Last of 40 whole preview pages of eschatonIIsequence in progress

The night slips by like a cat with no home to go to. It lingers in doorways and leaps fences and walls in bounds that don’t belong on a lazy hour before dawning.

I write to keep loneliness at bay which would be absurd if I didn’t believe in myself or readers. Authenticity is ironically the spot that should put certain dead thinkers into a metaphysical fenzy.

You could say a rebirth of the author has dawned with a second Guttenburg communications revolution. Even readers have adapted to the new forms.

I made a short video reciting one of my poems, posted on Facebook, and in a day received 43 viewings. I do not know 43 people, I do not know ten, and maybe five of them at all well. I believe that’s at least Warhol’s famed fifteen minutes. I have that and a book in my hands.

I will die young: let’s be clear I’m not deluded. The damage my body has incurred living life like I’m dying or conquering the world has left more than the scars on my forearms. My organs must be pretty chopped up too.

Conspiracy theories are what you get when a decent mind isn’t bothered wih being trained and has incurred some intellectual chip on their shoulder.

Again it’s lack of humility and honesty in intellectual pursuits, it is once again authenticity. If everyone said what they really believed the world would be quiet with pleasantries alone throughout the day.

People do not believe what they are saying. They act in such conflicted ways you know they are not thinkers. Which is not to say they don’t have opinions or a right to them just that they are liars. They say it’s about the hijab while wearing a ridiculous baseball cap.

If half the people wearing baseball caps actually went to baseball the relevant governing bodies would be stronger than governments, religions, or the Vatican.

Is it possible to keep pushing through the night for the sake of some pages I’ve no idea what will be on them? It is obviously possible, although my body screams aches, but is it rational?

I think it’s plain I believe in reason like I believe in salt and freshly ground pepper: use it sparingly to enhance the flavour, not excessively and render food for thought impalatable.

This could be the greatest thing that I write, speeding through the night, with plenty to occupy myself with in the weeks ahead. Is that a lift in a state of clinical depression?

I still fall through many a crack: only the other day I was partying at my age and ran a small blade down my arm which was like a razor. An accident it was in some ways, in part, but still questionable as fuck, and immature as babies.

Luckily my host bandaged my arm and was not duly phased; I think people around me have come to accept my weird branding or brand of acting.

My weird role as poet. My reluctant envy and frustration with philosophy. My drug abuse and my MA. My articulate voice and having nothing to say. Keeping well out of everyone’s way

I avoid town as best I can, and I can’t put my finger on what brings me down about it. The loss of my poetry group of friends in Lampeter are belatedly sorely missed, though I’m closer to my one-time flutterbye, still rarely do I get to really see her.

The mist rolling in from the sea at least reminds me of Llanrhystud.

The business of gulls in the sky is never done nor dusted. At least one will stick around and clatter by with its wedged beak. Up in the air I’d glide along with them side by side. When they open their dinosaur mouths I want to punch their beaks off.

They sound like the sound of nature tearing up the bin bags of her own recycleable nature.

I am not duty bound to finish this text or this part of the whole: that is part of its freedom, part of an expressionist tradition if you will.

While it remains dark outside and the cruel dawn comes to shatter my fragile consciousness once more with a light I ought to aim for to sleep beneath and dream alongside.

If only counting the cries of gulls worked as well as counting sheep.

And each day is ripe with potential: only this very day I learned three handy chords on the ukelele.

If only it was generally known how easy it was to become competent over something if not master it, we would waste far much less of our lives. And there’d be way more music, creative arts, and poetries.

As if there’s not music enough I hear some of you cry and I concur, indeed I more than sympathise.

I thought I had five pages to write today: I may go and write nine, therin lies the value of sacrifice.

Instead I can enjoy a rest that deserves a catch up: I have been overdoing it and pushing my body and mind to the limits of tolerance and endurance. I have been maniacally acting again.

The bottom is best for brooding and editing. The heights are better for the impassioned and inspiring. If only I could pre-map the ride.

It is natural to impose order to the unit of ten. It is metric and coheres with our fingers. And we twice multiply that: for our toes.

A dozen is less exact than a baker’s dozen. A dozen can be miscounted or mistaken or misplaced: but a baker knows too well to disown what he is doing.

I am proud of my paintings as well even though they also come across like the scratchings of an infantile chimp with access to a branch of Paperway’s.

There are far younger people than I that mash up forms and styles like its the natural thing without learning their lines or else doing the most cursory of homework. I’ve been studying all the time, now I write and paint with a passion that can only come with practice, technique, and inner style: aesthetic confidence.

Somehow it feels later the more slowly life creeps idly by. I am eyeing my bed at eleven o clock but I won’t sleep

till four in the morning.

I am aiming for that star, I edge with the dawning.

In practice an ethics of inspiration would simply mean: be charming.

Another way of putting it, and in a way that proactively fights evil, simply be disarming.

To the lost and insecure out there I say: stay curious, your day is coming.

And I know the endless knocks of life can be disheartening. I have always said stay strong, be individual, and look inside yourself: try to find those voices. And from them knit a voice for yourself. And then you write a poem.

If my work wore the face-mask of anger it nursed the head and heart of an empath.

Beware who you are coming to see: there is plenty of time for life to pull the rug and leave us bereft, straddling aloft, and angry.

We could find ourselves out on the street without our personal affects gathered over the years at the age of Goddamn fifty.

Describe your vapid world as it collides with other vapid worlds in a space that’s brick, and sand, and cement, and stone. Describe how nothing lasts beneath that neat rubric we are inbuilt to raise

could ever be called home.

There is something about this planet that makes it seem alone, cut off from our hearts; it’s as if we or it are alien.

If technology is our only hope let us hope there’s technology more sophisticated than all the nuances of language.

How to interpret a text that’s the snap of a momentary, fragmentary aphoristic stream, in a canon of text that is variously linked through its connection to the whole of a largely Western Modernist tradition? To take a postmodern slant would be wrong: I am far more Romantic a piece of theoretic art than any relativity train, or vaccuous noise, or contender on X-Factor and its disgraceful murder of once fine and classic songs.

eschatonIIsequence iv

I would suggest self-harm if you’ve no other option. If you’ve a poetic desire to burn or a painting to make I would tear out my arm before I worked a shop.

I would understand your suicide, I wrestle with it myself, but so far I’ve always been stopped by a force or forces from outside.

There should only be productive reasons why a man should own a blade.

In a flat today I saw the workstation of a man who worked with wood.

Creation is the act by which all other acts are made.

If only people would admit openly how creative they are with what they said.

It is not an easy task for thirty years to share a bed.

I ought to shift position now that midnight’s overhead.

I haven’t seen an Owl since I was a boy in Llanrhystud.

This is a Radical Poetics as they called it in the trade. I called mine Dark because I wanted to show how the postmodern sausage was made.

Left-leaning ultra liberals with strong anti-colonial streaks of identity-bothered, cultural linguistic political leanings.

That’s how I found the Academy, and professors, and their leavings.

I drink to counteract the other drugs that flood my system. I have a list of prescription, and casual, and recreational choice of chemicals.

Drop out of the phoney system and cake some stones in oily wax of crayon. Make masks from the grasses of dunes. Learn to whistle a tune. Make up a language and speak it at length in your own designed and designated ghettos. Paint flags and lift poles on which to fly them. Find enemies floating within. The philistines and conservatives. The multiplying, mainstream and miserable, vapid tabloid, and vociferously vacant class. Put their heads through the poetry of a pane of painted glass. Let them pick up the pieces with their ass. We have to get them man. Round them up. Build a wall, deploy chains. Bundle them into vans. Concentrate on this ethnography. Before we find another. And try to control the tide of changing geography. Draw boundaries and lines. Mark the territory with mines. Aim rockets at cliffs and caves and sand, and hope to hit an Afghan. Barricade all of the mosques. Take their clothing away. Make them eat from a Greggs. And thoroughly destroy them.

It is easy to exhort the masses in one direction or another if you’re given a platform, which is why the offensive in comedy or thought will always be around: it has a duty to explore the low ground.

Comedy or poetry or tragedy or any type of music of the higher ground is easily felt as a classic yet will never be as popular as more low-lying sounds. This is simply a matter of averages, and the average abounds.

I merely report what I know from the trenches, the cultural battlegrounds. And there is not much to report. Racism’s high. Reading is way down.

But YouTube and Facebook and Google are doing well. So is Wikipedia, and IMDG.

I cannot wrap my head arround Twitter: Twitter appears to be something of a text like this designed for thousands of supercomputers somewhere in the future to answer the question: why were human beings ever put here and are still even around?

I ask myself or my body does everyday: what do you want with me now? It is getting more difficult to answer, which is why that answer must try at least as I get older to be found.

We write to make a sacrifice, of time, of company, of trouble. We do this in the hope that by some act of faith

we will be rewarded, by a feeling in the end.

The feeling is relief much like the act of self-harm and slicing; like doing thirty pushups you get off on that pain

This never seemed before more complex than denial of the will.

Now it strikes me that the intellect has more to tell us about this.

It’s like a dream if we removed time from the picture as it moves.

Spliced together all our dreams abstracted would be kaleidoscopic but as one.

All we know about the end is that it is called eschaton.

All I know about the start is that it’s long before begun.

We arrive already in the middle of a lengthy disputation.

The plausibility of the smaller lines relies on the larger’s reputation.

I find it harder every day to will myself to wash and launder. I recycle my outfits in the hope that prevention is better than cure.

Regardless of the narrative my sentences are pure. Put together in a sequence they are like the sounds of lyres and birds and bardic ditties.

The poet does not seem to thrive, or be at root – at home, in the large cities. Their poems are all cars and stranger anxieties.

My poems rather reveal the fleshly root tearing itself into tiny pieces while combining beauty in the unity of a knowing being.

The Cartesian subject does float like a helium balloon over the body of blind, brute will, at times of all reflection. And everyone’s looked at a spoon and thought ‘how weird this is, this glinting object, this cask of light, this knitted matter, this cutlery, this historical shape, this classic design, this inspired concept divine, this silvery spoon’?

This world is a complex of signs, and the signs are not good: everything mainstream seems to be polarized, and polarized under diverse issues where if you are cheering for one thing you find yourself obliged to be cheering on for another. This is not how social issues arise.

It appears there are some who’se natural urge is for conflict but somehow missed out on their vocation of joining up to the army. So many angry moms and kids who look as though they should be waving down food stamps not waving round placards.

I cannot write straight through every night, the rhythm of the earth and its stars condemn me. They condemn me to sweet sleep that I love, the twin brother of death, with whom I have discoursed, played a game with, and danced, and find myself now humbled by.

Would I write if I really wanted to die? I want to survive. That could mean I am already dead.

If we abstract time, as we ought really to do in the case of the sequence, then the beginning’s the same as the end, and we’ve been here before: there is no logic to my chapter headings.

There is no logic to the bloody calendar. Only a moon that moves, and moving moves the ocean. I can feel the salt-water in me.

There are fewer tears although my lovers are leaving. They leave for the starry night sky, every night they go by, and there go no tears. Only a look to hold close by.

If these are prose poems then please let the whole be a poem. I know not yet where it will go, we write like a drive-by.

I’m sure a friend to come should understand that the work came first, and I show up late in a state of stress, or distress.

I drink to quiet the head and quell the rumblings of the heart: to be alone does not get easier as your bed gets bigger.

These are the last opening bits that I can show the world at present: I need experiences to fill the gaps that the sequence misses.

Soon it will be time to face upheaval once again as the world turns homeless and I have to find resources and help from somewhere.

I can’t rely on anyone, and that’s the way I built my private prison.

It’s late but there is sound downstairs of banging. The thought of moving seems to be a thing.

There is one friend’s help I just might beg for. Like an idiot now I’ve too much stuff to store.

Love’s more layered than untrammelled passion. Sometimes love is just a lift, a lowered car seat.

This isn’t even a stream of consciousness, it is more like skimming pebbles across a less than placcid pond, indeed a flowing river.

All writing is like delicate self-cutting of psychic scar tissue on the collective unconscious. It is in this way that eddies of language develop and form and seek their expression in songs or poems.

A stranger from halfway across the world can meet you now, and within one night be on a plane to visit your destination. You may say that was always so but the chances now have been increased from thousands to one for millions.

I have less to say than before and yet I’ve more ways of saying it: the whole of the world creeps in through the cracks in the flaws.

The world has you in its grip, and may have you in its jaws. There is nothing to do but fight back, even cutting yourself is showing off your deadly claws.

I’d rather bleed for an idea than sweat for a car.

Truth is like inner sense or a distant star: the closer you get to the surface the further from the centre you are.

I admit to being glad I’m a man and not to be plagued to anything like the extent a woman is by fashion, style and beauty. The sources of these concepts, the magazines, have no business printing the words in their pages let alone the glossy surfaced cover.

To be constantly alert what’s more to the threat of sexual danger.

I am not that great at making friends. I am working on it by deciding to receive information and hold back on transmit. People seem to take to me better. Although I feel overlooked sometimes.

Every piece of art is an invitation to attention. If that is all it is I have no problem writing for a living.

If joeeschaton is dead then what remains of sequence eschaton? I gather like the brick-block universe or akashic record, it hovers and unfurls itself as one across dimensions. I am speaking from the dead, and I am speaking from before conception.

I am as free as a literary-based Nirvana. I am him.

If this is testimony only to the vanity of melodrama, it is something worth the knowing before the fact.

I guess the first book was the will and fracturing representation; this book is about our Being and its becoming spoken.

Maybe in the sequences the spell of Schopenhauer was broken.

I recall being influenced by Emile Cioran. His rage against the universe I still find awe-inspiring.

I will slander the universe as much as Emile ever did, the only diffference now is I know it’s different when we’re ended.

Consciousness remains because consciousness came before anything else in our experience, or understanding, even of ancient cosmic history, even did.

I have already identified myself with my previous book with blood.

This does not mean any of you youngsters out there should.

All I’m saying is that as a sacrifice it worked out for me pretty good.

I have a book readied for my parents and in it at first I inscribed regret. I have since rethought this sentiment, and ended it with love instead.

My family will have grown by now, there are nieces and such that I have never met.

All I ever wanted was a book I wrote myself.

It’s getting harder to get older, to work out and watch your weight. Weighing up what you eat. Aching upstairs.

I keep several plants but find it hard to water them as much as I find it difficult to feed myself. I need a girl for power. Motivational power.

The libidinious drive has itself largely dropped off from drug use. Perhaps this is another way our following book acts as a dispassionate commentary on what was an before often a shrill composition?

They say wisdom cometh with age but I only know now how to better apply what I knew as a childling.

I burned my bridges with the universities and am glad for like Schopenhauer I have seen how they clique, backslap and fawn over each other. I have witnessed mock disputes in play but they’re always in jest, nothing much very seriously challenging ever really comes from them.

I had to explain to a visiting professor how ‘flourishing’ was a concept more aeshetic in tone than it was ethical. He seemed not to know what I meant, but neither did the whole of the collected assembly of philosophy at Lampeter university.

I have to call it a night, these twenty pages per day are starting to hurt and drain me. Hopefully like going on a fast there will be visions to arise and describe in great depth, a wealth of psychic data to sift through and surmise.

Before I face water and land, before the light descends: I return to my death where I sit semi-formed like an acorn.

The squirrel of my consciousness should instinctively know where to go when he’s ready, in metaphorical Spring, or at my time to wake up, exactly where he left the nut.

I am approaching a point where I’ve got so close, as sometimes with sex, where you’ve gone too far to

just give up.

I do attract some types of strange or eccentric individuals who are damaged in some way. Perhaps it’s because I’m so damaged but I turn it to art that they see me as someone who might light the way?

That’s the sort of delusion I ought to be having if this book is to be worth anything at all. Why pay for a voice that is not your own voice, unless somewhere you hear something you yourself might say?

I am not Brahman, or the Buddha-self, or God or Atman, I am the matrix I am the text I am reality itself.

As a book I am now a real Being. I have a history and you interact with me.

Work, like sacrifice, accrues pain or else discomfort in the present to secure a more preferable future. But we have no idea what the dimlit future will entail. Sacrifice seems like a gamble here.

We might just as easily seize the day and have no regrets because no catastrophic event or mishap did befall us.

Of course there’s one catastrophe which we can’t avoid in either scenario, and that is death. The driving force of either strategy.

I will write for now and leave the fortune reading to posterity.

It is amazing how far the spirit can go although the body has been running on empty.

The brain requires the most energy to run. Not surprisingly the hardware is so demanding when the software is so expansive.

And we are like little uploads to an invisible floating cloud. There we are never forgotten. In a way we are only remembered. We start to interface from precisely where we were previously put down.

We can only hope to have our wits about us when we go to ground.

The mouth of nature judges us without a sound.

I have meddled with the concept of the always-seeing-eye, and find the kind of eye I mean is the eye through which we dream.

At the very least we know the universe is not all that it seems.

What is the justification for this bed of screams.

My verbiage represents the swell of disoriented human beings.