scrawled gyrations

(with sparsely scattered lucid bits)

Listening to pop songs as if they were prayers

We’re the most religious society in history


Just like a prayer
Just like a prayer
…I’ll take you there

You say you don’t believe in god?

As long as you don’t say ‘I don’t believe in Elvis’ (anagram: elvis? lives!)

Elvis Presley? Lepersy Lives

Cultural dictat. You have nothing.

I just don’t see why anything should be over.

Polynomial expansion. You could never tell me a secret

I got too many splinters in my palm.

Nobody’s interested in this stuff.

Take me down to Confession Street, the preacher’s in the alleyway dismissing sins for free. He can ease your conscience with a flicking of the lips, he simulates salvation in an unmistakeable lisp. It’s anonymous and it’s easy; it’s good for what ails you.

There are many reasons to continue; but there is no reason to eat ketchup. It doesn’t taste that good; it doesn’t feed your soul the way you want.

The tall oak sees all, knows all
The bleeding piece of earth
The green lantern of hope
The jungle where your soul is
The rabbit hole of confusion
The road not taken
The dignity of age
The humanity of monsters

(what I learned from literature)

What’s it like?
I was here first
Now I’m just waiting
For the rest of you to
Catch up
mind starts to wander
This hateful invitation to nothing

Find a key line, something for the audience to latch onto and get excited about, then fill in the cracks with filler from your life. All writers are lonely, and yet they are left to describe the world. This is dangerous. Psychologists and Physicists. What about teaching? I remember trying to learn about Salsa. And all those things I’ve never done.

We were trapped by the past, it was inexorable. The randomness of it all. The consolations of philosophy were good. I leave this work unfinished; I leave this to be filled in the blanks.

(and some random riffs)
Jackaninny j-walkers in the planetary groove, the in the unfeeling druid manoeuvres, the nuanced maverick in the thermostat barn, the gridlock juniper bushes building a house of cards, the jello mould mind games, the foreign policy names, from Azerbaijan, those ex-Soviet republics, also called Dalmatia, also called Parthia, also called Gaul. Your name has been manifold throughout these centuries my friend.

Can it all be collected? all those bloggers out there who are better than the rest; all those wonderful personalities, in this meaningless criticism of life—when we are all too literate and afraid of life. Saying and doing and writing as disparate as the three points on a triangle – as far apart as possible. What we didn’t do is what we say; what we write is what we didn’t say: over the noose, the verbose, the bellicose and lachrymose and the overdose. The do dare dedi datus, I gave myself to everything; the capio capere cepi captus. I was taken from everything. You were so close to me, and so close is the way we like it.

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