Do not read this

(you have been warned)

There are things that can never be changed from one day to the next; there are the only things I can give to the licking helmet sin the fridge who tuckers the urn freaks and the garish mushroom maggots hissing sweetly since the Yule log was extinguished. Loki Paterson fielded comments from the great mass of men in the marsh water. The yellow freshwater was dripping into the plain of duress; it was Saturday and we were all alone in the cellar. Pool hall kelp drunkards and the werewolf valium salesmen who insinuate and lavish praise like so many freebie flyers handed on the corner; this was the last straw I promise you. Laser surgery burns me down to the very pores; this is the righteousness of vanity the smooth skin nazism the well coiffed fascist flipping birds into the visual field of all the underlings and the eureka groupies who fawn fantastically over maddening scientists; we queen ourselves, and the gay district doesn’t even singe us, though it is flaming. Police the manicure barns; they are swimming with corruption; dry out the long lost apprentice manuals – there are secrets in there that have to be understood—let us think about what we are saying, let us discuss with each other the consequences of this keyboard. I have a feeling this jazz will not go down well, we all have delicate stomachs you know, and nothing goes stale quicker than yesterday’s newspaper or last night’s jazz. Modigliani in town to impress upon tourists the need to pay homage to pay respect to pay a few dollars at the door – this town knows art from farts; this town can really boogie if it has to and we can consider this the most impressive achievement to date—wagon wheels aligning themselves into dew point symphonies, and occasionally here is the fixed up bread the loaf for slicing the moronic massacre at Monday night football headquarters it’s what the networks think will attract the most ratings so why not let loose with the other programming and beam satellite images into the brain of every tom dick and Harry and hairy fairies are the long lost winter despisers the fall fellators the real estate beraters the magical mission men; the tent peg bathers – it’s off to bloatsville, the town with the fattest people in the world, the town with the tallest ogres who spit and frump around in their underwear because they have been spoiled by their mothers who always did their laundry for them but not any more because women’s lib would not have it that way. The meatloaf mothers are a thing of a past—a nostalgia fast filling up our prime time sitcom contents. Uruguay depth can never be solved, the stupefied pirates squeezing blackheads out of spite. The igloo barn that wheeze so swiftly in the lagoon bog monsters and the sweet sultry tasty ladies who touch my neck and sing me lullabies, this is a change of the mood, and the coming together in harmony at least twill seem to be a thing of such pomp and ease and the ceremonies of contentment are just beginning, there is a swallow whose wingsbeat at the thousand flaps per minute, it is the fastest creature on the planet its magic metabolism hums and swizzles the opulence is obscene, the ray of sunshine the rainbow I saw in the puddle sure it was gasoline but reflections of colour? I’ll take those whenever I can, this is a month of hard won miracles, of triumphant returns to the blank page, every line OI hammer down is a giant hug I give my friends. Zero was invented by the Greeks or the Indians—who care because that entire debate will only amount to nothing. Ha ha. The mathematics left inside die hard and the geometry is something I won’t ever take for granted. It is difficult living in a cage, it is horrible being a part of this zoo—look at me, don’t feed me e, I might bite you. Yaks are dangerous they have hair in every crevice; zebras are not much better—their stripes can make a sane man go mad—the overlaps and the subtleties, a complex figure in black and white—space enclosing space, minds cut off from the hive---that’s what’s going on when you fool yourself into thinking you are sharing this experience with any one else, that there is some sort of relationship between myself and you. The illusion the illusion is better than confusion at least so remain there is the eye, and the you, the I in the middle of the universe, the I and you, the eye and the ewe, the why and double-you, the Y is the I; surrounding the I is the world; for each man is that the centre of his world, his point of-ewe. Pointed at you, we are too. Are surrounding the world is the word—because first there was the Word, and the word gave way to flesh, and the flesh took on three dimensions, and it is only thanks to the word that we are able to see in three in dimensions; the perspective was invented in the 16th century or thereabouts just after the printing press gave us that general proliferation of things, concepts, words in a line on a page and the idea of plans and logic and the well orchestrated armies that rise up, spread until the entire earth is crushed. So it must be, and so the results are ok; we will look and not react we will passively accept because we have learned to read read so tedious when every last wheeze and sneeze from the brain when transferred to page gains that much more intensity, and if you heard me tapping away like this without a keyboard you would just think my fingers were restless and they are so that’s why it’s good to get exercise for ten minutes or so, and spread a little bit of knowledge and little bit of confusion with this systematic tapping – man it’s pretty fucking hilarious when you think about it, that this bit and byte here and there can make you shake your head in disgust and throw this laptop or whatever against the wall.

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