Friday, July 31, 2009

Arrangement of various vectors

Of the usual words that can be piled up, one after the other.

For example, usually I just rearrange words in particular order

And then I see the fat shit comedian twats on established TV who just fuck and shit on about nothing of any import. And get slack gigs on radio 4 boring my head like a drill.

Arrant tits, smug and well paid with smily shit acceptance of the thing that happens.

Fuck off and die.

Not that I have any answer, any real telepresence in opposition to these funny fucks.


Tuesday, July 28, 2009

On a plane tomorrow

Fusel1 has arranged that we travel the next leg of the tour by twin-prop Leitmotif. This fills me with fear.

The Leitmotif, a flying toilet manufactured in thousands in the dogend of the 40s during the Glorious Reconstruction: when south Albonia was blasted, depopulated, and choked with rusting martial ironmongery and therefore useless; so the north got 5 year planned. Industrialised, strip-mined, stuck full of groaning machinery, and so made in the image of the south.

Heavy rivetted Leitmotifs, engines sugar-glued to sagging wings, were spat out of the mills one after the other (or sometimes four at once), painted with big red stars, pimpled with glassene gun turrets and launched into the air to patrol the skies in ugly, coughing bulldog circles.

Well, I'm travelling in one of those tomorrow.

There is a bonus - Fusel insists that the yaks (Steve and Boris) have to come with us. He wasn't expecting argument because he booked the yaks' flight the same time he booked ours. Fusel says they'll have to travel first class. Because, it was all so last-minute, and the last two tickets for the cargo hold had gone. I was ok with that 'til I found out what part of the plane me and Fusel are to travel in.

1not his real name

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Turn it up

I can't hear it, though for everyone else it's loud

I can't see it, because it's in me

And I'd have to have inside out eyes

So I could see it, and react appropriately

With corresponding horror

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Observer thing

Every job I've had and even now

Has felt like looking on

But being too lazy to take notes

Like a crap ethologist

Railway harmony

I used to be a watchman on the permanent way

Watching out for intercity 125s barking round the curve into the Manton junction, whilst the crucible welders stacked their pots of magnesium and sinter over the one mile continuous track

My watch was to warn the late night spit that a 1000 tonnes of 100 mile an hour passenger tube was on the opposite way

And, similar conjunction replacing fishplates and pandrols, this years later on summer night with rain just finished I remember that curve of rail under the road bridge at 3am

A good friend of mine

Seems to have done that already

Here's this fine man I've known for more than a decade who has (apparently) given up the metered life, measured in daily summing up, and found it wanting

Forgotten his friends, not that I know them or give a fuck, I mean me.

Forgotten that there's this one person (me again) through all the splinters, has been there, if not whole and heartened, still somehow unpleasantly there

A reminder that the rock of middle and average gets on and keeps on so that you can measure your successes and failures against that stoic benchmark

Never as crap, ever as flaked out, whenever there's a sport in drang

Always there as an inconstant buoy, riven on the same seas, but anchored to some depth condescended. A concrete example of one standard deviation within acceptable limits

Well, fuck you, I'm not your rule, and won't accept the sine wave of my predicted limits as the acceptable measure

I'm adrift too

Is it such a big fucked up problem

If this Monday to Friday thing stops happening. And it just stops now?

When the brittle privet hedges stop being so high and furthermore, stopping me retrieving the ball?

It's the question not worth answering. Because the answer would be in the proper view again

So, here's the time to scrub that out, and go live in a shed up a hill

And finally contemplate the small circle I keep making smaller

Friday, July 17, 2009

Bank Holiday Monday rain and the morals of dolphins

Massive increase in traffic on Friday means massive increase in particulates in the atmosphere, meaning massive increase in rain odds, and an extra day for the bet.1

P(wet Monday) ∝ (traffic on Friday)

So it's no fucking wonder it always pisses down on Bank Holiday Monday - stop asking, with varying degrees of incredulity, from shoulder-shrugging resignation to blank outrage, "Why does it always piss down on a Bank Holiday Monday?"

It's not the confluence of irony and coincidence, it's basic physics.

An alternative explanation for our inability to get over the seeming inevitability of the BHM=rainsquared equation, is that, actually, rain isn't any more likely on a Bank Holiday Monday -

P(wet Bank Holiday Monday) ≈ P(wet Monday)

- it's just that we notice it more as, on most other Mondays, we're at work, in a building (except farmers, this does not apply to farmers. This blog is not for farmers. Fuck farmers.)2

It's similar to that old bollocks about lost swimmers getting led to shore by dolphins, therefore dolphins=good.3

The fallacy is that the only source of evidence is people led to shore by dolphins.

All those poor buggers who got led away from shore, and then eaten (and probably fucked), by evil pervert dolphins aren't, by the axioms of the theory, available to provide a counter-example.

  1. For foreigners who don't have Bank Holiday Mondays, it's this Monday when all the banks go on holiday.
  2. Also, worth noting: with this post I have made an implacable enemy of Mr. G. Thickasshit: farmer; whose brother was eaten by dolphins; now trying to light his disposable barbecue on a rain-swept beach.
  3. Ok, so this is not similar, and Daniel Dennett pointed it out first, you got me. Fuck off.

Puncture head

Joe had a head like a boiled egg

And he went through life guarding his special face using bandages and balloons

So that, should he fall, on soil, concrete or otherwise brittle answer

He'd always have inhaler cushion against the snap glass response

But for once, when otherwise engaged in Foucalt discourse, wherein he medicalised his condition

He tripped on a rucked up rug and broke his brain in two

Right through the corpus callosum

So had a real division between otherwise metaphoric right/left brain antagonism

Synthesised that through a Heidegger split

Campen van beet oven

The beat and sweat of violins corralled in a corner by the rest of the standing sound

All headache in the milliwave, where hares did gyre and mumble

And the vorpal blade cut and cut and showered blood in arcs that made patterns on the lesser regarded concrete walkways in the barbican centre

Late nineteen thunth century anally full English retrograde argument, has snipe nosed empire detectives wet in ache, sole in answered squint, like magnified tobacco has any relevance, case solved, the arse did it

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Oh laid forthrightly in the hinterland

The islands that drift in the sea, sometimes banging against each other in a land bridge embrace over geologic ages, so some ants or chaffinches can have a common ancestor

In deep time can be brothers and happy with that, sharing a bunch of mutual genetic markers

Fairly happy, and monkey ancestor therefore Protestant

Not conforming to nailed church door

There's something camp about that, a certain prissy denial, with handwaving allusion to mystery dicks

Friday, July 10, 2009

Slightly hungover

Have a mission this hot morning. I have to find a fat taxi driver with the local tabloid held in his left hand (and I'm told I'll know him by the smell of rotten peaches). So I get out of the hotel (concrete blocks, beige, stained carpets and slowly rotating ceiling fans decapitating stupid wasps the size of my thumb) onto the street before, even at shit o'clock in the morning rammed with tinned-dinner carrying chaps fucking off to work, so I get the impression of lots of backs of heads and shoulders, sweat-stained singlets, and rotoring bikes.

So I breathe in (because the smog of petrol fumes and dew isn't mixed and descended yet) and take a minute on the threshold.

And there he is, a wide little man with the generic moustache, standing by his fucked up taxi, newspaper in hand (self-consciously) and looking up and down the loud road until he spots me.

I do that embarrassed grunt of recognition and start towards him. He catches my eye, and with some gesture I don't quite get, makes me understand I should walk on.

So I do, and know he's tracking me as I walk by, and with raised (fat, thick black) eyebrows, lets me know someone across the street is watching me.