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Once Upon A Time, in Cornwall

[Raphael - Plato and Aristotle from the School of Athens] up to monet with arial etc - do i sell 20 dollar/yer favourite currency art prints and posters - the bollocks i do not - NO, she said, for god sake - on <ellipsisoidally>
...   </ellipsisoidally>
</> the silence yet  
Are you there? Speak!
and just to point out that ellipsisoidally is maybe a made up word that i just made up, dunno (copyleft), but whether one ell or two?

while i to xanadu in cornwall on a day trip to rumpty with an abyssinian maid - nosh-up after on honey-dew

this week, last week, sometimes always, sometimes never, talk of ever not yet and when and if and whether - come my sweet, let us walk, whisperingly, under a juniper tree awhile...
and she said please so sweetly he couldn't resist (but managed to yet, being veritably (who else) love's hero to truth, leander, (that old fetishist swan-shagger), or was that leda, or maybe it was zeus - i get confused
yeah, ring that bell
so shakespeare was wrong - it happens
(and thought upon her quivering thighs)

o droplet of moist, o droplet of wet, o rainbow droplet (i am yours once again la petite mort) - let him see you yet dressed with a ski on each foot and nothing else

yeah - no offers received, nor even an enquiry
(wondered if maybe too much of my life spent in parenthesis) - bjorling and bocelli to the music and i to a glass of cider (cheers)

(o woman (you, you) sans knickers yet, alone like this...)

- and if the slipping of a winky-eyed todger into a woman not the sweetest pleasure known to man, what?
songs of and songs from a room to music - and if i drink a gallon of cider a day and smoke a hundred spliffs and as love's a dead duck anyway and not my favourite meal anyway
pudenda with chocolate mousse (marks & spencer) - that'll be his favourite, and her jellies the same - and his favourite pastime to lather a lady lovingly in a frothy bath
what if he were to write a byron about that made her laugh - might she remove her undergarments then?
(having come to the conclusion that the brain's secret strategies for sex, and some of its other ideas, are causing him unnecessary stress, he decides forthwith to have his testicles neutralized, and maybe take in a lobotomy as well)
he goes garbo, i to silence, it's better that way, the point to pointlessness having been attained, the heart is weary - and the endless tautologies of it all
(enough, enough) - i must away and go
- goodbye

- so, to the shop to get some cider - then later
how time flies - the shop was shut and i was gone, picked up by some aliens and flown to paris, no i said, better the hash and the rembrandt and the women in the windows, in amsterdam... (and now i'm back) - a coupla bachs to music and a coupla blakes to poetry - the callas traviata without apologies and maybe the sweetest tenor of the 20th century, lauri-volpi, like a sepia photograph (catch that puritani) - and heifetz (who else) for the double concerto - i to cider, the shop now open, and soft to remembrances of love
and moonlight upon the sea though the moon not there - it must mean love - he falls, headlong, as is his custom and undoing (he upon shaky ground with dodgy feet, like byron maybe once or twice, i believe)

can't remember what comes next (being much too ancient by a half)
let's go sex (but please, not pre-raphaelite)
o udders of lady, softly swaying
o piddledy-pee
let's get married,
you and me
ne me quitte pas i said
not knowing what it means
but she wasn't in the least bit interested
o madeleine
o madeleine
we'll have to call the whole thing off

you to your preferences
i to my slippers and proust

to hell with it (!)
let's have some tits 'n ass around here

- et maintenant
je suis madeleine she said (und ich bin sehr sexy) - la dolce vita mon cuppa rosie et oui, and she lives in penwith by the sea, in st ives maybe, whimsically...

oh well oh well oh well that love's a tease he decided (she to realism) - i to the moonlight and the thought to write no more, not like this anyway, but begin again maybe, as ever before it seems
o madeleine

i said i forget (i return to lacking in memory and grow sick of cornwall) - she trims her toenails by candlelight and regrettably regrets
is that the time already (no time to amend) - the headlong fall will have to wait until the consummation at least - wuh? no, nor i (where will it end) - it'll end at the end she said and not a second or a minute or hours or even days or weeks before - thus fast forward she goes
sometimes disappointments come daily, sometimes not, or other, wise, try, the classifieds someone said, though who someone, only she, knew, mysteriously yet
that's all bollocks i said and she agreed
o madeleine

and then the day after and the day after that until that time when, it was then, she remembered suddenly, and removed her clothing slowly, alone, in front of the mirror there, where, not two days before there was moonmist only - she loves not anyone now she said, and carried on...
he slipped into the world, a slop of chemicals and motherboards and shied away... (ellipsisoidally, of course) - and then when love, not true of course, what other, kicked in...
never mind all that - anyone wanna buy a website? this one for instance? cheap at half the price - probably cheaper - i'll go someplace else - get itsallbollocksanyway dot com, or some such - going, going
and beginning yet tentatively yet - byron about
o verity verity
take me to your bedroom and play me some tunes
and let me never leave

he tinkers in about, tinkers in explained
tinkers with before, o when
if ever will the tulips be as perky again, she asked
while he thought to do some sitting in a chair upon la lune, in a deckchair and sunglasses maybe, and look henceforth upon the wondrous earth and all the stories of human life hereto foretold, quite happily
o woman's thighs, o soft insides (she:
what is the matter with men?) - he to the cider to cool the ardour

matternon (und siccer yet, bon) - je oui to the hospital goes, anon, he suis nameless as, confused with tense, verstehen sie jawohl, non, ne pas, wir said to the nurse, it makes no sense, none at all, whatever

wuh wuh wuh, hip-hip
i to a woman's thighs, drooling
wuh wuh ne, pas, hip-hip
Hooray - (at last, she said)

and borrow the daughters car again and take to the back road again
over the hill to zennor
[Zennor Cornwall]
and ain't it just great not to be on the motorway/highway/freeway on the fast-track/treadmill to fame/fortune... but to stop and gaze from this hilltop these patchwork fields all splattered and woven through with gorse in springtime sunshine bloom, and the sea/ocean of course, there
bla bla
and roll another spliff
tra la
and post some picasso
tra la

and smiling yet she said and took off her knickers and i said
but i don't do porno and anyway it's not allowed
we haven't got a license
not from the government or the local council or from the local magistrates or the cops or from my mom or my daughter or my great great granny
i'm keeping my underpants on
on this here modern internet thing, and switched her webcam off

c'est bon

o woman mature and ripe for the peeling
yum yum, yum yum
and when we're done, a cup of tea my sweet...

à propos de rien
amore amour amoret etc, à portée, à point,
à bas à bas thy knickers woman
und ich
á bras ouverts

yeah, got a new scanner...
and not goin to war
me i'm goin walkabout in cornwall with a camera, as per below
peace out

Picture of Newlyn Harbour, Cornwall

yeah, i live here, take pictures

monday in cornwall is cancelled this week due to a sustained invasion of alcohol on my well-being over the weekend (i to a dark room and bed for a long lie down)

she's takin her bra off (o bliss)
she's takin her pants down (o joy) what movie's this, what dream, what ploy (me brain's playin pinball mate, gotta go), what biological invasion upon synaptic imaginings, what physics/chemistry ('tis sparks in the dark kemo sabe) = yeah, 'tis another night in newlyn (at the ok corral) - i gotta coupla yummy sioux squaws with me, a candle and a can of petrol (we rumpty-bumpty and remember as the moonlight upon the sea etc)
my father's father's name was geronimo she said (her breasts irredeemably irresistible)
my mother's son's name, my brother's name is osama she said (i too far gone)
i gotta flush this system of fish and re-fuel in the morning and
aroundandaroundandaroundwego, wuh wuh wuh, woz goin on?
flag waving twats = get outta here

so i ran and ran and ran over the fields the hills, over the sea the mountains and over and over the over the over again and nothing quite right ever quite right exactly (stopped) - saw a cave in the desert suddenly and the sun high and bright (obviously) and wa(o)ndered on in (looking back and out to light like orpheus onetime maybe) whilst singing a wistful tune...

and suddenly there was snow falling, like the last page a the dead
i at a hospital bedside, opening a winter window, mother dying...

hey osama, wanna see my porn collection (he with children with guns aplenty to repulse my ageing decadence) - i got saudi babes and roedean babes and babes of manhattan 2...

yeah, back, well as a womble on weed, wanton in woad almost, but strangely
taciturn -

and post a penwith aoe noframes mirror - so that somebody does

i was gonna say i was going fishing again but it woulda been a lie as i aint been fishing for forty years (the rip van winkle of the river beds) - woke instead to a fantastical (that a ufomism - sic, for the wonder) display of daybreak and space and ships (or dawn and boats in the bay if thats yr preference) and praised allah and god and yahweh (knowing one of them must've got turner (jmw) to do the skies anyway, but that by the bye and by the way (or btw if thats yr preference) and then outta bed to breakfast and poached eggs on toast and copious cups of tea and back to this, scanning
the skies for answers as if i alliteratively, an alien anachronism

so the decorating finished and the christmas lights lit up i think to pack some holiday things in a holiday bag and sod off for the week, or for a coupla days or for just a night anyway, somewhere warm (the weather here all brueghelish for the time of year) but alas or not, quids in the pocket were zilch and anyway...
spent a day or so it seemed instead with chronos (an ancient greek from way back who's still around and ticking) and was surprised to find my mind (cartesian) confused as kandinsky and klimt both surprisingly alive upon the earth 'ere ever picasso and matisse, and...
grandson george plops his pants and with comical exertion, both ways practising a particular and universal language and...
7 months old and keen on the keyboard the boy's a natural, a genius, naturally...
& all the world's a stage
& to be or not to be
& friends, romans, countrymen, lend me your ears

feed them to the lions again, and again, over and over till all gone (bejabbers and bejasus, what is this bollocks - no room 'ere mate, sod off) - down to the local (the burning pit) for a pint of best and a long lingering gawp at the barmaid's tits (o save me and save me again in the comfort of your breasts, and then to see me immaculately)
& ho ho ho = o ancient curse of poets
& yeah, stick xmas up yr ass

well here's to you another year (another week another monday) a muted cheer and off to bed and sleep, all cares undone and fonder the future yet as if all were as hopkins on a hogmany (sans the lust for altar boys, of course)
so i think i been suffering (lately, lightly) from a little chronic melancholia (this more amenable at least to me than catching some zeitgeist syndrome thing to which i seem, thankfully, immune) - but better now
oh and there's the moon the full full moon on the sea the ocean and me in dancing slippers tripping the light fantastic on the waves the water in mounts bay tonight
& oh, i just wanna shag a linux chick (if such exist and up for it) this coming year, i wanna shag a ballerina (i wanna shag a china doll and an ebony from ethiopia) - o god (whoever) grant me a woman of easy virtue (trailer trash, whatever) who wouldn't trouble herself with thinking and thought to while away the evening
& hark!, ah, the nightingale
& i weep for adonais - he is dead

sometimes i think to hell with it all - to hell with cornwall and sod off someplace else (eyes afar the brain whatever switched however how into randomthoughts mode and glazed) - and off to france suddenly and become the count ennui de mort, a pauper prince of provence then remember suddenly i'm a republican (not as in bush and america but as in england and royalty and hang the effin' windsors) - then realize suddenly i'm a cab driver in arles, and tourists suck...
yep, can't be arsed, can't be doing with it (and flicking the switch to focus mode...) = you talkin' to me (foot hard down on the gas and i'm outta here!)
& needs must = an aoe biz plan for 2002

well i never (did i say that) was it you, rhetorically talking, to me who wasn't even there, not this time nor the time before, not ever anytime (i should like to say before commencing any further and farther hence that i have absolutely no idea except the faintist imagining what i may be talkin about) = yeah, been lookin in some mirrors all week doin scientific research to the nth degree, looking into quantum mechanical/visionary things like transitory thoughts and the all-seeing omniscient motor thing that whirrs and whirls while all the while, fractally forward and round etc to no discernible purpose (random offshoots and tracks haphazard in the accelerator thing...)
& yeah, the biz plan still to do

so, thought i'd try and install that linux gubbins this week (foot down on the gas and it's hang on there buddy, you gotta configure yr carburettor first, yeah, right, wuh wuh) and fecked the whole thing up, like, the whole caboodle
and all week fecked off and frazzled
but off the drink and dope which is quite the accomplishment, spose
and back in the accelerator thing and round and round it goes the future coming one way and the past the other and all the collisions that ever were (or to come) just the seemingly sudden sparks and stars we call the present, a random (pre-configured, imaginary?) constellation where the cool and uncertain cats (and the bears and the kids from auriga) all in and outta the makeshift boxes at the same time and dancing some dance a synchronicity for some sideshow deity = yeah, widdly woo, widdly woo, the owl's pissed on moonshine again and the pussycat's pissed off with the boat...
& my hair is grey, but not with years
& upon a time, before the faery broods

gone fishing, some say
for cognosente chicks and tuna on toast, off the isles of scilly

spose you gotta laugh, you gotta sing, piss in the wardrobe and piss in the sink (it's a boy thing) this life of strife and drink but bollocks to all that coz i'm gonna get me some lipsticks (variously hued) and a fashion handbag to die for, and become a girl (called lil as it happens from outta some wasteland or other what some american cultivated) - ah, what bliss to be alive and dressed in satin and silk, dappled and teased by soft summer breezes, and with a full set of teeth
& can spring be far behind

been holed-up and hiding in the house all week, jeeezz an'
some crazy psycho called porson
with a cat called flo
banging at the door, but day and night
= dunno yet if i should call the cops, or no

it having been the winter olympics much thought here on watersports and the biological intellectualism thereof and wherefore curling and how come, outta the frozen idant seas, salmon up the downstream and hometown raining, these odigo days...
and behind the bikesheds and down the alley and in a field a long grass...
and in a babbling brook at song and in a sea of wonderment, splash...
come, nimbus nymph, come cumulus (in vino veritas) pour me another

ok so i been thinkin bout retro broads & in their vernacular underwear
& yeah, gotta a wreathèd horn
for lauren bacall avec le beret on her head
and in a pair a high heels and nothin else

and so, the penwith listings, blah blah...
Blake - Da Vinci - Bosch - Botticelli - Durer - Michelangelo - Raphael - Titian - Tintoretto - Bruegel - El Greco - Caravaggio - Rubens - Velasquez - Lorrain - Rembrandt - Vermeer - Canaletto - Goya - David - Hogarth - Hokusai - Turner - Constable - Ingres - Corot - Delacroix - Courbet - Millais - Pissarro - Manet - Degas - Alma-Tadema - Sisley - Cezanne - Monet - Renoir - Gauguin - Van Gogh - Crane - Klimt - Schiele - Hals & Joshua Reynolds (sans the sir) - & then there was klee - and riding the wave... aivazovsky... and oh, kandinsky too

no wonder the guy's got problems (that frazier) the crap he's got on his walls, but led me on to think pre-raphaelite at first for phoebe's bedroom with maybe a bosch in monica's and a rousseau, go figure, in rachel's - and then ally's got a rembrandt, i shit you not, but then she's different class, and scully not magritte but schiele, and buffy some picasso porno lithographs, of which, alas or not, we all outta stock - and carrie bradshaw klimt and ma walton angelico
and no, nothin here at aoe for ross (that sic for dick) or chandler behind a desk in front of an oversize kandinsky, or daphne (we back to seattle) predictably lowry apart from the jasper johns
and joey a kokoschka, maybe

and crap replacing krapp on the tv here just bc some right-wing old duffer bird snuffs it in her sleep - i mail and complain to channel4 as is right and proper i think and according to the protocols of which i seemingly seem, phenomenologically at least, to be blissfully unaware, and ergo therefore and tautologically (who writes this shit - ed), ellipsisoidally something and somesuch...
and stochastically philosophical in the popular sense
it makes no meaning, correct
and having no idea nor care, wrong
and sleep...
and wake refreshed, dendrites buzzing

[Newlyn Superstar] and start a new deal thing (no thanks to penzance)
but preferring pirates and smugglers to craptalk and suits anyway and the ace of spades the king of hearts, the queen of trumps the jack a knaves all over the place to zennor, and the ten a diamonds up someone's sleeve worth zilch, the nine a clubs just shite, journeying to an end via a beginning, via newlyn, up and over a hill and beyond...
i gotta two a clubs here i said, suits me
an' bruum brruuumm brrruuuummm...

i dunno, like being in its variegated meanings shut away and at a page remove in a cupboard under the stairs, the which, though dependent on the complicity of tense grammarians, i vouchsafe by votary unknown and would like to write the word verisimilitude in here for some reason but can't think why, has no meaning at all if you never so ever been here before...
forgetting that, out into sunshine...

saturday night and it crap in newlyn what with the rain and cold, and a bigbad wind blowing in from a big badass sea and the same old narratives walking the streets, withering, in mist and cold... and thinking i must away to warmer climes and rest my head in sunshine shade upon the breasts of a maasai woman for the whole of an african afternoon, or two, and then in the evening under an african moon, under vast african skies, among shimmering ebony thighs...
& the expense of spirit in a waste of shame
& when I do count the clock that tells the time
& when my love swears that she is made of truth

and "awakenings" on the tv here, so, thought, best
post that rilke panther thing

like i said, peggy mitchell, onceuponatime she used to get her tits out and be up for a laugh, me, i dunno what gives with the world anymore...

yeah, and down the corridor, down the aisle, down to the marketing dept in a star spangled dress (i went) - nobody about, all gray (ah-ha) and dark and all cobwebs and stuff as if for years
yeah, and done the losing of the internet cherry - done done dunne being the virgin in that oldtime cyber razzamatazz thing - i was a 17yr old lesbian from wichita while she a 19 (and very hot) bi from new york city with her boyfriend in the same room, watching tv

enough said

yeah, down the corridor, down the years
down another glass and a half, cheers

yeah, and rousseau goes in the hallway, silly

and if that the time already, if ever (whatever the time where you) - and so it goes and goes, whatever, wuh and what with the whoosh and wish and spindrift and spume, crash of cold on rocks that seemingly tellingly erode forever to nothing - time for a party on the beach before we go i say, stoke up the barbie, build a sandcastle or two, or three maybe, or four or five or six or seven and then sing some songs and ascend to heaven, and then sing some more and dance and dance and boogie and jive until you've scored a timeless moment, and you're quite out of your mind

to voluntary poverty

yeah right, just a coupla lines that ever haunted
maybe next time around, if i got the time,

marketing (yawn) for another week, what with expecting a visitor (name of godot i shouldn't wonder), and doin catchup with the reading...

marketing (yawn yawn) for another week what with still expecting a visitor (yeah, some bastard name a godot) - and yeah, yippiddy dooda, found a picture framer in falmouth that'll do just nicely

and so on and so forth onward, upwards and onwards, a little dazed what with being put upon or so it seemed with weight and sky, bright as shining is, and all named as sisyphus yet and all lit in neon as on a hillside, which was a surprise {and sipped another glass of absinthe, or so i seemed to dream it, or so it seemed) - and talked to a baby boy called george who didn't understand a word but flapped his arms as if icarus winged and flapped and flapped his arms with laughing stuff, or so it seemed (what a hoot, what joy, this thing called life) - and went to sleep, for a while for a while, for a little little while... whoosh, whoosh...

another and all will be sorted, he said hopefully, for sure
try me next week

& added some klimt - to be going on with

and took a drive out to land's end, summer sunshine, autumn leaves
and it all seemed such a long time ago (ah, those linda days)

did i say try me next week? i forget, maybe meaning the next, f'sure f'sure
bejabbers and bejesus (paddy's on the enterprise, macking with uhura)

& added some van gogh - to be going on with

& who gives a toss anyway, who gives a banana? eau de cologne from amsterdam and a wind blowing in from the sahara... & who the hella you, anyway? here's homer in the hallway, virgil up the stairs, me i'm out in the garden, climbing the trees, climbing some walls, me i gotta get outta dumbass cornwall, dreaming of greece... well, hello mr plato, how do you do? you want me to fix them troublesome shadows you got, so troubling you on the wall? & who the helle you? anyway... over the wall at last to some woods and sunlight through the leaves and nymphs all naked in the undergrowth yet... (and reading keats) - and someone said, hey (i was out in the street) how yer doin? i said, shit, how's you? i'm feelin great, she said, just wonderful, wanna see my tits? i said, yep (being easily cheered) yep, don't mind if i do.
and thus it was and thus it is, that i am lost for words

much better now, thanks for asking
& added some titian
& added some velasquez

yeah and if it not sorted here, then it probly being sorted here...
on demand

& like, y'know, pow-wow, (the talk of helicopters)
fractal history, nine-eleven as geronimo's revenge...

& wuh-whirr, whirr-wuh, wuh (smoke ascends)...
i'm flyin mah AH-64 down a cornish country lane, yeah, kick-ass

like y'do, i was doin that guess who's coming to dinner parlour-game thing - anyway, without too much aforethought, i went jimmy greaves, roy rogers, bob dylan, beckett, baudelaire, shakespeare... but then thought, as in afterthought, no no, no bob, and, where's the girls?

i start again, premeditatively... and go stevie smith, mina loy, that barrett browning bird, christina georgina rossetti (for pudding of course), emily dickinson, sappho...

but then, get bored...

o destiny, bring me a bright strumpet, a bottle of port...
mahler 9, a sunset party... o bring me the bloodredmoon, laughing
bring me excess in all sub/sequent evenings

off (it only the morning!) - bacon and eggs and singalonga kafka, you bet
doin the rap frazzle stir-fry and fecking and felching the feck outta truth

of palimpests, tachyons, anomalies, and all in one day, and 496 (that beats 42!) the right number eureka (aint no gravitons in this erection baby, full as it fulsomely is with the blood of finnegan's wake, quack) - i dunno whether to have duck a la lorenz for breakfast or supper? what time is it anyway? should i ask mother?

wherewhen? whenwhere? now? follow (?) what folds in what fabric yet?

off to the 11th dimension - see yer later, maybe...

(back already, wow!) - except by sleight or something or other or a slip on the slide or side or the ice a space sans gravitons i aint sure but i to the 111th by mistake or randomness anyway - as in the beethoven opus

piano and forte, trills and spheres, strings as in theory and variation, a rollercoaster ride in 11+n reverberations...

so i aint quite up to speed on things tachyonic, and i got some spare time on my hands, and i'm wondering if spare time is maybe the temporal equivalent to dark matter... (all rights copyleft and unreserved)

cheap beer and sixties dylan, claret and gregorian chant, singalonga tambourine man and parsifal, so i, to lullaby and sleep

and post my first movie, a sans sound silent = where's grandpa

and the end = my name is al-abu-etcetera, and i'm partly latin, partly french, partly senegalese on my mother's side and partly from the desert (as if you give a shit) - i'm thru airport security (i'll tell yer the how later maybe) and headed for nevada, in the usa

so now i'm an anytime fulltime freelance entrepreneur (that latin for wonderment as it happens, eg in the french, as in avec pertaining to as in per vers libre, or whether i just made that up, dunno) i get pissed with an inconsequential leisure, with beethoven #5 just now as it happens with the vpo and kleiber, with and/or avec v as in the morse etc, as in the samuel finley thing etc and thereby to the resolution of life's all just a breeze/breese conundrum... yeah, whoopiddydo, tappittytap, vroooom... here we go, uppittyup, zoomzooomin, up an' up an' zoooomzooooomin, an' up, an' up, an' up

i'm soaring the atlantic ocean, a whacko sonofabitch as the americans say from a place you never heard from just outside fallujah, and i'm taptapping on a laptop on a bigass airplane ...

i take a break (plug the headphones in) play mahler #2 with the new york philharmonic and bruno walter, check mah shoes, yeah, im flyin to the United States of America, gonna kick me some ass (i got an ak-911 in a hold-all and a suitcase full of ammo)

in the evening by the river, in the morning by the sea, the drive through the night, etc
the start again, a new dawn again, listen, birdsong, again

and i'll ride the horses of neptune, i'll ride the rokeby venus, i'll ride a great wave to whitby, to a summer of love

i carry on
and, quite honestly, i prefer mine unconscious, mute at a minimum, but that's just a personal preference

feeling better, i take the dog for a walk... i go on

i take the train to london
i survey the scene before me... i get the gunpowder ready

[Monet - The Houses of Parliament]

what can i say? been speed-reading finnegans wake (nearly finished)

in other news... i fell down the stairs and broke both my legs, developed some extra cancers (i'm now lungs, liver and kidneys) and seem, slowly, to be sliding into a sort of diogenes syndrome matrix type of thing (other days my brain just goes completely and people call me plyushkin, i've no idea why, i'm not even russian, and i don't even live anywhere near st petersburg)

in other news... another inmate, raskolnikov by name (who really is a russian), appeared at the foot of my bed, mumbling, i kill jewish lady he says, i kill her good, for trinkets and money (no no i said, i'm not looking to hire, it's the plumbing of depths i'm after) ok, ok, says he, i go find this mister earwicker man, i bring him here... we stab him with scalpels, yes? we stab him good, we steal his things, we escape to switzerland, we ski to sanctuary, yes? i look at him (he looks at me) i look down at my legs (he looks at my legs) ok, we no ski... we take train across sea to dublin, we kill the jew man bloom (yeah i said, let's beat him to death with rolled-up newspapers while he's taking a toilet!)

ah, remember the dead, remember the dead...

gibber gabber, gibber gabber

the tv gone! and no booze, no drugs, no woman in a bed and on top of that, a tumour up me arse (so i'm guessing) - you think i'm going to see some nhs doctor so he can stick his fingers up there, the hell i am! i prefer to die, with rectal dignity intact, thank you very much (i'm sure jesus will be pleased to hear, not to mention god, that i won't be turning up at heaven's door minus a functioning arse and shitting in a bag) - do they even have toilets in heaven? nobody tells me anything (is it in the bible?)

and this is glenn gould conducting a bit of mahler... enjoy!

in other news... valery has been replaced as toilet reading by horace & cicero

- sure but it's a grand life jack
- great, a great life paddy

and (my name is obadiah, said obadiah to the moon... )

aside: (he's read proust you know, and in the french at that)

email inbox... Cicero! You can't read Cicero on the bog. You have to declaim Cicero, standing up. (and i concur)