del-delta-Y

come night i can allow myself to breathe,
perhaps more - think again...
a few sips of homemade wine
and a cigarette - endlessly peering at
an eucalyptus tree at the end of the garden...
forcing myself to imagine
the face of my grandfather still able
to contort itself into facial expressions
and enigmas... idiosyncrasies...
perhaps chancing upon the wind
to move the flimsy branches at the ends
of the corpulent crown of
this tree -
if merely the letter Y was a meditation
of the tongue of a serpent -
or perhaps how i have two eyes
yet compound myself to: strictly cyclopean
endeavours...
soothing demand for the sound
of the sea on the shoreline -
although... i... mountains... alone...
or the endless promise of not impacting
with a good morning or a hello
when walking the fields in my vicinity...
premonition:
i "knew" he was dying...
mistress agonia... and it's not like
in his last months he ever wanted
to climb out of bed...
he already exhausted his memory cinema...
the chance crossword puzzle...
on my walks two days in consequence:
crouching on a footpath
a metre away from a blinded rabbit...
then the toothache...
a premonition of pain to come
to excavate the heart into a shroud
of mourning...
but how unified these sequences
of events allow themselves to be...
the archaic semblance of "coincidences"...
relearning it wasn't my fault since:
the whole point of the telephone
is that it can be used by both parties:
it's not a one way street...
otherwise: yes... this meditation on
the eucalyptus tree at the end of the garden...
wishing for brush-strokes of the wind
to agitate this... foreign entity:
how much more i would have allowed
myself to a tease of pine...
evergreen from the flip-side of the earth:
twenty five pence in two coins
on my bed...
i have to allow a variation of serenity
to come back:
i cannot be this dreadfully angry mr. piss-pants:
after all: shit before the shovel...
and no: if i could possibly cling to
a revelation that i can write prose:
i'd need to focus on a sense of the linear:
and continuity -
preserving the claustrophobia of
paragraphs: i exhausted the need for dialogue
when i was young enough to still
play with plastic figurines of spiderman
and batman...
so... no dialogues for me...
otherwise: what? beautifully prosaic?
well... by all standards of speech:
impromptus and mumbling...
sure... coherency of the matters at hand...
but i leave with another comfort:
a latin man: the vulgate hier und jeztz -
because otherwise a choking veneer of
grecian superiority will not allow me
to "get things done":
to spew and stew in what's readily
available...
not that i was dealt the wrong
hand: i'll still have to gamble with
myself:
a waiting game with mother
and father and grandfather to come...
and then: hello solo!
not in some mythological alternative universe:
which a span of 20 odd years will
probably do to me having written these,
here, now, words...
or i might be lucky...
i will have enjoyed drinking too much...
and that's fucking dandy by anyone's
standards...
as julius caesar already said:
death... sure... but quickly...
or at least with a hard-on of shock!
n'est ce-pas?
which puts suicide a tier below murder...
since: you are premeditating the end...
ergo? no shock...
at least when you're murdered
you are in shock... you're not thinking
of it... but no i see...
death being robbed of its "plans"
with you already thinking about it...
so no shock... no thrill...
unless of course: you have been...
festering with the wounds for years
and what that has allowed is...
a crescendo eventuality...
a culminating point of exit...
well: funny how i am mortal
and nothing should be alien
to me regarding such topics...
unlikely, however much it desirable
to be made necessary... this return to all
things governed by the day
and all of its intricacies of mundane -
what colour should the blinds be
for the bedroom
to compensate the insinuations of shade(s)
of the wallpaper...
the formality of language in general...
how society works...
what is a coin in one hand
when i hold a rock in the other?
social constructs and what?
some transcendent values when you're
not jacked-up to a psychedelic trips
whereby: de facto... a mushroom fries your
sponge of a brain?
never knew that deep-fried sponge
could be eased as newly found "crispy"
when all this "shit" requires
moving and selling...
hell: towing a shadow for a handshake...
easing my eyes on the moon
come the hallow crescent...
at night when i sit in the garden
and look at my hands with
chiromancy ghouls and spooks...
bones are deader: yet the teeth more alive...
aramaic is not armenian...
some gift of the gob from the "fella"
up above...
voices that make it a crisp tartan,
& biscuit... bellowing with their chorus
like a cutting into silence
with a dozen fucking bagpipes...
bellowing choir...
singing like they are cows
readied for the slaughterhouse...
hear now...
it has become so apparent:
i write words my words will never utter...
not in conversation:
and i do not believe in turning
my speech into a scripted insolence pre,
that would implode on me
like i'd be regurgitating: a slacking
of the already prized asset of suspense:
a motivation to further - "thinking":
more like brooding / brewing the grinding
of meat...
what of the fucking raw hinde
from the hinterlands of a "revision"
of the ottoman empire...
brown-beat duck quack hello
new psychopathy or...
a tired re-reading of a tristan tzara...
for dodo and dada and fidgety dough...
immaculate fingernails...
mind you: a period where i was stupid enough
to visit a brothel and fuck myself
a robot of i: workable in disguise:
because... whittle wichard wouldn't work
best on a date since:
precursors of too much investment...
so...
female barbers... prior to the ceremony
how she would recognise my voice...
persist in paying hardly the compliment
about how much hair was on my cranium...
and once she finished she would
handjob my entire head with
her two hands...
given that i had long hair for a while...
going to a female barber...
or going to a prostitute: this can really
be contested as to: what's better?
maybe i should have gone to the brothel
and asked for my pubes to be trimmed...
extension anti "gratis"...
other details of... "whoring":
i live a while... but death still
manages to smooch out of me...
a wonton... A...
yes... clearly genius prichard
and assembly forrest...
it's not life, this box of chocolates...
it's a broth of dumplings...
same shit, different cover...
sarcasm, rules!
- and there's lee evans... which / who is funny...
i can't buy into smart-funny...
i've been trying to buy into ethno-comedy
strip-back: let's endure the sleazing
baroque of stereotypical white cuckoldry
and the odd horny mongol...
all that cosmopolitan draft of "nuanced"...

smart-comedy is no comedy...
the dumber, the better...
i'm still giggling about jokes being made
concerning scenarios:
if i had a wife... thank fuck i'm not
invested in the logic of darwin...
i'm not here for the genes...
i'm here to close up the "shop":
fuck off with a few good patent envious
metaphor of memories and the world
can have its fucking hullabaloo...

existentialism and darwinism are
not coincidentally mutual fuck-buddies...
one's autistic the other is...
pressing matters for
man as metaphor of ape, lion... parasites...
a fucking "reinvention"
of the chimera...

keeping score my ass:
i'm keeping all the details of indigestions,
a tally of the whole brood...
toothaches and acne sours
for the pleasure of my culmination
asteroid factoid of constipation:
i hope i die a constipated loner...
hell i hope i die towing:
masturbation turned out to be...
given the still intact "excess" of skin...
the one pleasure in life i would
never find... demeaning or... unreliable...
well thank fuck and god to boot
that i wasn't circumcised...
hallelujah! i'm redemption
and the talkative golgotha prize of:
tongue turned into a geometry
of an upside down imploded DELTA...
hirsch: del - y-oh...

y-fucking-om-ing...
why?!
odes to peter the lad... or why somehow:
demoting an angel to the status of
saint doesn't sit well in my belly...

precious greco-hebrew new: "testimony"?
it was a greco-hebrew adventure...
no?
here the vulgar details of:
unobstructed darkening...
take your cleansed morals and transcended
a priori valued diddly-squat:
this supposedly "former" filth...
borrowing from the thespian autocracy
an ear lent: a shadow brokered...
just pretend...

there are no visages that concern themselves
with directly spoken at or to...
or by...
just this murk of by "proxy"...
an "de facto": nuance after nuance
after... a fermentation of an apple is vinegar
and sweet... then all that fucking rot
that's associates with: cleaving off
of sinew working toward the tendons
an the marble architecture of bones...

yes, yes, very nice... thank, you!