eschatonIIsequnce viia future peak and preview

eschatonIIsequence vii

I don’t know what these are. It is all about poetry for me. The movement of a moment of conflagrating emotion.

It’s the poetry I care about not this nauseating prose.

Every time I write a paragraph I have to hold my nose.

Maybe if I knew I’d have the time I’d write the novel. But I am convinced that such a project, being vast, would end up short and broken.

Writing a novel, for me, would be like building a house without planning permission.

I prefer to live life on the road, at least in my head. Although outside I do travel light; it’s my head that could use room.

I’ve been converted to biscuits and cereals, a handful of either, for breakfast or lunch, then a small protein bomb, like a scotch egg perhaps for dinner or for supper.

I’m trying to drink lots of coffee because it reduces the scarring of the liver due to drinking by up to 80%, so I heard on a programme. Although I don’t drink every day and I never have I have been known to binge, so much so that I can feel scarring.

My brother dwells in Category D, which is his initial, and when he comes out for home breaks he is as on form as any.

It’s a pleasure eto have him around they say, and don’t say of many.

Inspiration, curiosity, and generosity: that is my code for the tribe, my own law table. Of course do your best not to lie.

There’s a peculiar thrill to knwing you are being read: it’s like having the one way conversation you always wished you had, and they’re not only listening, you’re actually being heard.

I am self-conscious about the sound of my voice; less so my dress sense; even less my painting style; and least of all about my poetry.

Yet weirdly that has it own peculiar voice, still I’m enthralled by it.

People appear and impose themselves on your lives like you are nothing, not even the meat they push around. They often use conflict aversion as a tool of manipulation. Not only women.

I’m no longer interested in sex so do not even try.

The good thing about having no body is the basic ability to fly.

I want a woman to feel good about herself if she is at my side.

I spend my time coining what I hope are timeless expressions, torn out of the air on the whim of the ghost that animates and moves me. If this is not what expressionism means then I am deluded.

I am the space where a biochemistry and analytical psychology colluded.

I am the unity of the manifold to which Immanuel Kant alluded.

I am organising chaos according to a pattern, just like gardening or dancing, matter and time.

I can’t go on making excuses all the time.

I am not afraid of being disarmed by rhyme.

Strange how we can arrange a structured pattern from our unfettered mass of emotions. Most notably in music.

But I will fight for poetry on its own grounds and in its own right: it doesn’t need music to appear as though it’s profound.

A good poem brings its own music on the back of its chosen words.

A poem takes shape like flocks of diving Autumn birds.

Is this an achievement or an exercise, or can I exercise the creative right to declare it to be both. We haven’t reached midway as yet, so what we’ll have achieved come the end, is hard to say.

I’d prefer an ebook in its context and hypertext, for I always imagined these sayings coming out in all sorts of ways.

Perhaps I ought to leave more space beteen lines, and invite the reader to dialogue with the sequences. Perhaps I should write an edition with a public key for editing parts of the living document.

That is more in the spirit of the original, to spread and somehow conquer, whislt scarring itself all the while.

That reminds me of an art project where visitors wrote in felt tip pen on the body of a naked girl or woman.

Perhaps this is a project for when the co-mingling streams have slithered quietly into the world for a while.

There is a strange blackmail at work concerning fathers who are pressured to be father of the year, when their tenure as a husband, in all its authority, has needed long repair.

I still agree that we should stop reproducing. Redistribute wealth and see ourselves off in a blaze of history like a Roman orgy.

If I was in charge of the world it would be some sort of cult, dedicated to change, and danger and song. I’d like to think so.

And by danger I mean being creative. Don’t afraid to destroy something if you’ve outgrown it, or even it has outgrown you.

I reserve the right to change my mind as should be anyone’s right. These talks of U-turns and climb-downs in the press make me sick and feel for politicians, towards whom I usually feel nothing but contempt.

My living is only as secure as my hapless flatmate’s ability to pay his monthly rent.

I wouldn’t get to comfortable. Life has a way of outmanoeuvring and landing one on you yet.

Catastrophe could strike from any direction. At any time the rug could be pulled from beneath your feet.

My fear of cancer goes up every year, but not nearly as much as my fear of emphysema.

I see smoking sometimes as that hour-glass metaphor, matter being transmuted into a form of gas. Itself which becomes more refined as it enter consciousness, and takes on a whole other form.

These are the ramblings of an unknown stoner. The stones ground down to chippings, clipping off your windscreen.

The only stoners I knw in posession of a brick wouldn’t be crashing no overhead passes but trying to sell the thing on.

A brick of hashish probably wouldn’t dent your roof or bonnet. Oh I’m only saying it blood, I wouldn’t ever do it.

But if you’ve got a kilo and a sunroof it’s going to go right through it.

This is the last page of the night, not even random as fuck: evrything’s in halves, everything’s in twos. It goes back to Noah’s ark

No page is ever a brisk walk through the park. But sometimes it’s like escaping out of one of Houdini’s escapology bags.

I could have said a strait-jacket and make the straps the lines. But that would not be fair because we know language unwinds.

I do not trust what I have not seen with my own inner eyes.

There is definitely a compulsion to the structure of these lines.

Some things I appear to do purely in the name of synmmetries.

Perhaps there is a mental illness issue that still goes undiagnosed. Of course I’ve always thought I’ve been rational. Just more rational than most people would suppose.

I avoid eye contact, I can barely bear to even look at the page.

If I didn’t hate my own voice, I would take poems to the stage.

I have to be primed to receive a parcel. It’s a strange sensation like being caged by your own reward system.

If going to bed early is a crime then I’m one law-abiding citizen.

I have no time for friendships: I am a single man on a single mission.