i'll take or leave: i have no heart for proße -
the "best" (anything) i can really do is
write a sketch -
the past 8 or so weeks in a quantum -
something bearable...

musically starved: and reading...
the only music i heard was nothing beside
an aura of dogs barking in
the night and car horns -
or the sound of water: congested in pipes
rather than naked in waterfalls...

rusty fingers... they haven't really
ciphered anything of late -
but certainly no music...
i can at least fathom these prosaic
oddities with no rhyme:
to some available 10 minute span of sitting
hunched: the crow - no altar -

minor business in the bank...
somewhat solved...
how else did Gombrowicz tell his woman:
if the building is aflame:
leave all else, but take Cronos with you!
at first glance: no much to salvage...
something akin to Morse Code
and telegraph notation:
hardly maxims or anecdotes...

after the minor business in the bank?
Romford, high street...
a black woman was performing
a "spoken word" event -
poetry - with some r & b to aid her /
give her rhythm and momentum...
a police van was parked
just shy of 10 metres from here...
England...
is she started to speak about anything
about abandoned love and
brokenness and an acceptance
of such a fate and in general:
a nodding happenstance of yes yes:
mein oberherr...

i can almost imagine living in a monochromatic
"nation"... in a homogeny -
when all these "minor" details would
not be laid so bare...
what else to hinge on, other than grammatical
structure of a person?
but she was speaking her poetry in
public - apparently requiring a police
van's presence...

those police officers rarely come
10 metres close to someone holding a bible...

8 weeks without a decent diet of music...
only reading -
how impossible it has become to
read and listen to music at the same time...
so i had to make a purchase...
into the music shop and sifting through
the vinyls...
at least buying vinyl isn't so bad
as to want... the last remaining HMV in
London to keep existing...
oh yes... Romford one of the last places near
and around London where you can
buy a vinyl while having the "added"
tenacity to step out of your house
and not click-click-click - wait 3 days
for the delivery - get on a bus...
bump into people...

i knew that it made sense to buy vinyl
when it started making a comeback...
jazz isn't exactly the sort of music
you ever want to listen to using headphones...
jazz needs air... and space...
perhaps even a fucking opera house:
if you're going to listen to opera -
aucustics... no opera on the gramaphone...
so a living room will do to play some jazz...
plus? the added bonus?

a contemp. record on vinyl will
set you back... roughly £20...
and why would i want a contemp. vinyl?
a jazz record sets you back: £10 (a tenner,
ten quid)... go figure...
plus jazz sounds better when it's given
a bit of air... and a proper altar:
a gramaphone... and a proper eucharist
a vinyl plate...

saxophone colossus: sonny rollins...
cum tommy flanagan (piano)
doug watkins (bass) and max roach on the drums...

now comes the magic trick...
moritat: from saxophone colossus...
is that: in memory... i've got you under my skin...
or is it... mack the knife?
before i listen to the three songs
on the earphones...
i want to make sure: who borrowed from who?
1956 came the colossus?

it doesn't matter now: at the time of listening
to it: exploring accents -
apart from the differences staged
by either Kierkegaard or Knausgård...
enten / eller (albo albo)
and min kamp vol 1 + 2...
am i going to be a sycophant and read more?
i've heard that vol 3 + 4 are the best...
but what of being "this": democratic reader
of listening to as many voice
as possible?

is this writing mediocre -
with a sigh that begs not to differ -
what could have been a harlequin romance
novel for grandmothers:
was never to come from me...

i am simply aiming for a point where:
i lose control -
and there's not notion of a writer's block...
there's just the "nuanced" membrane
of intermittent pulsating doubts
reclining in the back of my mind:
nibbling at me with words
akin to: not just yet...

my... have we really become so ugly?
from Kierkegaard to Knausgård?
oh don't get me wrong...
i enjoyed 8 weeks without "thinking"
or any spontaneity of sorts...
i read a Bukowski poem and i'm
back on track...
if we are really going to chop
the necessary wood to print pages
of tabloid and not speak to one another...
then i guess the next best thing
to replace a fireplace is a t.v. set...
and the supposed "warmth" we can
arrive at: reading tabloid spew...

because why would i have a high
opinion, an impossible opinion of someone's
writing: when i derive no high-esteem
from my own?
it's not so much a cautionary tale:
self-esteem among writers is always
a fluctuation necessary for writing to exist
to begin with...

but after finally finishing this 745 whale of
a book... it's writing at its most perfect:
it's easily forgetable...
and i don't imply that in a bad way...
but... when you still play sunday football...
listen to coldplay when you drive...
and the high events are
lodged between dire straits and talking heads?

fuck me: if i'm thinking about sports...
not professionally...
done: "on a whim"?
i'm thinking ping-pong...
even i had to degrade the notion of running
without a serious intention as somehow
absurd... amplified by the prison-confines
of a "sport": a game consisting of kicking
a ball with 21 other ballerinas...

i'm not low - but i did just sink into
a cognitive labyrinth of 745 pages of a book -
i couldn't just "leave it"...
terrible flaw: if it's begun: it has to be finished...
however "terrible":
in the end - reading is reading...
i no more enjoy it or abhor it to breathing...
there's never a terrible book...
there's only the remainers of it...

the books remains a noumenon -
oh sure... it's a phenomenon otherwise...
it's a bestseller...
it can even reach a status of a talking point
over a few pints in a pub...
like harry pottery etc.,
- and not because out of snobbery
did i not read such books...
i just want to read a book...
that i don't have to talk about...
having to read the sort of books that
gravitate people into conversation is...
truly... a waste of time...
it wouldn't be such a waste of time...
if i read the book aloud...
but since most of my reading is done
in silence...
why would i want to talk about whatever
tabernacle of space that's my mind to
a mere jabber -
i would be abandoning me: the reader...
having abandoned the writer in
his or her lotus opening pose...

there really isn't a bad book in existence...
i can't but i rather can: fathom the relief
of being occupied by 745 pages of which
i remember nothing...
better than spending 745 hours watching t.v.,
only three days ago i woke up
with such a pang of sadness that
it bewildered me...
why haven't i finished this book sooner?
why did i start to treat it less like
a menial chore and more like some
ambrosia custard treat to ensure
i compensate the hours of the night,
awake,
with reading it, and... say...
not listening to music or some other
current you-tube crap?

like this new trend: the "coomer"...
6 weeks isn't that bad...
after a while the whole act becomes
a no. 3 in the citation of:
no. 1 for piss and no. 2 for taking a shit...
mind you: a congested piece of turd,
lurking... can almost send you bonkers-land
when conceiving it as a tapeworm-esque
presence in your body...
a lurking turd... 5 hours solid...
headache and suicidal thoughts...

not jerking off...
i'm sorry, but the act isn't so spectacular
when you're on the shitter...
god: all this constant reminder of the ape-genesis...
it's like with darwinism the 17th century
never happened...
or the 18th... it's either now:
the boorish present... or it's up a tree
and being all ape again...
tell me: o ye gods...
what has become of man and this
immovable canvas of ape he keeps
rejuvinating arguments from!

the more you do (a) the less you do (b)...
erectile dysfunction...
i checked... i agree with freud on this
one posit... the madonna-whore complex...
last time i checked...
the clarity of paying for something...
in the bordello i see no nuance...
give or take the last time i went...
collecting jazz records got in the way...
but then... i forgot for a long time
what was necessary to feel lonely or
untouched...
how otherwise unspectacular...
but always with these fucking apes...
like... nothing happens between here and now...
beside from the ape - the "homo" similis...
the homo "sapiens" and the future of res sapiens...
or... mensa octopus and some
other buggery's worth of etc.

i only promised myself to reread Nietzsche
in Polack... why did i succumb to reading
Knausgård? again: it's not a bad book...
there are no bad books...
my grandmother likes to read harlequin romance
novels... i required a Kant lite...
or a Sartre lite...
an existentialism: lite...
in the banal the spectacular...
yes... the writing is... spectacular...
as much as watching a river flow for an hour:
it occupies the most appropriate
coming together of time and space...
or rather... the space already small:
allows for time to expand...
when cited, beginning 21:30 ending 22:40...
50 pages to the finish...
in between sipping a cider... or two...
and smoking...

why is Hamlet cited... more times... than Macbeth?
why will all of Shakespeare will
never amount to anything equivalent
to Aud Lang Syne?
of the former: because, em...
the joke isn't there: nor is the supposed couch?

the world and its intricacies of
the grandiose and the ingrained detail / depth
of overcoming...
a sea i can imagine needing to be overcome...
but an opinion?
a base mantra -
how many maxims / aphorisms can be ascribed
to Nietzsche / la Rochefoucauld
can be cited... truths "yet to be seen" -
and how many of these are...
hanging like forbidden fruits...
about to be... instigated and forced upon
the canvas of truth?

again: why will modern man question...
what are this objective sentences allowed
to exist: why will not this man shrink into
a parallel subjectivity -
obey the given facts...
and not burden others with his quasi...
"science"...
why is there a constant need to begin
"again"?
- because what other beginning is there,
beside... an "again"?

what was so "original" about the original sin
if not mimic, imitation,
plagiarißm? ah... look... this one time
where a german zeppelin has landed
a sinker of its anchor to mind the bounty of
its shore...

that ß really sounds like a Z... and not an S...
when you strain your ears to it...

that's why i'm jealous envy of prose...
i gladly read it, but hardly write it...
why not escape the necessitate boredom
of having to invert punctuation
and give it more than a comma,
a semi-colon, hyphen or a dot or paragraph?

sylvia plath and mary shelley are still
the only two females having
a presence in my library...
rumi is also equivalent to a woman...
so there...
oh... and the pashtun women verses...
do i have to be a "misogynist" all of a sudden?
no... but feminism is like darwinism...
when a man had his: romantic natchnienie
(inspiration) -
his baroque... his existentialism...
his post-modernism, his cubism...
woman: the bull in the porcelain shop came
and said: all of this...
with the feminism prefix and suffix! now! pronto!

o.k. o.k... just like darwinism is
the 17th century in a nutshell for
a day in a life of a 21st century man...
back up yer tree! filthy ape!
fine! no problem... o.k.! i said: fine!
platonism is: feminism- and something...
german idealism is... feminism- and "something"...
bypassing all these avenues...
congesting them into a single movement...
fucking pea-brain became arch russian
omni mando cerebellum (eat all brains) genius...
evil at that...
if you've been to russia...
you'd sooner or later find out...
this shit gets boring... "we" have the same
phylistine corn-nibblers as you do...
why posit the antonym circumstance
of your "good" your "goodness" narrative
as: we - the excused party?

russophobia makes a lot more sense...
when you don't succumb to...
championing russia literature...
citing Dostoyevsky or Solzhenitsyn -
russophobia is probably more ridiculous than
islamophobia; or as...
given how the rich children of both these
races party in the west...
you are most certainly going to buy / read
a book by a russian in england...
than you are to buy / read a book
by a Polack... Sienkiewicz? who?!
"luckily" i know...

maybe i should find myself in a lucky position
having acquired this tongue...
alas... no post-colonial bast-story...
no ailing west indian born in Brooklyn
farting Mozart through a saxophone...
just your atypical industrial white-nigger...
with internet access...
and... ahem... "dreams"...
not a scandinavian exotica bosom...
such your... run of the mill...
Ottoman census: line 'im up alongside
the other Balkan plebs...

but my my... those Bulgarian women really
held the world in their bosoms...
to hell with the circumstances...
a formal-informal passing of "darling"
in the english tongue between
a bank employee and an account holder
will simply not cut it...
i quiet simply forgot to be 33 and...
being belittled doesn't really matter when
you're: tall to the heavens -
and stupid as expected (6ft1)

(wysoki do nieba - i głupi jak trzeba)...
well... at least in the anglophone world i'm not a german...
but my physiognomy is so entwined
with my CENTRAL european neighbor
that i'm usualy conflated with him...
but not being German in the anglophone world
is not exactly a plus...
when the alt. "plus" is being Polish;
i'd settle for Russian...
otherwise... what was supposed to come of "me":
even as immigrants...
we: this people do not congregate...
perhaps some do...

come to think of it...
beside living in Scotland...
have i really lived in England?
in London / outer London...
is that or was it really ever England?
i remember visiting Cheltenham
and feeling a sickness attributed to
a sensation of undermining scuttling rats
and the bleach of: "inbreeding"
of my own inheritence:
should i ever choose to entertain it...

perhaps: ymysg y cymraeg neu albanwr?
because what's this? this?
sunday prep anglican the smiths
and other queer procrastinations
of elevating psychiatric terminology
into overly-misnomer-attention-seeking
whoring of nouns?
custard fabric! what else? what else?
don't tell me "it" all came down to
Helen Mirren playing Catherina the Great!

- indeed... books...
the last remaining place of interest for
the less prying eyes...
i.e. always with a minus concerning
a comment section of the ever more eager:
typo-happy bulge of:
the "most aggrieved".