eschatonIIIsequence
i
Drugs
are a dangerous tool for the metaphysically inclined mind to ride and
try to work with.
Diet
is a much neglected field for the manic-depressive individual
hell-bent on getting any better.
I
am experimenting with high fat/protein diets in the hope I feel at
least energetic in my choice of future.
Letting
go of the meds is a tricky one to try and track professionally.
Alcohol
is a tough one to drop, like smoking: the socially accepted status
the two of these enjoy is tantamount to prescription.
Routine
is a difficult one to pin down when your life has been chaos and
reacting to chaos for over twenty years.
My
routine spans at least two or three days: I try and establish what I
need to withdraw and wait till I can go out and get it.
Much
easier to make a phonecall and to have it all delivered.
I
don’t even want to write a new book, I just don’t know what else
I’d do other than to continue writing.
And
if I’m not writing I’m doing damage to myself. Much better to
damage the preconceptions out there other people have; I want to
infect my readers.
And
just like that we turn out a page. This text I‘ll take my time
with.
You
the page are my only companion, my confessional; if I had anyone to
confess to I would write a poem.
I
have hit a young man when I was wankered; I’m positive I never
intended to hit him. A flurry of teenage arms and screams shocked me
entirely; I believe I reacted to this.
Things
would never be the same with his mother, my most missed and important
lover. I understand although I was regularly hit.
The
male place in the home has become shaky, as women are empowered, and
this isn’t a bad thing.
All
I wanted to do was be useful, I’d reward anyone who’d let me be
this.
I
overextended my will-to-help until it ceased to be helpful. I’d
criticise the ways of the mother of my kids.
I’ve
never understood the way of hoarding.
I
travel light, that is a part of my anxiety. I’m always waiting for
the bombshell to hit.
Still
I provoke and shake-up the bomb casing. I take the fire and fury to
it.
In
many ways I’m as confident and optimistic as warriors, although the
last thing I want is a fight.
I
want a no-holds-barred frank discussion. I am armed and well-armoured
for this.
My
solitude grows harder to deal with. I am incapable of a personal
bliss.
Masturbation
is a time and space killer: I won’t lie: it is something I miss.
I
must let go of my lover. Put down the will-to-consume and learn from
a distant other.
The
other may be right there, looking at you, before your face. The trick
is to see the metaphysical gap lying like an elephant, unspoken,
lying down between
them.
I’ve nothing to say, most the time I look for sleep and an REM.
Dreams
come back when you go straight, the most vivid dreams you wouldn’t
wait to wake from.
But
you crawl back to them wailing all the same: rather a melting solid
than an abysmal game.
I
have an empty room I can pay for on offer. That alone as a landing
mat keeps me in the endgame.
I
will not beat myself up on the issue of repetition. It was a module
back on my MA so I’m inclined to leave it.
I
left university alright, but I fucked their shit up. I fucked the
scroll and more: I fucked a lecturer.
Bonfire
night and Halloween have been gone, just a couple of days. I hate
this world on its strings.
I
struggle to get through perception and its down-ticking hours; I hate
the present with wings.
Tomorrow
is like another world: I don’t know what it wants or what it will
compel me into.
Three
pages a day is not a target, it is all that I have. I’ll make the
rest up someday. Each day
I
write and once again the quiet of the whole world wakes me. And takes
me to places you wouldn’t go
To
think about what you are saying: do you know how hard that is?
Dear
God at least do not send me to the realm of fatties.
I
want to stay pure but I break: punctuated like the rings of Saturn.
These
are the words of a flake, dedicated to desiccation.
Economics
and art are where they make something arise from nothing.
The
bank is a factory, as is my heart, as is the bent growing Elm tree.
The
Tao or the middle path or ‘way’ doesn’t question things, it has
grown sick of thinking.
The
‘how’ of the Indians might speak to their accustomed love of
drinking. I mean how will I get my next drink.
And
that the Aboriginal genocides get no press nor music; is a shame and
a stain on my kind.
Thinking
and Being are closely aligned.
By
thinking I do not mean long processes of words and reasoning. I mean
intuiting through to a fault
Thinking
is spare as seasoning.
Writing’s
a kind of thinking undermined: I am involved in treasoning.
Four
pages a day isn’t bad for someone lost and with a life shrinking.
Heroin
has a reputation that is both personally and anecdotally deserved.
Heroin
is like a lost lover you both adore and wish you had never met.
Compared
to speed there is a discrepancy in terms of conferred energy, but in
releasing the closed of areas of the mind they are much the same.
Drugs
cannot compete with the natural endorphins produced by vigorous
exercise. The problem is you remain pumped and unfit for mental
exercise.
Love
is both the most powerful of drugs and the most difficult to get.
What
they do share in common is the tendency to wear off prematurely.
Tea
is superior to coffee except in its role as a healer of liver damage.
This
text has more in common with the first in that it is mostly drug
free. I am not counting cannabis without which the first wouldn’t
have seen the light of day.
Eschaton
means in essence seeing the light of the train that is heading your
way.
Death
is the great leveller among critics who circle my drying bones.
Life
does not get any easier my friends, it gets hard, and is not for the
weak hearted, however cold they’ve become.
Friendship
is to be cherished. Too often I have seen friends falling out over
matters that amount to nothing but Self.
There
is no real common theme to my writings other than facing the void
with a handful of words and a stack of ideas.
All
writing is a form of transcending death, even the transience of love
letters or the impermanence of legible notes.
I
leave my books standing upright as gravestones, to which nobody
brings living flowers.
If
the first book was one of cannabis psychosis, and the second the
result of a speed binge, I predict this book will be a testament to
synthetic downers.
When
I work I do not plan or scheme; the nearest I come to a format is a
loosely defined but unavoidably strict simple structure.
Money
is a curse as well as an invention that we can try but can never
escape from.
It
is often hard to tell the difference between naked greed and genuine
need.
The
contempt of the few who have plenty towards their neighbours who have
little is a sad indictment of our priorities as a species.
I
will not say I have gambled with my rent but I did try to invest it.
I
simply broke the cardinal rule of dealing: getting high on your own
supply.
This
book will not be as urgent as the last, or the sequence before that.
It is however as important in terms of keeping me alive and working.
I
do not write for reward but for a modicum of recognition. I am far
from your average bum.
My
poems bring great pleasure to those who read them or have them read
aloud to them.
The
problem with poetry or aphoristic works is no-one wants to buy them.
I’m OK with penury.
This
text has yet to develop a theme, and I daresay it will remain so.
All
that I have of substance to say has been said already.
The
best this book can aspire to is a belated commentary.
Alcohol
is wasted on me and turns out more expensive than jewellery.
It
is naive if not impossible to describe this living rock as ‘the
world’.
There
are hundreds of worlds in existence on a localised planet, perhaps
even as many as there walk heads and bodies about it.
History
is the measure by which most political problems arise and exist. If
there were no history of advantage we would have equality.
The
virtue of writing a book like this is that it suits today’s
click-bait form of accessing information. I am designing books for
the skip-reader.
I
like to ask people to choose a random page or aphorism for fun and to
drive a point home: the point is that anyone can think and more
importantly spot the thoughts of a committed creative thinker.
My
works have this much in common with the ‘stream of consciousness’
form of writing. Except my lines flow less like a stream and coalesce
instead into scores of rippling rock pools.
So
long as the language sings and the concepts combine we have ourselves
a book that can be accessed at all times of life crisis.
How
I wish my parents were semi-intellectuals. I believe they’d be
proud of my efforts if naturally baffled by the products.
I’m
genuinely unsure whose attention span I’m writing for, It is
difficult to discern a common theme among my sequences but if the
whole content was available to an omniscient state of mind I believe
there is consistency to be found.
I
am just a lost intellectual with no target as such but the whole of
this vast creation. I am like the Doctor who ran away from Gallifrey
and never looked back after encountering the time stream.
Love
is more than the pressing of future generations into existence
through the medium of two human bodies. I am in love with a woman
whose child rearing years have long deserted her.
It
may be a strange love, perhaps a love for the ages, but she loves me
too.
It
is only the richness of my inner experience and the love of my
daughter that keeps me alive and struggling to survive at all.
This
book has no place in my canon. It is barely a commentary on what has
come sequentially before. Still this may be a bit premature. I have
almost ten sections to mutate and change over the time it takes me to
record this.
I’m
not interested in the world as such, with its sensationalism,
dichotomies, partisan politics and endless fake news.
In
my view the more subjective it is possible to reach and cohere with
that is the most objective of reports you can make on the human
condition.
As
we slowly reach the end of our first section there is nothing of
depth or profundity to note except for the agonies of trying to make
sense of the world inner and outer.
I
do not understand people’s obsession with the past any more than I
understand their concern for the future. The past has been largely
forgotten in human terms and the future ends in death of the planet.
We
worry about our grand-children as though they will remember us as
anything but the of man who gave them sweets and had the capacity for
temper and tyranny. Rarely do we think of them tickling our bellies.
I
have lost the capacity for patience as my body clock ticks away. I
cane whatever comes near me.
Suicide
is less of a pressing problem the closer I come to death. It makes me
wonder whether the best years of my life were dedicated to death, and
scars of self harm.
I
have done spectacularly well with women for a man of my looks, means,
or unacknowledged talent. That will be a consolation on my death bed.
I
am lost without stimulants or depressants; my straight minded lack of
consciousness is bored by the daily and tortured by minor choices.
Eating
is a chore that bugs me daily. I resent spending money on food just
to keep running this dubious amount of pleasure of being alive.
Religion
is not worth my consideration. Unless you interpret the stories and
metaphors in a present day context they have next to nothing of real
depth to say. And the deeper message isn’t a hard one to wrap your
head or your heart – indeed your immortal soul round.
Sacrifice
is a vague term in this context but it has its problems. I sacrifice
my well being every day and still no blessings are conferred upon me.
I
am struggling to keep my home due to abandonment of a so-called flat
mate, who has left me 50% worse off. Here I am not too creative.
I
need to write books more than I need to write poems. Poems are like a
swift masturbation, my books are like a weekend of sexual debauchery.
I
touch on sex but it has ceased to interest me, Partly that will be
due to age, partly diet and drugs, but mostly in the act there’s
little to say.
Sex
should be open and humorous, man and woman at play, thanks to the
miracle of contraception. Until then I can see how it was dark and
hidden and taken seriously as unwanted babies left at a church.
Section
one and it feels like I’ve said nothing at all. Not least because
it is an afterthought riding on the profounder part of the sequences.
