opera: since no one understands
opera to begin with (and isn't supposed to)...
relationships...
the first squabble came at
the Mariinsky Theatre...
she said: madame butterfly...
i said: la traviata...

prokofiev - lieutenant kijé / romance...

la traviata it was...
but she couldn't help noticing the two girls
doing a lesbo date...
noticing their handbags...
how they were showcasing "society"...
i attempted to ignore
what she was whispering
and instead decided to focus on
crying at beauty, at opera...

i was a terrible boyfriend...
too complex for her to mould me in her image...
too stupid to allow her to do so...
i can just imagine setting up
an internet dating profile...
humour me... why do people do it?
is it a speed-dating tactic?
you want to set up a profile...
a static profile...
where you reveal...
and never explore...
the quirks of a person?
what they like, what they don't like,
for a quick game of omniscient flirt?

clearly god is baggaged with
atheistic quickies of imagery...
let's surrender and borrow from "god"...
the omniscient flirt / speed-date event...
so you... put all your information...
onto a profile page...
and that leaves you with
what exploring to do in the realm
of conversation?
you know X likes horror movies and...
blah blah...
so... what's there to "unravel" /
"discover"? what's there to talk about...
when you already whored the best
part of your for a fucking dating profile
page like some mugshot?

if you reveal what you like...
what's there to like about you
or for you to prey upon escapism for
when the other person already knows
the magical algebra sequence?
what... what a terrible idea!

the omniscient "other" has already been
established...
no wonder so many intellectual atheists
feel claustrophobic within the confines
of the existence / non-existence of a god...
most of them probably don't have
to jump the editorial membrane
of finding an audience!
to me the editor is the charon...
and that's even before "there's" a "god"...

yet i find the omniscient "other" more
bothersome than a monotheistic god...
it's as if... one were to compare...
odin's crows (esp. in england) -
huginn (c.c.t.v.) and muninn (internet- self! - profiling)
to conquer the concept of the so far:
fervently defended stance of western
"individualism": to a breaking point
of playing poker!

what sort of a date could there ever be,
when you already know something = everything
about a person?
i guess the only benefit being:
if you know something = everything about
someone... then you know nothing about yourself!
it must astoud people to have to fake
not knowing some of the details
borrowed from a "premeditation"
of a dating profile... they encounter, later,
in person, on a date...
it must astound people to come across
as either ghost, or a shallow loch...
i wouldn't know: since...
a date for me is an hour in a brothel
for 110 quid...
teddy and squid come along...
and sometimes... the antithesis of viagara!

there once was a concept of transparency...
it would involve:
revealing aspects of yourself to an
unsuspecting audience...
a sort of: diet of dreams...
if you couldn't dream you'd explode into
diatribe verses...
but the core ingredients of your self
you would keep intact as: yourself...
the reflexive form of your self...
not the immediately placed into
a paint gun Pollock jizz ejaculation of...
post-scriptum your "self"...

i'm less worried about giving away my home
address (and the usual dox menu)
than i am about giving away what
music i really like...
or what movie makes me...

and whether true or false in these dating
profiles...
bad in both scenarios...
who the hell conceives of a culture
of dating... to then come up with
a shorthand for it...
the concept of profiles...
unless you have a fetish for police officers
or communist evesdroppers / censors...

oh sure sure...
i like red: red is grue...
grue is green.... and grue is blue...
well... red is... great...
and great isn't grue:
since grue is green and grue is blue.