art from the 'artist'

when i
write it seems
pointless (trite)

'til recently i
harbored a
notion that
writing was
supernal

now i
realise there's no
point unless one is, e.g.
like a good
technician and has unconscious
drive

but with
that there is no
glamour

the fraud
assimilates aspects of, say
burroughs which are purely
incidental

tangiers was tangiers for
him; the same shitty
window framing limp
palm trees remains

'artists' are
reprehensible because they
moan and
bitch and dishonestly
assimilate

dh lawrence said it with
style in the first
lady chatterley

the focus of my
discontent changes
periodically but i'm
glad to be free

finally
of this childish love of 'the
arts'

plath would have
traded her sublime
verse for a
moments
peace

those who pray for the
converse are unconscionable
fools

far greater
art would
occur were it not for this
common and cozy
pretension

all mediocre/ just taken a bath (!), something my post-meth. body asks for/ the last time i gouched was friday night, spent saturday feeling horrific then slept sat night. (12 hrs), sun. after (7 hrs) then sun. night (12 hrs), many dreams of thwarted scoring and-set-er?-aaaah/ the dependency's broken but leaving a gap of three days seems not sufficient to ensure a decent high/ also it leaves one (me) trapped in a cycle of lethargy/ oh well, i'll get it licked/ a spliff of pollem to sensitize and i should get what i desire but the daemon cannabis psychosis sometimes gets thro' the door so that's a gamble/ oh death, where is thy sting?/ l8rz...

doin' bee-anne/ woke well enough, remnants of a meth. h'over deliciously weighing my veins to the mattress/ roused by cafe noo-are to the super-marcus-et for b'fast 4 the woe-man/ myself N-joyed zubr, a polski bier which has smoothed my muscles and allowed a temporary blanket of peace/ need to lay off the oh-pea-ates the next cpl days otherwise effect'll be none and pointless, suicide inspiring circularity'll to follow chill on the heels/ bliss, travellers...

eye-re:/ listening to the original coxsone produced road foggy, burning spear, which i've been looking for since 2001/ shit yeah/ no tea-aitch-see but some white vino atop some day bierz/ w'dn't mind sum joy bang (tiger juice) but work tomorrow and wake i shall not/ but those melting waves...oh!/ ne'r consciousness, innit?/ anywhich, when where and whom?/ i know, it's impossible/ get munted and be merri/ innit?...

doin' wellie wellie well/ slept much of thursday then up tille latte la nuit dern. drinking and watching crap tellie-box/ up now and drinking coffee and soon to the 'store' for provisos what i'll manipulate into luncheon/ got a black uhuru album in the post (coming hence that is)/ trying hard not to get the aitch/ innit...

all guurd/ ekooting twain henry cow, the long march and drinking gin/ stille off meth-dot-com tho' taking the occasional 'joy bang' and a surfiet of joy does it bring, brain and body gouch of an exquisite i've not courted since the glory days/ otherwise life is fairly unexceptional tho' i try to plod to not ponder the pointlessness (that'll be the gin)/ peese...

getting heavily into dub music again/ currently 'spinning' the congos, ark of the covenant/ need to sort out some disc jockey work fur cash/ got a job on k- hospital radio starting may and they put you through a course on how to do it, you know, produce shows like/ stille off methadone, which is great/ drinking not too bad: yester 6 day beers and a cpl whiskeys to induce slumber/ work goes well tho' exceedingly does it bore me/ although i go in there ripped to the tits most nights no one seems to mind/ keep it foolish...