eschatonIIIsequence section one preview

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.