Thursday, 13 August 2009

The weather today is...

The weather today looks like the first stage of bread being outmuscled by mould.

Have you ever had that feeling where the inside of your head boils over like a pan full of rice, and the only thing lacking is that you're not frothing at the mouth?

Apparently the homo-sapien is the most intelligent species on the planet.

I have spent countless hours of my time probing this earthly decree with the philosophies of Sartre, Nietzsche, Heidegger, Kant, Descartes, Wittgenstein and Hume alike. With the literature of Burroughs, Ginsberg, Breton, Tzara, Apollinaire, Bukowski and Plath; and the artistry of Van Gogh, Renoir, Monet, Matisse, and Cezanne to name but a few.

Yet in all of this, the one thing I have surmised is that thinking is futile.

Wittgenstein said that " the aspects of things that are most important to us are hidden because of their simplicity and similarity. The real foundations do not strike a man at all."

To understand something you must first know what it isn't.

How backwards is the human mind? An almighty fucking paradox!

How we long for this blissful inertia.

You can't be angry at the rain for being wet.

Wednesday, 12 August 2009

Post office

Upon entering the post office, I naturally regarded everything as mundane and usual.
This mindset I find is a particularly good angle of perception, as even the slightest alteration to an otherwise subconscious preconception, can be permeated in an instance, with the mere fluttering of an eyelid.
The mouth in front belongs to a man of about 65 years. Words spurt out like a swarm of flies eager to land on food or shit. 
"an' shi kept'n fuckin' shuvin', no me, shi wa fuckin' shuvin."
I assumed the role of intent observer as the man relived his experience of being shoved by a woman, through a mimicry that suggested this past confrontation was unfolding in the present.
His mouth continued to move faster than my brain could process words, when suddenly the man erupted into chorus of Starman, by David Bowie. Needless to say I was surprised, and incredibly awestruck.
After this stunning rendition, the man reverted to his indignant demeanor, swearing profusely about the woman who pushed him.
According to studies, the use of profanities in everyday language emanates from the right hemisphere of the cerebral cortex. The spontaneous renditions of songs by David Bowie I assume still baffle scientists.

The right hemisphere is the 'artist', associated with creativity, spatial navigation and emotive responses from certain stimuli, whereas the left hemisphere of the cerebral cortex is the 'scientist', associated with pragmatics, problem solving and analysis, and language.
An example of the prevalence of swearing as a deep rooted sign of emotion comes from the example of a patient who had the entire left hemisphere of his brain removed because of cancer. The patient could not construct syntactic sentences but did blurt out swear words. (much like the symptoms of Tourette disorder)

This gave me food for thought. Is pragmatic, syntactic language couched in an inherent dishonesty, where all it requires to present an unfettered emotion is a fucking arse bashingly, tit shiningly, shittingly good swear word?

Tuesday, 11 August 2009

A poem written to me in a dream.

My ego over my own house
is never tiresome.
I climb the rope
and touch your hair like an interview
and ask if you saw me
in the iridescent ink pool
and wonder if it's tedious.
Am I tedious?

Monday, 10 August 2009

Poem : Whilst looking at Ginsberg.

I have recently noticed that when reading poetry, 

I read the last lines first.

I pondered over this for some time, 

with no real sense of what I was looking for,

no inherent conclusion.


like a brass knuckle shuffle, it hit me in the face.

A moth fluttering, caught in the gaze of my peripherals

clambering from the sight of light

on what must have seemed like

an infinite plane of landscaped glass

held my attention for no real purpose

a misfiring by product of evolution;

a malfunctioning navigational system

electricity the choreographer.

What objective truth was I searching for,

why can't I touch this infinite expanse of water and sand?

I continued, under the superior gaze of a desk lamp, 

to read the last lines of each poem

never noticing that the moth had flown away.

Poem : 11th August and I am weighed down by gravity and condiments.

Trying to run away from the sky

as if it were a bad smell

was always going to be a challenge.

You enter my brain diaphanously, 

you as a single concept illuminated by the tender pulse of the moon, like the whites of a cracked egg, 

making my fingerprints glisten.

Archaic thoughts of Van Gogh, Monet and Renoir sprout from sullen crevices of the pavement like the skin of a baked potato, 

and needless to say, I feel meaningless. 

A fraud amongst Common Fox Gloves, water lilies and arthritis, 

dissolving in the preservatives of my chicken strips wrap. 

I wait to be a million chisels of marble, 

a billion strokes of paint, 

yet the matter I consist of 

is merely mayonnaise and

a mountain of shit.