Now, just now it clears
And forms are filled in, dry and brittle
The thing finishes
The over, the just gone, the signed away
The bricks of the foundation gone
The groundwork bare again, but now disinterred, showing age and tracks
Where there was a house, now there's weeds
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Now, just now it clears
The gust of belched air comes across the dark green dark of the moor, as does the werewolf. His mouth is spittled and raw, his breath is strong and red.
He will eat you, his teeth in you, his hips cracking against you.
So - knowing this - you run headlong through the gorse and bracken.
When you find the road, its gravel outlying, you run that much faster over its hard return.
No good: you may be faster; so is he.
His breath is on your heels, the leap to bring you down a potential that is about to be.
Escaping in a minute.
Get your car up the ramp from the waiting ferry. Customs is passed, and you are very relieved that, the weight of contraband is undetected - a freight of tobacco, a bible-coded prediction of selling in car boot sales, along with lamps, porcelain dogs and bootleg CDs.
Different kind of capture.
There's no win in the motorway: up your arse all the way to junction nine; until you swing a turn and they pass you. The little lights of the exit, as you swing, studded along the way.
You run the last length of road. A memory of a swimming pool, a polystyrene float in front of you, as you look through the chlorinated blue before you; to the end where the dry, tracksuited instructor beckons you on, with cupped hands and mimed front crawl.
Flecks of spit run up your neck. The burn of teeth surely follows.
If only I could pull that water in my hands, and catapult myself up on the tiles, then the teeth would not catch, the claws would not pull me back.
Up the fucking motorway one two many times this month. Leave at shit o'clock in the morning in the polluter (new name for van) when it is dark and cold and cold and dark.
Get there, then spend hours measured in least remembered minutes in a bright office. Looking at people. Wondering if they have an inner life (of course they do) or are they just wallpaper (of course they're not).
I do the thing with work, one pointless thing after another, with both joy and dedication (who are sisters if you believe Christians).
Then I eat stuff burnt in the subsidised canteen.
Then I do more worky work. With diagrams. With bullet points.
And I say some stuff which gets listened to ("I'm going to have a piss now") and other stuff that doesn't ("I hate you, I hate you, is that a doughnut?").
Then I'm back in the van, where first I smoke a cigarette, and then I turn the key in the ignition and the fucking oil light blinks, so I ignore that harbinger of engine death, and then I reverse the big dusty van out of the corporate carpark.
Back down the M42, tackle beamer twats for priority on the M40 interchange, lane swap randomly to the M5.
Evesham, Gloucester, etc. longwave radio 4 cuts out under bridges and whines under stretched wires across from pylons.
Into the Michael Woods services just before Bristol, because of screenwash lack, and the slightly white up-crap from the road is fogging my scratched windscreen.
Back out on the last stretch of M5 elastic for junction 15, 16, 17, 18 and off onto to the A4 (which goes to Bath, which is full of cunts). Portway. Home.
190.7 miles roundtrip according to Google. Every mile one inch longer on the way back (and that accumulates).
It's dark and I turned off all the lights this morning.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Sometimes I wish I could turn that off And become as one with the mouth breathers To let my inner idiot have full reign To abrogate my moral responsibility to a magic man in the sky A bearded dick on a cloud Expecting and demanding worship from the ants he corrals
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Well the yak (who I've named Steve) is really wearing my arse out now, but we're just passing the Knuckle.
It's this big black volcanic glass rock that's off to one side of the road (a mile off, and still fucking huge) glinting in the evening slanting sunshine.
It's called the Knuckle (Shlortsi in the local language, so Fusel tells me) because it looks like this big carpometacarpal joint pushed up out of the stony ground round there. Like a giant is trying to punch her way out of the geology.
Nothing grows there (and you have to say that with a mystery whisper) because, hey! it's fucking rock, there's no soil there. (Fusel glowers at this and sucks on his pipe, which I think is full of ketamine, because he's that fucked up with his big-ass moustache).
I'm a happy smiling tourist with a big camera, a hunk of technology I can't use, even here - there's a super-secret rocket base behind the Knuckle, and occasionally you see the contrail of an X-plane full of volunteer about to explode.
Still and all, I can hear the whiny call of plain warblers arguing about politics in the reeds of a stagnant pond (that smells of diesel) just a couple of close Greeks away.
Before off on the holiday (long tome coming, short time going).
Anyway, before I bugger off. I found this from Bertrand Russell:
Fear of public opinion, like every other form of fear, is oppressive and stunts growth. It is difficult to achieve any kind of greatness while a fear of this kind remains strong, and it is impossible to acquire that freedom of spirit in which true happiness consists, for it is essential to happiness that our way of living should spring from our own deep impulses and not from the accidental tastes and desires of those who happen to be our neighbours, or even our relations
Title: Cometary lag festival Body:
Where the bombs in my head go off, one after the other,
And spouting neurone fireworks (touch blue paper and retire to a Spanish villa dotage where wrinkles conspire to make a map of mars on your face)
That's where, in pleasant green hills grandfatherhood, I will look upon my golden retinue of children and children's children.
The perpendicular gothic of the stone beams and concrete arches will be a part (apart) of the defining way (a road to, an avenue between).
All happy then, indescribable joy descends.
Pick the meaning of the preceding, there's something there for all of you.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
whilst i, in my cups, say one thing or another. Perhaps you will listen. My best and oldest friend is ill, and I don't know what to say or do or be or stand off. See, that's the considered and always forefront British irony that gets in the way. Even though he's there. Even though I wished I had that outsider chic (but without one half of family murdered) Passive voice: it's the case that I can't say
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
It's just the case that this certain race, that hasn't losers because they're killed, hasn't got a special winner now Now, I've been about as far ahead, as I'd like to be, but there's some distance between let's take an aside where I tell you about Bëbe, the ice cream in the desert. Travelling in Albonia was, in detailed memorandums, an implicit paean of unrequited love. A bitter turkey twizzle of wrestling with cats and dogs. Whether it's ok to be past broken due to shaking lily getting less etiolated, and then blooming in the 10w light bulb glare of that particular twat, that's as maybe. Still, it gets down to this, I left my keys in Albonia
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Sunday, March 07, 2010
1000 words a day
It may take some time working up to that, but then the figured climb may take some reasoned acclimatisation there
It's not like I can think of anything that would engender 1000 words of coherent thought
Back up and beholden to the reek of conscionable ideals, each less well than the last
That's an overuse of the intellect, right there. Why does it seem that an attribution or situation is any better told by my drunken brother safe in his cups, than me, plying the trade of intoxicated vigour.
I should put a question mark after that, but have run out of cigarettes and alcohol so therefore won't.
Maybe I'll revisit Albonia (link) where I managed to put in all the various wholes that weren't half summed by bright realisation.
Means and averages - Darwin couldn't work out why natural selection didn't average out until it's found the bland answer to grass and tree, or the desert, is the solution: a million miles of altruistic vegetable colluding in succour of light.
Why there had to be spikes of predator, as the Origin of the Species neither explains speciation nor justifies diversity.
This base algorithm of blind science when put up against the rolling eye of omniscient purpose (though purpose for what).
Teleology is opposed to atheism as it seeks to find purpose in the little waves of everything breaking, yet that striving for explanation is in itself a contradiction.
Why bother investigating the panoply of undiscovered purpose if there is a purpose? Surely best to ride along without self-engendered moral compass, as fairy belief moves you on anyway?
Why disinter the ghosts encrypted in tombs of text if all they say is what you already know? What special knowledge of unknowingness marks you out as better able to map ignorance?
Who gives a fuck what the dead sea scrolls say, if all they do is reinforce the shuttered acceptance of mystery still in suburban redoubts?
Why would you give a fuck about the revealed truth, if you believed anyway?>
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Introduced by fuck weevils, this phone has all the features of this other phone, but with added sweaty importuning
It has more features, but like a face, doesn't really require them
It has bigger cream and more vanilla. And this is supposedly asked for.
Therefore it wins the fuck out of the competition the other phone didn't enter
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Some dogs digging through the mess of when we died found an electric regress
Where static angels climbed up tesla's poles
And magnetically said
This is the reason, this is why this curls around
And then it's dead again
The shallow brown litter of where once we were
Now wind goes, and stirs up tickets and coupons
Round the base of latter triumph, dead and gone
Sucks up colours and makes it black and white
Takes history and makes it semaphore signifier for gone time
Somehow, sometime sucks the pith and vinegar
And renders it two tone two steps removed
But this is my life metered out in fading photographs
And yellow print
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Towing a line out of the reeks of someone else's canal
This is the reason and rhyme of not doing it. Not having it and being angry and redfaced, and spitting vinegar in the line.
Wondering when I'm not the recipient for every other little bitter aside.
It's enough to have a happy heart?