days and nights float by and i drift on... going nowhere... caught in a whirlwind of doubt... spinning not dancing... i pick up my pencil and hope something will happen... but no nothing happens... the routine... the vagueness... i am sincerely without hope about all things...

i went to a model agency today to look for work as an extra, so i could get paid to sit around all day and hide at the back of the screen, and no i cannot dance, act or sing but i am good at sitting and standing still... i remember aged five or six standing in line obediently, lips glued together and a teacher praising manner of queuing... the interviewer pulls out a camera and takes photos of me, head shots shoulder shots full body shots smiling not smiling and i pay him my last twenty pounds and he shakes my hand and says he will call me in a week... i leave humourlessly...

in this melancholy mood words splutter out slowly as if they are new to me... without wit... this morning i went to the shop on the corner to buy milk and chocolate and the turkish man looks me up and down and says asalam wa laikum... i nod hello... he says you know what that means brother and i say yes... you can’t forget your roots he says, i live here in england work pay my taxes i have a passport but this is not where i am from, remember where you are from, you are older than this... i wander out nodding goodbye... i have nothing to reply just an empty okay... he continues i am not preaching brother but we are not from here we are muslim...

i am excited by the chocolate... but pangs of anxiety and indifference curse me... the ostrich hides its head underground, the hedgehog curls into a ball...... when did it all begin?... i left my mother’s womb healthy and willing to listen and work and cry... i was innocent as anyone might be... but the gloom came pretty soon... and the manic lethargy too... never have i sat beauty on my knees and delivered a symphony of words which communicated my silence...

but then something happened... i arrived after twenty four years... a realisation that i wasn’t doing anything and i enjoyed it... sleeping... lots of sleeping... manic phases of reading or otherwise muddling through random pages in bookshops... get a job she encouraged... perhaps i could. but why?... so you can live she insisted, work in a bookshop for instance... i don’t know... just get a job she said... i was going to die. i was certain of that. suppose i had to do something in the mean time... so i go into a bookshop and ask for an application form stuttering do you need me workjob? and the woman not listening reappears with a form and says make sure you fill in both sides and the hours you can do... i go home... stare for hours trying to fill in the blank spaces... i fall asleep...

she has already gone to work... i am alone... and the deadening condition begins starts and stops. starts... it should be over when i wake up... but it starts again... the postman delivers his babies: olympic dives, splashing earthquake aftershocks... i am awake... i am shuddering from bad sleep... check the clock... i am late for work. no i am not. no job. oh. unnecessary anxiety... lips still pursed with night time saliva glue. nose always on strike... i have no idea how i breathe at night. do i snore as well?... weak morning light carves through the constant mould of cheap orange curtains... a useless filter... the communal shower needs fixing too... reluctant landlady... i want to skip today... scratch my eyes... i try to clear my throat. hock a loogie. but my ears have a car crash and i swallow some nose phlegm. tonsils bulge. stomach aching badly. forgot to brush my teeth last night... last night? no i mean today. i go to bed late. always wake up the same morning i fall asleep. the usual... i cannot connect days. every day is twenty four hours, every day is eternity...

i cannot leave this springless mattress right now. word-image games tie me down... i am thinking. i am thinking i need pencil and paper to write things down to keep track of what i forget. but i have forgotten already... my head is empty... i look around the room... everything familiar... same angles of incidence equal same angles of reflection... there is not a hippopotamus in the room at present... separate shadows painted on the wall. i try to count them: one to infinity... my eyes roll round my head like an alert toad catching flies. my tongue hangs out too... the shadows unmovingly precise... i squint my eyes... i am in a different room now... a different wardrobe and a different mirror... the reflection clear. i can see the outside and the leaves and trees...

a serious throat infection plagues me. the bottle says TAKE TWO PILLS FOUR TIMES A DAY (80 PHENOXYMETHYL TABLETS 250mg) TAKE MEDICINE AT REGULAR INTERVALS AN HOUR BEFORE FOOD AND FINISH THE COURSE

i am up now in as much my eyes are closed and i have ejaculated... everything is the same today except the yellow strainer sits by the sink instead of on top of the chittagong hill tracts food cupboard... the cupboard is the same, propped up by the same black and white postcards... same che guevera. same mahatma gandhi. same jackson pollack. same charlie chaplin. same salvador dali... on the same wardrobe next to the same bed stares the same sigmund freud. he watches me sleep. listens to my dreams but doesn’t tell me them...

thud thud... the postman jerks off again. thought he had come before. his deposit sprays messages for everyone in this house of seven or eight bedsits... the landlady’s mother lives upstairs. and she is banging away already. cooking breakfast... my ears spin in slow cycle wash. out of tune with the croaky humming bird in the fridge... she is banging bang bang banging... too much noise for me... but i am up now. things not much clearer. but i can breathe more easily and begin my day...

B

i am sitting at a cafe window feeling glum. then she comes.

<<whats wrong?... just am... whats wrong?... nothing... come on... nothings wrong... why the sad face?... just the way i look... fine... im okay. really i am... ive seen you better... so?... did you apply for any jobs?... not yet...>>

she goes and collects a latte.

<<i was thinking of applying for that bookshop job... good... i picked up an application form... good... but im not sure... oh please. come on. you have no money... i know... what about rent? i may move out too. the room smells bad and its getting real cold at night... i know... you need a job... i know... everyone has to work. otherwise what? unemployment? your parents? begging on the streets? you don't want that. really. you dont. you can get a job... i know. i dont know. i dont want to work... no one does... well some people do. its about temperament... come on. you need a job... i just hate working thats all...>>

she returns to work. i wander around. i return home.

she is still at work. i am alone... the middle of night returns. i cannot sleep. i am on the floor. bedsit fungus grows underneath the carpet... my hand wants to tell a haunted and disturbing tale. but my head whimpers a flat fart. my words are fleshless threats. replies to silence with fake blood... i cannot move... i have nothing to say. that is all... i want to sleep. but i cannot. so i talk to myself. look for my shadow. i find it easily... this ugly bedsit is not mine. i don't want it... i cannot find my shadow... where's the light?... i am thinking about eating myself... i imagine gripping my arm and taking a bite. then yelping. at last a sound. a shriek even. but i surrender to the pain and open the fridge... food... dead cheese. green bread. soar milk. no chocolate... no money. no food... the fridge is as hungry as i am...

she returns. we kiss and embrace. feels good inside.

<<its freezing outside... i know... what are you still doing up?... writing... what are you writing?... just trying to write. nothing much. nothing comes. i am not in the right frame of mind. did you have a good day at work?... a lot of arse holes clicking their fingers at me, removing reserve signs off tables and not leaving tips. idiots... jesus... but i scammed some money off another table. they just wouldnt budge their chairs. i ask them politely do you mind if i get through. they dont even look at me. just turn their heads. wave me away. ten minutes later im coming through with six plates. they ignore me again. i felt like pouring soup over their heads. i dont get it. they think they are so rich and important they pretend you dont exist... retards... and my back hurts. i need to sleep... do you want a massage?... yes. a proper one. not just thirty seconds... i know...>>

the morning. she has gone to work again.

i am alone. i sweated all night. i couldn't sleep... i'm glad i'm alone. i have the bed to myself... but i miss her cuddly bum... i need to wake up. i need to get out of bed. i need to wake up... i stare at the ceiling for whatever length of time. half an hour... blank ceiling. white. square tiles. crumbling paint. it's just there. no more words to describe it... i jump out of bed and leap to the window and raise the curtain and look through the window... do i have any more words? do i have any more words?... across the street everything looks the same. three floors. with a roof. chimney. windows. bricks. i don't know. they are there. they are a type of house. i cannot describe them anymore. no words... i hide under the covers again... i don't have the words. i cannot describe things... i feel depressed for a few hours...

i buy a paper and scan the last pages for jobs... nothing... there are lots of jobs. but i lack enthusiasm... i go to a park. the sun is out. i pick a nice spot. i try to write... nothing comes... nothing comes... and then something all of a sudden:

i did not have the energy to tell the manager i was leaving. i just left... sir or madam... i quit... i have had enough of the repetitive tasks... i am going abroad... i refuse to obey you any longer... i noticed a woman in the park today and have decided to leave... yours sincerely...

i could not avoid her... i spent the afternoon falling asleep in the park thinking about consonants and vowels and how i didn't know what any word actually meant. apart from those onomatopoeia words like fry and pop and maybe piss and fart... i was woken up by an intense sun which crept up and stole my shade. so i looked to move to an unoccupied spot under a tree. but they were all taken. children running in circles chasing each other, drunks, bums and couples sprawled everywhere... where are the benches? we need more benches. this wasn't a beach. we have parks. we need more benches. yours sincerely... i thought of buying an ice cream from a van parked close by and it was then that i saw her... she was in the centre of the park...

she was laying on her front reading a book, the sun stroking her naked arms and legs... what book was it? i couldn't see. a novel. a classic. literature... i watched her for a while. she was still. just reading. only her eyes were moving. i couldn't see them. they were reading... an occasional wind would cause her to move... raise her dress. thighs revealed. she would grab the hem and hold it down until the breeze calmed... i just continued to stare at her... enchanted and feeling like a pervert...

when she left i followed her... she walked fluently along the street and crossed roads without braking stride... and i followed... she arrived at a fancy block of apartments. she tapped the entry code and pushed through the front doors. she went in... i stayed outside and watched... the porch light switched on. i could see her waiting for the elevator. i watched. she waited. i couldn't see which floor she pressed but she waited. i watched...

a bright pink frisbee flew past my nose. a distant cry of sorry. i stopped writing... i didn't know how long i had been writing for. but it was getting windy now... i didn't know what happened next... i don't know if i would follow her in. i didn't know what she looked like. just a she. wearing a dress... what did the building look like? she was waiting at the elevator a long time. maybe she could take the stairs. maybe she was visiting a friend? her lover? her mother? i didn't even see what colour hair she had. and the book? she left it behind in the park. maybe it was still there? and i would find out her name from the inscription. i would go back immediately. to russell square...

i don't remember how i got into the apartment. but i was there. she is not surprised. she was expecting me. i was no longer a pervert. we undress each other... she cocks my gun a double barrelled cock and her feather cushion breasts explode like grenades in my face as she pulls out her hair pin and drowns me in her black waterfall hair and i cannot see anything only feel her as she rubs and sucks and sprays the world with my silver bullet semen and i moisten her isosceles vagina with a velvet tongue and it's all too much as her back arches like a rainbow and she covers her eyes and i cannot see anything only feel her full moon sweating joyfully and flooding everywhere...

i stop writing. rubbish. this is what comes when nothing comes. no expressions of silence... it's so cold now. i don't know how long i've been sitting here. the park is almost empty. i head home.

i am hungry. i have not eaten all day... i open the fridge. there is something new in the fridge. bread, humous and eggs... she must have gone shopping on the way home last night... i try to fry an egg... i fail... the pan is not hot enough and i attempt to turn the egg over with a fork instead of a spatula... the egg becomes scrambled... i spread humous on the bread and make an egg and humous sandwich... i eat sitting on my bed... i am chewing on the bread crust thinking about finding a job and how nice it would be to have more money, how i could pay off my debts in one go and how i could leave this grey city and head for a beach... oh the sun and the heat... my mouth suddenly loses grip of the sandwich and i spill egg and humous on my lap...

before falling out of the sandwich the humous turns to the egg and says, hey there is not enough room for both of us, one of us has to go. the egg replies e before h so egg before humous. what? says the humous. the alphabet is merely convention and plays no role in sandwich evacuation procedures...

i swear i saw an over fed pigeon rolling around on its belly when i got off the 168 bus today... i don't know... i finish the sandwich...

i have finished the sandwich and think about leaving. leaving everything. i have nothing. i am leaving nothing. going nowhere...

C

i am feeling blue... i have nothing and nothing comes... burdened by what i have... those worn out clothes, those ridiculous books, those uninspiring cds... most annoying of all those morbid thoughts... i try to write... but nothing comes... nothing comes... i may as well be dead... buried in the sand... the pencil takes over:

i have fled this grey city for an eastern country... left the park bench for a beach... the masses of people for the ocean... i have escaped...

where am i?... i am here. i am here... i am sitting legs crossed on a square wooden table facing the water... clear skies... beautiful skies... heavenly... i am on the beach... i am sitting on a table made of local wood next to a broken hammock made of local thread in the shade of some local trees... natural trees. different kinds. the only one i recognise is the coconut tree. the other trees are too exotic for my limited vocabulary. three or four trunks, roots sprawling overground, half eaten leaves, messy branches strangling each other... broken, dying, abnormal, asymmetric, horrendously natural... freak tree. somebody call the authorities. mend it. fix it. clean it up. take it away... the crickets are screaming... a tiny unnamed red insect creepy crawly slides across my page... couples sunbathing laugh... and my cute pencil which i bought from a local shop and has a picture of a bear and a sealion and a little fish drops out of my hand... i cannot write anymore. i never could. nothing comes. nothing comes. nothing comes... i head back to the beach hut to rest... i cannot force myself to write... words that carry any weight should... i don't know. nothing... nothing. that is the word that comes... i head back to the beach hut...

the smell. urgh. the smell. i vomit. i vomit. and the mosquitoes. urgh. they bite me everywhere, even my testicles... what courage mosquito troops, what courage you have. my arms and legs are thoroughly itchy and my fingers are swollen from your bites... and the crickets too. what an attack. your screeches are deafening me. could you not pause against your nature for a short while so i can sleep?... no? then carry on louder. i am in no mood to sleep... and you gecko, you must be hungry? why do you not eat the mosquitoes? there are so many of them. surely you are hungry?... no? oh you are fasting? i see. for how long? forever? oh? you seek a place in heaven? i see...

i have no choice but to stay awake. i lay here on the bed... waiting for time to pass... i am waiting... but there is only timelessness... i am waiting for nothing...

she returns from work. smiles. kisses. cuddles.

<<hello... hello... how was your day?... okay... make much money?... the usual. middle of the week isnt great for tips. any food? id love some pasta... no that finished long ago. you didnt eat at work?... was too busy. we were under staffed tonight... oh... what did you do today?... the usual. looked for a few jobs. didnt call any places. sat in the sun. wrote a little... good. you are writing again?... nothing good. well i dont know. im writing in short bursts...>>

i let her read what i've written as she undresses for bed.

<<i like it. its good. its you... im glad... no its really good... im really glad... is it a short story?... no its continuous. its short now but ill keep writing... its kind of a day in the life of you... yes its just about me... have you written anything for me?... not today...>>

kisses. cuddles.

we fall asleep.

i wake up. she has gone to work already. my head hurts. but my spirits are up. a new day. a renewed sense of hope. i am no longer blue. what am i hopeful for? i don't know. i am alive. that seems enough. a miracle even. i am no longer blue. i don't feel glum. what shall i do today? i will find a job. i don't want to work but i need the money. simple: work equals money equals rent paid and food in fridge and bills and holiday abroad... yes, a holiday... i need a holiday... escapist thoughts... why don't i just leave?... i don't need money... i have feet. a left foot and a right foot. i can walk. i can flee... i have no need for money. i can live off my wits. i can pack my bags and go... enough writing. i need to start living. i have to disappear...

i left my keys behind. i locked myself out. deliberately. i left a note. i was not coming back. i had nothing. i was free... i am free... where am i going? to the future. to the future... i am fleeing this grey city. london means nothing to me...

i am still here. i haven't left yet... doing nothing every day except for the written exercises brooding on doing nothing... i am still alive cheating death... so now what?...

i am waiting for her to finish work. i am in a coffee shop writing... there is a theory of life which suggests rejecting all theory and just accepting what is is... not to waste time reading, listening, watching, analysing, masturbating, calling for change, voting, revolting, waiting for a revolution, starting a new status quo... nothing changes. nothing matters. accept this theory of life and start living... forget the pre-socratic visionaries... forget the tibetan book of the dead... forget this theory... create your own world... don't bother at all... i can smell the blond woman. i stop writing... the word woman gives me an erection ceteris paribus... she's hovering around me collecting cups and saucers... her cute arse is wiggling in my face as she wipes the table... i am distracted. i am hungry... i stop writing and enjoy what i see... she is there. i can hear her. smell her. she leaves a trail of her sex behind her as she returns to the bar...

ceteris paribus men don't arouse me... but aged twelve in a history class... he had such smooth skin... he looked like a bunny rabbit... such smooth skin... the flesh is the flesh except when it is hairy... ah... and later that day i went home and masturbated on the sofa with the cushions which felt good but i felt so guilty and i stopped myself ejaculating. i was fantasizing. no penetration, just against the crack... i returned to bikinis with ease... the second time... ten years later. in a bar with a fine artist who fucked men in parks. not him but the bar man. our conversation on art theory dribbles down our chins as we observe him working behind the bar pulling pints and pouring shots and filling glasses. we are mesmerised. he wants to fuck him and i want to look like him. chiselled. broad. smooth skin. to touch his face. like slipping down the slide in a children's playground. he must take it up the arse, my friend says... i dont know, i reply... i really wouldn't know. ask him... no... no...

i can hear laughter in the cafe... belly aching guffaws... are they laughing at me? i am just sitting here writing, minding my own business... no it's the fridge... they are laughing at the fridge. choosing drinks and laughing... what is the joke? what is so funny?... infect me. give me some laughter... they go to the bar... she is polish... a man wanting tea asks about her nationality. he once had an ex-girlfriend who was polish... really?... yes... the blond woman laughs... i enjoy her laughter... it is the end of the day. the manager returns. they discuss the day. her feet hurt. she can go when she likes. really? yes says the manager...

i am feeling good. maybe i need to test my spirits on someone... friends... i have friends... unlike the man described in the paper as an alcoholic loner who killed himself in the homeless hostel on parker street last week. who was he? what was his life like? was he suicided by society?...

she has finished work. i stop writing and leave the cafe.

i go home. she is already there. she took the bus. i give her a massage. we make love. great love. we fall asleep.

D

the day passes. it is night again...

real life has no names... only fiction has real names. only the imagination is really real... everything else is illusion...

she returns from work. she falls asleep.

i have been writing for days... when can i sleep?... i kiss her on the forehead. she snores at me... i cannot stop writing... one word leads to the next... my notebook... scribbling scrawling howling dreaming... finding my voice... che guevera didn't sleep much. what was his problem?...

she wakes up from her dreams. you are still writing she says. yes i reply... she falls asleep again. she clings to my body like a baby cub... she is beautiful. the most beautiful woman in town...

i cannot sleep... i try to write... the pencil takes over:

elegant tails wag thoughts carved dry with repetition... nothing is yet said... refuge of silence... shadows... mirrors... invincible...

i fall asleep.

it is morning. she has left a note. i cannot read her writing. something about the laundry, rent and food and how much she loves me. i am not sure. i go back to sleep.

eternal... unfathomable... invisible...

E

years have passed... i am alone... she has gone... i wander the streets of paris... dreams of lust and intoxication... the oblivion of theatres, cinemas, bars, shops, museums and galleries... i sleep by the river seine in the sun... i return no wiser... quagmire of existence. veiled illusions... i wander the streets of london... tired. hungry. bored. vagabond desires...

to pass time i place traffic cones in the middle of a busy junction in holborn and urge drivers to slow down... vehicles grind to halt... i am chased by a policeman... he catches me... we exchange insults... they lock me up in a cell... i dream a conspiracy of friends come to my rescue. but no... they take me to a psychiatric ward and give me a tablet to swallow... i fall asleep...

i wake up in the morning. i flee... i walk to piccadilly and bathe in the bright neon lights... i do nothing... i sit amongst the down and outs and watch time pass by... cold and tired... half the world is still asleep in bed... i return to the lunatic asylum at night...

full of sighs... saddled with indifference... purged of all hope... yawning triumph... from beginning to end a ludicrous story... infinite gestures... waiting patiently for death's caravan...

the following morning a doctor asks me how i feel... my reply: is not everything i feel, see and think something entirely imaginary? something utterly different from reality?...

i am kept in hospital under close observation.

neither asleep nor awake... withdrawn from the company of men and women... i try to write:

exploding cocks and burnt down mosques... churches, temples and synagogues converted into unlicensed brothels... a clandestine revolt... infidels marching forward... holy books left behind... bearded clerics waving new manifestos... a resurrection of the living... a new regime...

outside an unfashionable cafe, a lamp post leaning vagabond poet waits patiently observing an abandoned dog one leg up urinating in the gutter... shiny black cab pulls over, out steps a hip queer on heels in second hand rags smoking expensive cigarette... what are you looking at?... unoccupied poet smiles indifferently bathing in moonlight and thinking mind and matter are one... inside, head waiter stares at waitress: grind more coffee, serve the bohemians...

lonely tourist strolls down red light boulevard surveying underpaid hookers... how much?... starving homeless addict half asleep needs a fix: not much. follow me...

unlicensed turkish hot dog vendor not meeting council hygiene standards keeps moving to avoid patrolling state apparatus...

and barefoot zen lunatic... i give up. i cannot write anymore. i switch the television on:

<<all that once was directly lived has become mere representation... the autonomous movement of non-life... a social relationship between people mediated by images... a world view transformed into an objective force... one particular economic and social formation... the historical moment by which we happen to be governed... the sun that never sets on the empire of modern passivity... the perfect image of the ruling economic order... the material reconstruction of the religious illusion... the bad dream of modern society in chains... the specialization of power... the proletarianization of the world... the reigning economic system is founded on isolation... the concrete manufacture of alienation... capital accumulated to the point where it becomes image...>>

change channel:

<<the commodity contemplates itself in a world of its own making...>>

change channel:

<<each new lie of the advertising industry implicitly acknowledges the one before...>>

i fall asleep.

F

i whisper to myself: acoustic turtle dreams... a door opens... imagine shooting some happiness into vein and am transported to mecca... and as usual some state apparatus dick is on to me... his antennae closes in...

up ahead a subway surgeon is offering cheap circumcisions and abortions... i turn left at red light boulevard and head west through counter revolutionary avenue... mix in with the lonely crowd. give small change to shabby clothed shaved head violinist on street corner... he winks: acoustic turtle dreams... turn right at second hand clothes shop... apparatus still behind me... take a u-turn and change clothes at the shop walking out in a red heels and long loose fitting black dress disguise...

it's too late. antennae transform into handcuffs and apparatus mutates into an african general... i begin to run... the crowd disperses. a lamp post leaning vagabond poet offers advice: don't fall asleep. keep moving.

i hide down a dark alley with stray cats rooting through garbage bags for company... lie down. fall asleep... woken up by man in white straitjacket smoking piped tobacco approaching me: i tell you i sucked on a brazilian cunt in amsterdam. the sweetest thing i ever had... i don't reply... he continues: freed my soul that day, and never looked back... he continues to describe her hourglass curves and rouge lips and groaning sighs of ejaculating ecstasies... a black winged butterfly hovers around my red heels... he stares at my crotch: brazilian party?... i hesitate... he draws closer: brazilian party?... saliva hangs from his mouth. eyeballs wide open focused on crotch... do i offer myself to him?... he stares: the most beautiful woman in town... he stares: how much or do i rape you?... dread is an alien power which lays hold of an individual and yet one cannot tear oneself away nor has the will to do so, for one fears what one desires... under the pavements lie beaches. take your desires for reality. what better place than here? what better time than now?...

naked wageless alley cats scowling. straitjacket on top of me. dress hitched up. twisted over. anal penetration efforts thwarted. feel a limp cock rubbing against my no frills underwear... brazilian party? no luck... grabs his tobacco pipe and shoves it in and out of my ass... once if i remember well life was a feast with all hearts open and wine flowing... screaming... yell for help: acoustic turtle dreams... grabs me by the head. smashes my skull into the ground... midsummer night's dream... a play about transformation...

antennae hones in on dark alley... shines a torch in our direction: straitjacket frozen above a bundle of flesh... you got him? straitjacket nods yes... lamp post leaning vagabond poet springs to mind: do not fall asleep... apparatus closes in. antennae transforms into handcuffs. gathers bundle of flesh into a white van...

in a windowless police cell... shadow of a dead man in a noose on far wall and toilet bowl for company...

i fall asleep: history and class consciousness... barefoot peasants refusing to wear sandals... endless railways, planes and automobiles... lonely space rockets and hotel alienation... rickshaws and oarsmen lost in the metropolis... labyrinth of desires... conversations with supreme deity... will it help to jerk off?

i am woken up by a policeman prodding me with a truncheon: wages are determined by the fierce struggle between capitalist and worker. the capitalist inevitably wins. the capitalist can live longer without the worker than the worker can without him... the population of the poor grows with their poverty and it is at the most extreme limit of need that human beings crowd together in the greatest numbers in order to fight among themselves for the right to suffer... nations are merely workshops for production and man is a machine for consuming and producing. human life is a piece of capital... the right of landowners can be traced back to robbery...

i am brought before a magistrate and sentenced to spend one year in a psychiatric institution...

the following morning a doctor asks me how i feel... my reply: is not everything i feel, see and think something entirely imaginary? something utterly different from reality?...

i am kept in hospital under close observation.

G

each day is a resurrection...

never-ending succession of paltry contests... from competitive sports to elections... utterly incapable of arousing playful feelings... why go on?... the abnormal need for representation compensates for a torturing feeling of being at the margins of a shattered existence of a social hallucination...

holy computers... black magicians... cathode ray tubes...

boring civilisations and artificial landscapes... smiling citizens and art galleries... silent melodies humming bile and puke into the soul... pilgrim of spirit retreats into a bar and orders a drink... on the tv, reports of another earthquake and thousands dead... anyone for a game of pool?... the tv warns of higher interest rates and bad weather...

dada arsonist meets libertarian sufi anarchist in a public park to discuss plans for permanent revolution and abolition of all hierarchies... how do we go about this?... reinterpret the relevant scriptures and manifestos to suit contemporary needs... demand the impossible... unarmed insurrections... infiltrate... break the system down...

post-apocalyptic sandy landscape of nothingness... talking machines and reclining poets having amusing conversations until the end of time...

to dream that you are sodomising a young man you do not know is a sign of victory over one's enemies... if however you dream that you are making love to a woman when in reality you are having a sexual relationship with a man your request to this man will be fulfilled even though you have been humiliated by him in the past... to dream of having sex with an animal is a sign of prosperity and long life...

dream as silent as a mirror is believed, realities plunge in silence by...

time is running out... nothing is yet said... everything that has formerly been absolute becomes historical... doomsday has arrived... what have you done? asks the supreme deity... nothing truly important, both good and evil, i reply... did you believe?... at times, yes. other times, no...

sat alone with hypocrisy and imposture for company... dark is the stony desert, trackless and vast and dim...

starving beggars smoking contraband cigarettes... naked woman without legs squatting on floor and man without eyes or nose or mouth, naked skull for a face, holding out bony hands begging for change...

correct pronunciation of the mantra of a deity depends upon bodily purity as well as upon knowledge of its proper intonation... when all become legislators the state disappears...

the doctor asks how i feel. my reply: atomized and manipulated. the doctor prescribes anti-psychotic medication: olanzapine. 5mg. once a day...

i fall asleep.

H

percussive repetitive rhythms... total anonymity... dogmatic indifference... a being about whom we do not have the vaguest notion...

slit wrists and overdose.

the doctor asks how i feel. i reply: words are fleshless threats pissing on those who care to listen...

fall asleep.

altered states of mind... artificial paradises... trivial events acquire bizarre and obscene significance... there is not much left to tell... machines as intelligent and stupid as men et cetera... masks of god...

and yet continue.

they met at a poetry gathering. his name was kashmir, she was called palestine. they went out for dinner afterwards and discussed art and politics and laughed their way into the night. on the train home kashmir asked palestine if they would meet again. palestine said no, but she was free that night. they went back to hers and drank a bottle of red wine and fell asleep together on the sofa in front of the television... the following morning stalin came downstairs and asked palestine what was going on... nothing.

collapsed upon my bed. neither gloomy nor cheerful. fatigued.

for a brief moment a charcoal drawing on fine white paper of a ghost copulating with a goat on the slopes of a snowy mountain range bathed in moonlight reawakens my senses. the drawing is stuck to a wall in my room. a previous patient left it behind. the goat seems undistracted whilst the ghost carries an expression of wretchedness and misery... squint my eyes. the ghost looks less unhappy...

fall asleep.

wake up following morning feeling calm and sane. don't have the urge to write so go down to a drawing group and sketch from memory the ghost and goat picture. except this time the goat is on its hind legs behind the ghost... what is that? nurse asks... have a guess... a banshee she says... yes... and a ram?... yes... what are they doing? cuddling?... no. they are fucking... she laughs. huge breasts oscillating side to side... start doodling a man in a straitjacket with an erect penis chopped in half... aroused by the breasts i ask the nurse where she is from... she says south africa... which part?... cape town... begin sketching her ass as she is turned away from me... bored... and then a cannibal eating her ass...

go to the races and place a bet on a horse named spectacular society... she comes last at 100-1 as expected.

on the way back to the hospital i am sat on a train next the most beautiful girl in town... i stare at her reflection in the window for two stops... before i get a chance to utter anything by way of introduction she hops off at the next stop... she has left a cassette tape behind on her seat. i pick it up and put it in my pocket.

press play:

<<anti-dialectical false consciousness. imposed at every moment on an everyday life in thrall to the spectacle... i dream of making love to the cunt struck man sitting next to me on a train staring at my reflection...>>

this is not unusual. i had heard of poets leaving unfinished manuscripts on trains and musicians leaving tapes and cds of ordinary sounds of everyday life behind too... adepts of anti-art.

but when could i see her again? there was nothing else on the tape besides the hum of nothingness... i told my doctor about the incident and he said that to spend time sitting on the same train everyday would not benefit my mental state and merely exacerbate my symptoms...

she was the most beautiful woman in town.

I

sit on same train at same time in same seat for one week... going nowhere... waiting... but no. nothing happens...

the doctor was wrong. i find sitting on a train alleviates my boredom for a while... the most beautiful woman in town is nowhere to be seen. perhaps she is on different carriage. i could pull the alarm and stop the train and check...

but no. she is not there. only impostures.

pick up the newspaper left in adjacent seat:

<<the temporalization of man as effected through the mediation of society is equivalent to a humanization of time. the unconscious movement of time becomes manifest and true in historical consciousness... the social appropriation of time and the production of man by means of human labour were developments that awaited the advent of a society divided into classes... the development of capitalism meant the unification of irreversible time on a world scale. universal history became a reality because the entire globe was brought under the sway of this time's progression...>>

then suddenly derailment. bodies flying about the carriage. blood everywhere. for those unhurt opportunity to help others and for those criminally minded a chance to make a quick steal... her head lay before me buried in a fashion magazine. the rest of her body was elsewhere. how could i help her? the eyes were wide open staring. the head vibrated with a life of its own. the mouth opened: grrg oyles in fffount ains... drrreams real ty onee... acc used to tal dre ams... a man's hand grabbed my foot: i need shoes... i need shoes...

after a rescue operation i return to the hospital in one piece. excitement for one day passes. switch television on:

<<unprecedented train disaster... hundreds dead...>>

change channels:

<<news of a rail crash... hundreds dead...>>

change channels:

<<what we need is not language but the suggestion, the arabesque, which is born and dies within a few minutes. what we need is that which we see, hear and touch for a single moment, and which is then consumed and replaced by a similar stimulus>>

change channels:

<<brighter. bigger. better...>>

J

stammering and stuttering... having a nice day...

leave the hospital and move into a flat with eight italians. she's and he's. a big fish tank in the kitchen containing colourful fish and two turtles with artificial scenery. change the water once a week...

oh my god i am communicating with a fish she says, coming down after a lysergic acid trip... for me: green jumper transforms from a snake into a woman's leg... mind and matter are one... only the imagination is really real... escape from wandering at will...

don't be so joyful... put the jazz with the jazz and the rock and roll with the rock and roll...

shiny boots of depression return. where? who?... placing cones. moving traffic... hospitalized... discharged... house fire. riot police. arson... hospitalized. madness and civilization... rhapsody in blue...

transported to 2176 AD: gene for ageing located and research into immortality suspended after... renegade scientist working with tibetan monks suggests a particular breed of human... electronic sheep and cloned sheep mating on television reality show... general urban populations predisposed to highly animated facial gestures and little conversation... average long run inflation and interest rates reduced to zero point one percent... london to tokyo in half an hour on underground shuttle... anti-capitalists protesting world wide to introduction of multinational electronic mood changing device industry... politicians voted out of office in electronic direct democracy regimes... virtual reality star accused of assassinating presidents by electrochemical mind manipulation... brain in vat most preferred funeral arrangement... pedophiles, cannibals, rapists and murderers begin revolts in prison-colony on mars...

self-emancipation in our time is emancipation from the material bases of an inverted truth. this "historic mission to establish truth in the world" can be carried out neither by the isolated individual nor by atomized and manipulated masses, but - only and always - by that class which is able to effect the dissolution of all classes, subjecting all power to the disalienating form of a realized democracy - to councils in which practical theory exercises control over itself and surveys its own action. it cannot be carried out, in other words, until individuals are "directly bound to universal history"; until dialogue has taken up arms to impose its own conditions upon the world.

it's too late to be late again...

watch a cartoon on television: trotsky and the anti-philologist. the protagonist, trotsky, is imprisoned for writing a poem undermining the world president, architech. general plot revolves around trotsky's failed attempts to escape... beckett and cioran are two mime artists campaigning for his release... nietzsche, a celebrity virtual reality star plans to read aloud trotsky's poem on prime time television and is assassinated by government shadows...

i fall asleep.

K

homeless for a week in edinburgh... sleep behind shops on a street for buskers then find a shelter near the old castle who offer cheap food too... spend day drumming repetitive tunes on an african hand drum for small change and to pass time... miss leonardo da vinci exhibition by an hour and read alexander trocchi biography and paul klee's notebooks at central library... come back to london and sleep behind national gallery... wander streets of paris... sleep by seine... return home... back in hospital. waiting to be discharged. kept here on bail, charged with arson for accidentally setting house on fire...

dance night away under influence of lysergic acid... every event fitting into jigsaw puzzle of fate and chance...

walk home liberated from the spectacle... silent and tamed... landlord found dead in the gutter... antennae following again... camera cuts to leading lady in long black dress... try to recall trotsky's poem... it's no use... only the radio jingle lingers in my head.

fly to melbourne. sit on the beach... return home. london to tokyo in half an hour... new york. finally a resting place... an addict from zurich approaches: can you tell me the way to... the heat are closing in on him. we swap clothes and bags and jump on the subway train heading opposite directions... internet cafe... log on... guerrilla activism... download new sounds and tap into illegal archive: trotsky's poem...

total eclipse. primrose hill through the night... masked carnival... subversive liaisons against the trees...

cocked cunts in glamour gowns entertaining world bankers discussing international trade agreements... appallingly bored, universal whore goes to toilet to powder her nose. there she meets another drag doing the same: you with a banker too?... of course... whats yours talking about... i dunno: foreign investment, tariffs and subsidies. big guys screwing little guys. not sure if i'll stay for dessert...

struggling west african cotton farmer posing as a waiter pours champagne over world banker's head... unsubsidized free trade...

mother rings: am i eating well? what's the weather like? am i sleeping well?... difficult to ascertain... absence of appropriate affect...

generally absorbed in political and sociological considerations and losing sight of the essential... puppets. regimes. revolutions. bombs. demonstrations. torture. rape. blasphemies. cannon fodder... prehistoric rock art... history of "the"...

liberation. exile.

same old staccato tune. play something else:

ladies and gentlemen, elegant tails wag thoughts carved dry with repetition... grind more coffee... days and nights float by...

cannot.

stayed up all night. discussed football scores. caffeine. cigarettes.

radio:

<<who are you now? tell me who are you now?... good evening. i am afraid we have some shocking news: the elephants are dead... seven chipmonks twirling on a branch eating lots of sunflower on my uncles ranch. you know that old childrens tale from the sea. its like youre dreaming about gorgonzollo cheese when its clearly brie time baby. step into my office. youre fucking fired...>>

her foot prints could still be seen on the wet front porch. keep trying to recall her face.

the almost total disappearance of conversation has caused the exchange of ideas to become a particular kind of spectacle. three or four individuals who are considered qualified or in a position to express ideas meet at a round table and a dazed and bored audience listens to them talking...

a new common language has yet to be found... to take effective possession of the community of dialogue and the playful relationship to time which the works of the poets and artists have heretofore merely represented...

art's declaration of independence is thus the beginning of the end of art...

dispossessed.

on the jewish question. we must emancipate ourselves before we can emancipate others. political emancipation from religion is not complete emancipation from religion because political emancipation is not the complete and consistent form of human emancipation...

radio:

<<strangers in the night exchanging glances... value of house may go up or down... cigarettes can kill...>>

meanwhile. meanwhile. ich bin zeitgeist. enriched with glycerine and aloe vera. fortified with vitamins e and b5. skills you can't comprehend. large doses cause prolonged sleeplessness with feelings of exhilaration followed by horrible depression. undoubtedly a stimulant. dilates the pupils. increased sensitivity to colours. hallucinating narcotic producing profound derangement of the senses... turntable wizard. moves like a madman as he scratches the disc. pulls out an apple from nowhere... marvel. wonder. mendacious creature... german dj heiner muller playing hamlet for an audience of helicopters on top of the world trade... oops. listen to a lot of jazz musicians just go off. youretheonethatsmeanttobecomethedirector.

icanfeeltheheatclosinginfeelthemouttheremakingtheirmovessettinguptheirdevilstoolpigeonscrooningovermyspoonanddropperithrowawayatwashingtonsquarestationvaultaturnstileandtwoflightsdowntheironstairscatchanuptownatrain...soiamassignedtoengagetheservicesofdoctorbenwayforislaminc...

L

for believers, all things are reflections of the divine beauty and do not exist apart from the supreme deity. the riddle: by our very being impelled to seek love of the supreme deity who is utterly self-sufficient and has no need of our love...

benevolent dictator declares money is the root of all evil. hyperinflation follows. world bankers uncertain of future and push to raise interest rates. price of gold multiplies. stockmarket collapses. bubble gum sales shoot up...

flaneuered metropolis. endless walking. screaming lolitas. comfort of strangers. inner calm? happiness? what is he suffering from? religion.

children with no habits walking with arms swinging, everything full of life... enigmatic scenarios unfolding without menace... when does time begin and where does space end? is not life under the sun a dream?...

the trapeze artist comes tumbling down... caravan of solitude... she finds love at a concert in berlin...

mankind... loses its storyteller... loses its childhood... in the beginning... history descends from myth... days. nights. weeks. months. many moments...

necessity.

M

lost continents... primordial soup kitchen...

acidfreak police spy pulls out antennae tracking vagabond wavelength. distracted by red spots sprayed on a wall by homeless graffiti artist. moonlit night. chase begins. locates abandoned building hideout. nobody present.

stay up all night smoking tobacco drinking tea... inhale livewire... h is for happiness... stuck in a queue smoking skunk: pink flamingos and retired sea turtles... pavement hugging junky waiting for a fix... sat around television. waiting... erotic cartoons and shampoo advertisements... read a book. fall asleep... nurse enquires is everything okay?... time passes... got a lighter?... heads bobbing up and down... mental arithmetic... fridge door opens. cold pizza slices...

the doctor asks how i feel. my reply: does your wife give good head?

tired. hungry.

straitjacketed patient locked in a windowless cell for one night. awareness of manifold possibilities... dog howls outside. revolutionary manifesto scrawled on the wall: total freedom.

jaded avenues arched above urban landscape. naked apes with black hands toiling underground. cryptic crossword puzzle skips a beat. armed rebels zig zagging through cities at night. homeless insomniac reads yesterday's newspapers. black rainbow hammering wisdomlessness. screaming angels whispering in rebels' ears: false consciousness. twenty-four hour radio capitalism. scholars differ as to identity of foreigner. recite. steadfast. heedless. surrender. reawakened senses. emeralds. rubies. garden fences. divided neighbours. farewell to reason. against method. ancient monopoly. pyramids. loneliness. stammering. facade. unveiled. bigotry. silence. laughter. dance. nor grieve on their account. proofs of guidance distinguishing right from wrong. smiling white teeth. flat stomachs. polished ugliness. bacteria. hears all. observes all. syndicates. violence. money. diamonds. yachts. gold. submit. disbelieve. deliver. at daybreak they called out to one another. possessed. skilled enchanter. apostles. disciples. covenant. lighted torch. ingenious magic. warning. revealed. patience. indifference. sworn enemy. doom. servants. supreme deity. nothing. fear. regret. faith. evil. rejoice. this world. the next. word. supreme deity. supreme triumph. glorious throne. flamboyant decadent asshole faces audience and cracks a joke. bland applause. television viewers hooked. crucified on the trunks of palm trees.

acidfreak police spy notifies authority that nobody is present.

ideological battleground. skirmishes. government shadows hunting no identity disco thieves: shaven headed vagabond disguises. false passports and credit cards bought in bangkok.

posing as a beggar sit among the homeless and watch. women in high heels clicking pass and suited men carrying briefcases strut by. policeman approaches. good evening officer. cordial conversation. policeman leaves. goes home. watches television. makes love to wife. falls asleep.

writes a thesis on urban alienation and despair.

bland applause.

N

exploding bombs... asalam wa laikum...

degenerate automatons. video screens. supermarket queues. next customer. siphoned funds. nightly lectures. morning prayers. catastrophe. overwhelmed. reflected. undoubtedly.

fancyfootworkclericdancingamonginfidels...

acidfreak police spy finds dead assassin lying in silent corridor. mescaline bottle by his side. password tattooed on forehead: h. antennae probes cerebral cortex. absurd memories dripping: happiness. hierarchy. hallucination.

diplomatic character spoils plot. woman using shapeliness of breasts and conversational gambit to compel admiration of her mind. her stilettos steal the show. excuse us. horribly unique depression casting shadows. linger here for a moment. hitched up skirt smoking cigarette. crescendo. drumming tavern laughter. unmasked desires. panther semen. twirling goblets. urine. alley cats shrieking. throbbing veins. jugular cuts. angel fragrance. sodomy. itching loins. cleanliness. professor of discipline on all fours. brisk attendants carrying wine. railing against fate. empty wardrobe. no clothes to speak of. naked. step right in. talked a good deal about religion and politics and vileness of wealth. provocative bait. vomit. uncontrollable sobbing. menstruation. evenings still more real. desperately running. professor sticks out velvet tongue. shapeliness. comic memories. deeper. absolute. suggested. amorous gesture. absence of heat. corpse.

acidfreak police spy found her dead. trail led nowhere. calls headquarters and informs superior. no feedback. continue.

zen lunatic swaggers on to red light boulevard. asks hip queer for a light and vanishes into bohemian cafe. sits alone at table by window. elegant fat waitress brings coffee. nothing's in the least like what it seems, he muses. several million other things. leaning back in his chair observes a fragmentary prayer to a god. may i sit down? she asks. tailor made cross dresser fiddles with hair. nods okay. where are you from? she asks. i've no idea he says. orders coffee and asks for a light. did you hear about the train crash? no. oh. did you honestly expect a boy of eleven to explain why he didn't want his mother to share a bed with a stranger? no reply, but irresistibly fascinated. she was a universal whore. orders more coffee. she did not have an atom of consideration for him. who cares? it's the principle. nobody understands what he does not feel. a lazy mother. shrugged his shoulders apologetically. it doesn't matter anyhow. what are you doing here? waiting he replied. for what? meeting somebody, i don't know who yet. i see. orders more coffee. have you read trotsky's poem?

acidfreak police spy arrives on red light boulevard. notices israeli police woman. is this zone clear? yes, she says: it's a designated sanctuary. full of artists and spies. cannot distinguish one from another. can you tell me where the bohemian cafe is? down there on the left.

i've read trotsky's poem over and over. i can't decipher how it's applicable today. but the illegal archive has the original audio version i'm still waiting to hear. apparently, you had to be there to appreciate it. orders more coffee. acidfreak police spy enters unnoticed. orders coffee.

speedpoliticsartrevolutionspectaclesociety...butafterallwhatwasanovel?anhoursentertainmentthatwasalltobepickedupandthrownasideagaincarelessly...

waitress finishes work. meets girlfriend on corner and goes out for dinner: or both if you like... i know... c'mon. lets see... the fact is she said pouring out her words so fast it was extraordinary that she should have been able to articulate them at all... and both laughed yet once more.

in the cafe. poet stands on a table and reads aloud: again the times are out of joint; and again for wine and the loved one's languid glance i am fain. the wheel of fortune's sphere is a marvellous thing: what next proud head to the lowly dust will it bring? or if my magian elder kindle the light, whose lantern, pray, will blaze aflame and be bright? 'tis a famous tale, the deceitfulness of earth; the night is pregnant: what will dawn bring to birth? tumult and bloody battle rage in the plain: bring blood-red wine, and fill the goblet again!

brief pause. bland applause.

acidfreak police spy's antennae wriggles. a new recruit. he looks around. cross dressing type located. sits with a zen lunatic. which one. orders more coffee. buries head in an abandoned newspaper:

<<panic. terror alert...>>

acidfreak police spy pricks up ears to listen to windowed table conversation:

unabletodistinguishbachfromwagner...theworldisfullofridiculousGodsnobs...peoplewhoarentreallyalive,whoveneverdoneanyvitalact,whoarentinanylivingrelationwithanything;peoplewhohaventtheslightestpersonalorpracticalknowledgeofwhatGodis...buttheymooawayinchurches,theycooovertheirprayors,theypervertanddestroytheirwholedismalexistencesbyactinginaccordancewiththewillofanarbitrarilyimaginedabstractionwhichtheychoosetocallGod...justapackofGodsnubs...theyreasgrotesqueandcontemptibleas...

acidfreak police spy gets up and approaches windowed table. zen lunatic says goodbye and vanishes out on to red light boulevard... who was sitting with you just a moment ago? cross dresser doesn't reply: none of your business... antennae vibrates. remembers israeli police woman and leaves cafe unnoticed. zen lunatic strikes match lights up cigarette and heads for... acidfreak police spy follows.

O

illiterate musicians lost in meditation. violinist hums a requiem for those dead and alive...

john fanta and ted honda meet in a bar in piccadilly: double vodka. straight. no ice. you see the fight? no. busy collecting trash. what time you finish? still on patrol. oh. same for me. no ice. suede shoed straw hat homeless busker started a fight on shaftesbury avenue. three badly bruised. fantastic jabs and right hooks. handcuffed him to a lamp post until shiny boots arrived. fled a nightclub screaming there was a bomb in the toilets. called the anti squad. didnt find anything. another couple vodkas please. my round. wheres your antennae? heard the jammers are working overtime tonight. couldnt pick up anything. somethings brewing. red light closed off too. rumours of trotskys poem floating around. and religious lunatics on the underground. government keeps putting out memos. same old shit. hows wanda doing? fine. still in paris. says anarchist groups coming here on fake passports. swept soho square today. oh. usual mime artists arrested. l'ange fou group under investigation. seen any acidfreaks recently? no. all on private bounties. here we go again. all assignments end tomorrow or no bonus. usual anonymous call outs to camden town. those mushrooms you gave me didnt work. try it with coffee, no sugar. got a light? another vodka please. russians working the streets too. turkish hotdog vendors disappeared today. oh yeah? rounded up in trafalgar square. pigeon shit the lot of them; dont carry any identification. loop holes. human rights. europe. proper channels. you read trotskys poem? cant be bothered. communist gibberish. dont like poetry anyhow. another vodka... reminisce on old times... stroll down soho... how much? five pounds per show: lamentable confusion. unspeakable pleasure. unlicensed production of replicas. medical ethics. automatic obedience. entire tribes. ladies and gentlemen. coughing and spitting. dancing counterpoints. irrational fear. barbed wire and psychological measures. unmitigated disaster. orgasmal spasms. dubious citizens.

zen lunatic finds william blake's grave. acidfreak police spy cannot handle cemeteries. zombies and ghosts. recharges antennae and waits. zen lunatic unzips and cock spits out soft diamonds. waits. continual dreams of junk. unjustified assumption. acidfreak police spy loses trace. another vanishing act. no reason to believe peyote is addictive.

john fanta and ted honda part at four o'clock in the morning.

zen lunatic sleeps in a doorway on coleridge road, north london. still waiting. realities plunge in silence by... acidfreak police spy reports to headquarters and refuels in mayfair, spanish prostitute for company. faded pink brassiere held together by a safety pin in the back.

P

the library was quiet as usual. professor of discipline reads recent journal on comparative literature:

<<and yet criticism seems to be the true literary genre of our time. there is no great critic, but there is an abundance of criticism. it is not really concerned with books - at best it is a chapter of cultural anthropology. it is essential for the market. it has lost its function as a post factum judgement and is now becoming more and more anticipatory, normative activity which provides artists with opinions and directions.>>

a new undergraduate student approaches and asks professor whether there are any toilets in the library. on the second floor he replies.

<<we no longer have to find a single image capable of defining poetry in a flash. the important advance - and we must take it into account - is that after studying the sign, the word, critics and students of literature should become aware of the contextuality of the word and, instead of regarding the work of literature solely as a "machine made of words", they should regard it as a system of relationships whose centre is everywhere and nowhere.>>

professor of discipline follows undergraduate into female toilets and expresses an interest: what are you studying?... persian poetry... poetry is one of the many possibilities of life. ideological commitment is not necessary or an adequate condition for a poetically vital work. nor is it in itself a negative condition. every true poet has had his or her moment of commitment and has not waited for some obscure regulator or guide to give them instructions... i see... many will continue to think that art is a way of life for those who do not really live, a compensation or surrogate. but this does not justify any deliberate ivory tower: a poet must not turn his or her back on life. it is life which contrives to elude the poet... but is it not the poet who contrives?... no. not a true poet... this is the female toilets by the way... i know.

she leaves breathlessly. the old tortoise hobbles along its front foot cut off. when a green mantle starts waving it limps invisibly into geometrical patches of clover and returns to its lair. since when? an x and the factor remain uncertain. for half a century or more. or back to the times of general pelloux... there is no age for the tortoise: all temporal breaks happen now...

clandestine liaisons.

Q

apparitions of mad angels and mischievous demons dropping daisies on horrible cities.

at the appropriate time and place... open your eyes if you can - open them wider... both naked, we contemplate each other... friezes. columns. marble statues. palaces... shades of horror... sometimes murmured. almost silently... loathing. insomnia. fear... are you asleep?... marxism erupting like an intoxicating metaphor in naive men's heads... whispering and betrayal... slavery and applause... noble ambitions... coming toward us, apparently... sun bathes her entire body... he makes no response... fundamental insult... he does not believe in god nor has read the writings of karl marx... soon he closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep...

consume.

frenetic dancing... know their secret yearnings, their weaknesses, their few moments of comfort... shh.

what have they forbidden today? french fries.

he reads the koran. he reads karl marx... sanctuary lies elsewhere. he watches television:

<<leather boots of compassion and relentless doom falls prey to abandoned idols of lost civilisations...>>

the radio:

<<goats cheese and melancholy youths found hiding in the wardrobe... hang yourself...>>

the newspaper:

<<murdered the badger...>>

WHEN EARTH IS ROCKED IN HER LAST CONVULSION; WHEN EARTH SHAKES OFF HER BURDENS AND MAN ASKS: "WHAT MAY THIS MEAN?" - ON THAT DAY SHE WILL PROCLAIM HER TIDINGS, FOR YOUR LORD WILL HAVE INSPIRED HER.

ON THAT DAY MEN WILL COME IN SCATTERED BANDS TO BE SHOWN THEIR LABOURS. WHOEVER HAS DONE AN ATOM'S WEIGHT OF GOOD SHALL SEE IT, AND WHOEVER HAS DONE AN ATOM'S WEIGHT OF EVIL SHALL SEE IT ALSO.

THE WORKER IS RELATED TO THE PRODUCT OF HIS LABOUR AS TO AN ALIEN OBJECT. THE MORE THE WORKER EXERTS HIMSELF IN HIS WORK, THE MORE POWERFUL THE ALIEN, THE OBJECTIVE WORLD BECOMES WHICH HE BRINGS INTO BEING OVER AGAINST HIMSELF, THE POORER HE AND HIS INNER WORLD BECOME, AND THE LESS THEY BELONG TO HIM. IT IS THE SAME IN RELIGION. THE MORE MAN PUTS INTO GOD, THE LESS HE RETAINS WITHIN HIMSELF.

his lips, drooling, make a smirk... stick to the groove...

haven't we met somewhere before? i like your skirt. why thank you. take a seat. hitch up your skirt. let's go for dinner...

inexpressible sensations of disquiet, desperation, longing, joy, sorrow, solitude, loss, fury, desires, visions and dreams of distant places...

like this table? sure. red wine? yes. the spaghetti is good.

after the meal, we head home holding hands.

she parts her lips and white teeth gleam. i go on talking. i go on thinking... contains potassium chloride clinically proven to relieve the pain of sensitive teeth. the active ingredient directly calms the nerve endings. contains an antibacterial ingredient to promote gum health... and look. timeless indignation... if only we could annihilate ourselves once and for all, with so much love...

so many provocative looks... still holding hands... walking home... where is home?... the bus is full of people, well fed and decked out in the latest fashions... where is home?... this is just a roundabout way of beginning a real conversation, a confession.

our stop arrives.

did you enjoy dinner? why do we have nothing to say anymore? talking all kind of nonsense: i like your skirt. i'll ask for a vacation tomorrow. even if it's just for a week. we can go away somewhere... footsteps of someone approaching. silent moonlit night. he is drawing close. he is drawing close. he grabs her and slits her throat before i can react. purse stolen. footsteps running away. AAAAHH... HELP ME... STAY WITH ME... I LOVE YOU.

we head into the flat still holding hands... chatting about the heat... darling, let's go to bed... i scream, clutching her... it easy to see how necessary it is for the whole revolutionary movement to find both its empirical and its theoretical basis in the movement of private property or, to be more exact, of the economy... reason for suicide: unknown... help me. stay with me. i love you.

we wake up together holding hands. ineluctably lying there. why worry about your belly? it doesn't make you look grotesque.

i am alone. she has gone. i am in mourning. i contemplate suicide. my brown leather belt as a noose.

she never existed. the hallucination ends.

yesterday never occurred. tomorrow never comes. legion of gestures always careening forward... we must be absolutely post-modern...

he fills the glasses again. it is unbearable. what can you expect from a country that has always lived in slavery?... he roars with laughter. they just want to control us and not leave us time to think. god help us... she laughs about dinner. the main course was a heated from a batch of frozen moulds every customer would choose from...

go ahead, scream. it's your time.

he stretches out in the armchair. it is unbearable. WORK! SIGN UP! SACRIFICE!

something from nothing from something back to nothing... and yet... nothing is yet said... instead terror reigns... and again she raises the baby, who goes on screaming. please, he says, give me the baby. she looks at him and smiles, and keeps him in her arms. you! she says. why are you crying? does not great happiness await you?

all temporal breaks happen now...

the smell of time passing as you write what has already been said... the discovery of another planet to join our solar system... there is no escape... the smell begins to fade...

one goes, but where? one lives, but for what?

someone is singing. posters of fidel castro have arrived. capitalism is dead. he is no good for us! he can do nothing for you, community in exile declares.

there was hell to pay.

my words alone from now. forget those before you. my word horde is what matters. listen. can you hear what rumbles beneath the silence? listen:

elegant tails wag thoughts carved dry with repetition. words are fleshless threats pissing on those who care to listen. pass the goblets around. listen. the revolution is near... forget anti-fit jeans and anti-world festivals... forget cyberwhores and robot servants... what dream, what potential love did you destroy today? what dance do you dance today? what great insult do you remain silent over or, better yet, applaud today?

wildly phantasmagoric excuses justify existence.

WAGES ARE DETERMINED BY THE FIERCE STRUGGLE BETWEEN CAPITALIST AND WORKER.

lord only knows where he is. for a moment don't say anything. don't say he might be dead.

the baby cries to sleep in his mother's arms. the father reads the newspaper:

<<whatever lays claim to permanence in the spectacle is founded on change, and must change as that foundation changes. the spectacle, though quintessentially dogmatic, can yet produce no solid dogma. nothing is stable for it: this is its natural state, albeit the state most at odds with its natural inclination.>>

the baby wakes up: i did not ask to be born. WAH. WAH... she washes the baby, changes his diaper and puts him to bed.

all temporal breaks happen now...

that unnecessary ceremony, stripping themselves and then covering themselves again... non-existent puddles... sobbing very softly.

above everything, the calm...

an acquaintance tells me i have always been crazy... i ask for examples... he answers everything, practically without saying a word... and then the laughter. the rest is fantasy, the ravings of my own desperation:

blood splashes across the wall. he has run off. AAAAHH... HELP ME... STAY WITH ME... I LOVE YOU...

but nothing happens. i have eyes to see with, hands to touch with, a nose to smell with. but really, what do i care about all this?

how could i not have seen her before?

at the beginning, unquestionably, things were different... that time when we looked at everything with astonishment...

there are no words, definitely no words...

we go on in silence, or speak only to criticize other people, politics, the times. the weather... we take advantage of the horrible state of affairs to avoid our own horrible situation... while he says good morning and kisses her, she feels that he is shouting... fixed habits. something to tire themselves out with and not yet think about. necessity.

for a time i live with the foreboding that something is inescapably about to happen... and nothing happens... waiting for the great collapse... but real disaster never comes suddenly, because it's always happening.

must bear life unprotestingly... accept existence... riddled with bullets.

what loneliness. great beating drums of loneliness. schizophrenic dance. torrent of laughter... gradually fades away to be forgotten... awakens nothing but the instinct of revulsion.

hunger. thirst. weariness. picking nose. eating snot. tedium.

harassment. blackmail. misery. abstinence. damnation. impotence. desperation. forced labour. silence.

mind the gap.

R

something happened.

the problem of existence fades away and wake up one morning with the intention of doing something. don't know what... disillusioned and alienated anti-narratives... little plot. flimsy characters. stunted dialogue. nihilism. black marks to fill the page. nothing is yet said. again. and again... what about universal history? it's graffiti. it's everywhere.

television:

<<everything's going according to the plan... we're going to break up civilization so we can make something better out of this world...>>

violencesexintoxication.

waiting for you on the boundaries of this world... grieving widow chants her prayers... doesn't matter who, how, what or why... ah, fed up... sardonic and insinuating smiles... chaos. tragedy. disaster. solitary confinement... this too was a tempting offer... desert rats and tequila... roaming... flat tyres and vomiting emus... sinister and doomed... c'mon lets get outa ere...

she just sat there, smiling serenely.

performed twenty seven press ups and began dwelling on the manifold possibilities... captain serious and his magic monkeys were waiting... hijacked television broadcasts... self-reflexivities... open societies... underneath. before. almost. flowers. traitors.

weaves in and out of bookshops on charing cross road, pursued by acidfreak police spy. changes clothes at a second hand clothes store in covent garden. eats at a chinese restaurant. sneaks out without paying via a fire exit. finds sanctuary in british museum toilets. acidfreak police spy waits outside. dashes to king's cross. shaves head. pierces tongue. tattoos arm. fake passport. heads to victoria coach station. buses to casablanca. acidfreak police spy in pursuit.

fresh experiences. water. chopping waves.

she made a phone call. police arrived immediately. sirens off. intruder escapes jumping over garden fences. police file report of stolen television. goodbye madam... she shoots up. mescaline compound: total eclipse. samurai and dragons fighting on wallpaper. tumbling cauldrons chasing alley cats on ceiling. groaning. nausea. melting light bulb and door mutating into leather briefcase. skateboarding steel guitar nose grinding on window sill. vase of flowers befriends ashtray. nothing remains but the idea and the pure subject of knowing. roasted rabbit cooking above fire place. flames dancing moronically. table kisses wardrobe. influential paper weight levitates objectively. chair spins on one leg sucking in skirting boards. african hand drum hopping on bookshelf. books sleeping fixed in contemplation. solipsism. flattery. cigarette butts puffing unceasingly. spontaneous spiralling pious frenzy... laminated business card. mobile entrepreneur. selling on demand. what do you require? what do you need? what do you want? losing momentum. futures and options. hedge now. computers built to spec. delivered to door. hurry. sale must end. bartender grins. spend too much time in the city. inhale. headache. listen. health insurance.

back in the hospital: queuing. for medication. for food. table tennis. scrabble. pool. newspapers. radio. television. books. conversation. cigarettes. caffeine. time passes.

blast the world free of history. demand the impossible. construct situations.

meet at coffee shop in university quarter. arrive late. order a cappuccino. uncomfortable chairs. wobbly table. grimacing waiter. conversation: so why now? the time is ripe. how much? six thousand. when do we begin? tommorow. who is in charge? it doesnt matter. okay, give me the gun. it is in the bag. is it clean? of course. shoot him tommorow.

S

innovativeeccentricexperimental.

and poetry which is generally ahead of its time may go so far ahead as to seem behind in time.

radical shifts. various epiphanies. stop. intrigue. man dressed in sharp suit with short cropped black hair. minimalist composition. mesmerising. cultural adoption. polyrhythmic. seductive tool. drum machine. electronic projects. discipline. patience. people. hallucinogenic. graves. scanner. distressing. catalyst. filter. road accident. departure lounge.

turntablismundone.

revolving doors and escalators. curbed desires. switching gears. the other. figments. castrated. hands and knees. head bobbing. cash flow. rrrepeat. whores and addicts. mentally deranged. united. screaming vocals. supposedly. allegedly. hierachies. emerge. bigger cocks. tighter pussies. broader shoulders. higher cheek bones. wider mouths. tall skinny. pornography. caucasian. insatiably. telephones. dildos. markets. sex industry. am.

checks to see if okay. yeah. okay.

transgression.

garcon! garcon! clear the table...

interior slash avenue stereo elevating sucked twisted antelope... bald angels yoyo-ing threads of time and sub-atomic invisibles infinitely scratching unzipped pants. tension on wire. step back see the flame. rejecting. questioning. menacing. troubling. inkling. hee hee... stretchcutscratchgrindexpand.

holy spaghetti. concentration. mother cell. rapid ape shit. iranian walk. mcdog sandwich intro. orchestra heart attack. alien army. amsterdam. ridiculous espresso. try to break it down. sombre drunk substitute manifesto. cafe open late. abandoned chess game. black resigns refused white noise. president assassinated. telepathic cash register. mutating horroscope. lingering satin stain. red carpet cancer treatment. twenty four hour therapy office. remove clothes shoes off. subtitles zoom out. clashing titans wrestling waistcoats. waiter! lobster! waiter! i love you...

clinging. lets swap identities. much better. fresh start. grab passport and say hello casablanca. heads of state meet at secret location and drink fine wine and discuss. dialogues later. more wine please. suicide bombers. agents fleeing. fingerprints everywhere. espionage salad. trade agreements mr. president. treadmill activity. jamaican drug baron. columbian war lord. east african cotton farmer. discuss. unimaginative march. anti-capitalist protest. millions revolting. personal slide show. dreams. franchised.

to the public: before going down among you to pull out your decaying teeth, your running ears, your tongues full of sores, before breaking your putrid bones, before opening your cholera-infested belly and taking out for use as fertilizer your too fatted liver, your ignoble spleen and your diabetic kidneys, before tearing out your ugly sexual organ, incontinent and slimy, before extinguishing your appetite for beauty, ecstasy, sugar, philosophy, mathematical and poetic metaphysical pepper and cucumbers, before disinfecting you with vitriol, cleansing you and shellpacking you with passion, before all that, we shall take a big antiseptic bath, and we warn you we are murderers...

too much caffeine... motorway trumpet collision. headlight blood puddle. magnified retina.

declined. mink overcoat. disc jockey party. great opportunity. bearded cleric waving manifesto. racing car nurses run. butcher. medication time. wait. think. dwell. knife and fork. gladiator falling. office closed. come back. between nine and five.

table's turn. chair must move. sicilian defence. garden furniture. lacquered steel. white resigns. martin luther king. egyptian pharoah. batman. coin collecting dentist. wasps. cold showers. picking strawberries. clucking hens. flashback. beginning. feel. rhythm. now. adjectives. woman. shut up. big appartment. hifi. regional dichotomies. up. down. left. right. press fire. personally. though. second half. grains. famine. trade. exchange. potato. elections. lip gloss. octopus. bombs dropping on... explosions. fire. thousands dead. trapped in rubble. peace campaigns. against the war. flowers. traitors.

T

on stage. rabbit stares at audience. empty metal bucket for company. chewing khat.

in the red corner. in the blue corner.

one phone call may have changed everything. didn't have the guts. who cares anyway? not me. nosed in front. leaned forward at the finish line. came last. didn't make a damn difference. should explain. but cannot be bothered. depression perhaps. lets wait and see. the doctor asks how i feel. my reply: no comment.

picture in a dumb assed magazine. how chic. condemn the president why don't you. could not hit a cow with a banjo. civilized my ass. it's about him isn't it? or her. dispense the advice. pens and swords... immaculate bullshit. pull the trigger. zombies and ghosts. it's always about him. and her... economic sanctions. no identity con men raiding tills. bland applause. wake up. sleep. treadmill. absurd. freedom. return to the source. kneel down. dance. lie. cheat. be honest. quite frankly. beyond good and evil. flowers. traitors.

nevertheless. and yet. on. and on. carnivals.

no reply. not even a phone call. on stage. silent rabbit. chewing khat.

paradigm. dream trips into tangible realities. carved out of moisture. journeys. struggles. kaleidoscope. contradictions. spontaneously. pitiless. shadows. ordinary chain of hopes and disappointments. decisive leap. destination.

sat here writing words of no consequence. some things must be left in silence... damned.

key. ancient feast. appetite again.

trapped here with mama and papa for company once again. fleeing to nowhere without an ounce of hope. you created me. now kill me. you. and all your jazz. fleas. repeat: flee. the herd. once fled: unencumbered without sadness or joy but clear sighted nonchalance. walking towards an unfathomable fate. foodless. penniless. starved of basic necessities. and yet. on.

well fed reader. proletarian or bourgeois. read on. hideous pages without comedy or tragedy. contrived nihilism. empty glasses. reflections. dark tunnel. light. end of. pregnant desires.

hearts open. wine flowed. sly tricks. black perfumes. jealousy. envy. why did. throw. it away? no comment. necessity. yawning future. beckons. becomes. be. comprendez? non? niente.

staccato. turntablism. turin's tablet. benevolent mushroom. gang raped for a wallet and pissed on... it could happen to you: society. knawing on cigarette butts and preaching indifference to historical curses. causes. effect. special fried rice. to be clear: fogs and mist are just weather conditions. beneath the veil, nothing is yet said. again. and again. perhaps a dose happiness. love. inner peace et cetera... consume. read on. red turns to green. traffic flows. questions. answers. nauseating categories. just one more thing: forget it. symptoms. antidotes. illuminations. and on.

exorcism aside, the purpose of these words is to aid. a reminder that things could be worse and things are a whole lot better than anything prescribed or imagined... hope. ditch it. it's happening now. all temporal breaks happen now. dread is an alien power that et cetera... adopt any style that seizes the moment. shoot some zen lunacy into patient vein and howl... dripping narratives.

preaching aside, the purpose of these words et cetera...

construct. life is. situations. d a d a...

<<those to whom we have given the book and who read it as it ought to be read, truly believe in it; those that deny it shall assuredly be lost.>>

self-loathing. contempt. nothing but the geeks they say we are...

U

shit happens.

on this page all previous attempts to exhale the story trying to be told begins again. from the beginning:

days and nights float by and i drift on... going nowhere... caught in a whirlwind of doubt... spinning not dancing... i pick up my pencil and hope something will happen... but no nothing happens... the routine... the vagueness... i am sincerely without hope about all things...

et cetera...

but then something happened... i arrived after twenty four years... a realisation that i wasn’t doing anything and i enjoyed it... sleeping... lots of sleeping... manic phases of reading or otherwise muddling through random pages in bookshops...

three years elapse.

admit. pencil has been swapped for a computer and tap dancing on the keyboard. money came from somewhere. jobs. in a coffee shop. then a bookshop. and now, government handouts for the unemployed and mentally disabled. lucky me. the coffee shop? smoked behind the bar. turned up late on mushrooms. hangovers. obviously unenthusiastic. feigned illnesses. poured vodka into regular's drink, she didn't mind. took long breaks. and resigned. the bookshop? too much. and on lysergic acid. and resigned twice. was not cut out for nine to five scenarios... could tell stories about dumb customers and cuckoo managers, but that would require too much effort. hold any job for too long and you mutate into a zombie or a ghost... and you read in the papers that some people love their job. happy agents of late capitalism, all of them.

the fun was supposed to begin after i quit my job, separated from my wife and moved back into my childhood home. no wages. no woman. no rent. a service stop. i lasted six months. caught placing cones in front of traffic and setting fire to the house brought me to hospital. a mental health institution. and all of a sudden i catch schizophrenia and each day need to be administered 5mg of an anti-psychotic drug called olanzapine. and the police take my photogragh and fingerprints and charge me with arson. plead not guilty. wait almost a year to appear in court for the trial. in the mean time i am writing and reading and writing and reading...

days. nights. float. nowhere. whirlwind. doubt. spinning. dancing. pencil. hope. happen. nothing. routine. vagueness. hopeless.

retired friendships. and on. dialectics of history. and on. this is not supposed to be a confession.

and yet.

insomnia. tales of. new identity. old uniform.

<<but certainly for the present age, which prefers the sign to the thing signified, the copy to the original, representation to reality, the appearance to essence... illusion only is sacred, truth profane. nay, sacredness is held to be enhanced in proportion as truth decreases and illusion increases, so that the highest degree of illusion comes to be the highest degree of sacredness.>>

nostalgia. raised middle finger to the past. lord, said he, vouchsafe me a sign. tumbling back into nothingness... he does what he pleases.

culpable. inadvertently. reckless.

V

contradictions. manifestations. urges. thinking. prospects. oblivion. ideologies. sleeping. smoking. ejaculating. urinating. apologizing. making money legitimately. hammering. loop. eternal. discontinued. masked. civilization. history. spices. struggle.

certain passages... overcome...

wigs. make up. clothes.

bureaucracy. hypocrisy. laws. violence. accelerate. the dealer is our leader. the dealer is our leader... sitting on park bench drinking wine... same faces pretending to have a good time... plastic surgery... cul de sac revenues... native tongue. how do you do? pleased to meet you. rape our nation why don't you. and our neighbours. exploit the continent. poverty. bandits. starving farmers...

roaming nomad settles on red light boulevard. engages in monologue about the weather and mortgages and arab-israeli conflicts... fifth floor mongolian radio jingle interrupts. how do i return to the desert? nomad asks. turn right. then left. again. and again...

depressedconstantlysadfatiguedindecisiveunabletoconcentratelostinterestineverydayactivitiessleepandeattoolittleandtoomuchrecurrentthoughtsofdeathandsuicidemanicmoodsleeplessnessagitateddistractiblesusceptibletobuyingspreesindiscreetsexualadvancesfoolishinvestmentscompulsivelytalkativeconvincedofinflatedimportancecheerfulnessturningtoirritabilityparanoiarageschizophreniaapatheticlimitedspeechhallucinationsdelusionsemotionallyunresponsiveconfusedthinkingperplexothersstrangebehaviourinappropriateemotionalreactionsdisorganizedspeechfrequentderailmentincoherencegrosslydisorganizedcatatonicbehaviouraffectiveflatteningalogiaavolition...

plausible explanation: unknown variables.

moronic banter. eh. ach. niente. dawn. tick tock. quadratic messages. jungle. deserts. dish water. mechanic. puddles. wires. verbs. more verbs... inflation. rising tides. inflation. quiz shows. answers. slap. dash. confirm. regenerate. malicious. full stop. period. seasons. falling price of opium... thousands of homes without water or electricity... disruption. limited rail service. widespread famine.

next door to the bohemian cafe, an erect building for the bureaucrats who add and subtract numbers... a tired whore stares through the window... keep right. keep right. and a guild of poets who declare themsleves avant-garde, publishing a news letter pickled with irony and satire. and opposite them a studio of absurd film makers with a marxist bent. and on. a flower shop run by a one legged playwright. next to cigar shop and hotel avacado. a shortage of plumbers and electricians. downstairs. who knows? untold mischief. voices from nowhere. echoes. vanguard.

european jews... to perform to mime to speak to act... rendered useless. and on. hop, skip and jump. art for art's sake? praxis praxis. remember your compatriots. the nation. the individual. imagined community. ticklish subjects. demand the impossible. biblical codes and stockmarket crashes... devalue. squirm. tax the rich. feed the poor.

dear gallery. chubby cholesterol level. capital and labour ratios. neo-classical umbrellas. telescopic hellenism. and pages and pages of hashish. burp. vomit. tick tock. laughing hyena. strikes a match. boom. inferno. from which... oui, monsieur. prison notebooks. pass the salt... last supper. crucifix for a dildo. dangerous liaison. autobiography of. vacant stare. eggs, eggs and more eggs. egging on.

and on. genius fades. giving birth to a hammer.

funeral. his last words: sicilian defence sicilian defence. died at a chess board, playing by himself. white resigned. called an ambulance, but too late. the heart, they said. a weak heart. and he left no will.

west led a low heart, which ran to declarer's queen... guerillas playing cards. vaudville dinner. if. then. therefore. all the power and glory of the kingdom. stopped laughing. stumbling forward... wretched. revolting. vomit and bile. garrulous and mediocre... sore throat. disparate disorientations... left to right... haggardly. standard. criterion. gauge. yardstick.

W

sooner or later.

cuntishly parachutes semen oblivion... shadow’s ticket insomniac refuge... onwards upwards menacing velocity... nomadic desert calm... splendid hurricane yawning aimlessly... catastrophic squawking... democracy's orchestra... bald angels sharpening history’s illusion... allergic photographs castrating myopic infidels... plastic dictator submerged ocean... sterilized artillery blanket empires... virgin traitors... civilization... undying population electing precise rhetoric: nothing is yet said... silent horizon exiled unwelcome... divorced facts... materialist vagabonds conducting society's flowers... graffitied corpse violent immortality... dissident spectacle rewarding bacteria... doom lingers scenarios uncooked... bureaucrats egg soldiers nightmare... vanguard eyes scanning uncensored eyes... cascading spirals disoriented haemorrhage... volcanic revisions whoring silhouettes... nervous demons accelerating evil... malicious riddles poisoning sewage... city scandal... exponential cadavers... pluperfect sexualities... chaotic gems...

nauseating... laughter...

<<all that was necessary to enlighten me has already happened, and if nothing else happens, this is because nothing of what might happen would add to the truth of my situation>>

empty arena... logical pirouette... noon. moment of the shortest shadow. end of the longest error. pinnacle of humanity...

<<the heaviest burden... what would you say if one day, one night, a demon were to insinuate itself into your presence, however remote and alone you might be, and whisper: "this life as you are living now and as you have lived in the past, you will have to live it again and innumerable times over; and there will be nothing new in it, except that every pain and every pleasure, every thought and every groan and all that is unspeakably little and unspeakably great in your life will return once more, all in the same order and the same sequence - that spider there too and this moonlight falling on the trees, and this very instant, and me here as well. the eternal sandglass of existence will be turned over and over again without ceasing - and you along with it, o dust of dust!" would you not throw yourself to the ground, grinding your teeth and cursing the demon who would speak to you in this way? or would you have lived a tremendous moment in which you might have answered: "you are divine, and never did i hear more divine things!" if this thought were to exert its power over you, it would transform you, turning you, such as you are, into another, and crushing you perhaps: the question asked of all and each and every thing: "would you want this again and innumerable times over?" would weigh upon your actions like the heaviest burden! or how much generosity would you have to show yourself and life, in order not to desire anything more than this last, eternal confirmation, this last eternal sanction?...>>

nothing is yet said.

X

an italian doctor observes the pacifying effects of electric shocks applied to the skulls of pigs awaiting processing in a slaughterhouse.

darling, may i strangle you?

OLANZAPINE 5mg TABLETS. TAKE ONE TABLET AT NIGHT. WARNING: MAY CAUSE DROSWSINESS. IF AFFECTED DO NOT DRIVE OR OPERATE MACHINERY. AVOID ALCOHOLIC DRINK.

KEEP OUT OF THE REACH OF CHILDREN.

rogue genetic material.

everything has always already been said, but we think otherwise... man has no future unless he can throw off the dead past and absorb the underground of his own being...

so much time.

between explanation... pornographically sexy, nothing more... dreaming of pussycocks... erotic play discloses a nameless world which is revealed by the nocturnal language of lovers.

ah, i'm fed up... so i leave... iran.

Y

and what will they find? the waterfall. the pyramid. the sloping dune. that which is within us all. a present yet eternal energy. a sameness. an aloneness. a dignity so crushingly remote that only a god may rival.

Z

days and nights float by...

<<grown up? never. never. like existence itself which matures staying always green from splendid day to splendid day - i can only stay true to the stupendous monotony of the mystery. that's why i've never abandoned myself to happiness, that's why in the anxiety of my sins i've never been touched by real remorse. equal, always equal, to the inexpressible at the very source of what i am.>>