head befuddled and muddled, symptoms of yesterday's sickening excess/ i cannot stomach listing my intake de/ ecoute-ing big brother amd the holding company, turtle blues, and making a vain attempt with the aid of black coffee and a variety of homeopathic remedies to redress this wretched situation/ janice just fucking stuns my face into contortions that connote feelings of ecstasy/ play her next to any soul singer and, with the exception of billie she kills them all/ ploos (non rein a what?) she wrote lyrics rather than trotting out canons worths of standards/ i'm like a turtle, hiding under it's horny shell, but i'm very well protected, i know this goddamned life too well/ gen-E-uz/ coffee finished i now feel marginally better/

Cocktails, my substitute for pistol and ball

pills
pills pills pills
take pills to
enhance
tolerate
maintain
balance a balance of
drunkenness and alertness
relaxation and agitation
outgoingness and restraint

pills pills pills and
booze booze booze
fucking booze
one desire operational, they say
self-destruction, a death wish

but no, as usual they are wrong

i am simply a hedonist, a pleasure seeker
and my desire for
pleasure is found in some things
good and other
bad things

i want to be
high to not have to
tolerate the tepid stasis of
existence/ but i certainly don't want to
die

so many times have i been
told i'm self
destructive...
better a hangover than the madhouse
a drunk once said and i
concur

better anything or where than
madness and
institutions

so pills booze pills booze
balance
maintain
survive and when your heads twisted and liver's gone...
?

whilst not a fan of dickinson, due in part to my ignorance of her work and general dislike of too formulaic poetry (one can hardly hear the soul scream though such dense and unnecessary cover - if indeed for that type it screams at all) a couple of lines in her death... pome are fairly decent/ moreover it reminds me vaguely of the wonderful climax of dos.'s the double/ currently listening to schubert winterreise/ feeling acceptable today/ yesterday saw a return to something vaguely resembling (or trying to ape) moderation: 2 bottles premium ale (500mls); 4 cans guiness draft (500mls); 1 bottle red (750mls); usual adjuncts/ my musical journey continues at a fair pace though i'm considering a return to classical as it has the most wonderful affect on my temperament and my writing/

've started to take ginseng with my meals/ it's wonderful: it heightens tactile sensations and perception/ currently drinking premium ale and listening to the smiths, the world won't listen/ very little to report other than i've found a tolerable balance of drink and healthy foods and supplements/ however i crave dearly the lucidity of mind one experiences when sober/

about o'clock to scribe some mark of my existence/ not feeling too bad/ 've not posted in over a month for, well, have not been feeling that much self-interest/ write later...leaden curtains are being drawn over my front brain/

at early dawn i waken
as the orange glow fades and the
curtain edges brighten.
grey lies beyond, palpable, just
visible, inspiring no joy or hope just
a feeling of sinking tension.
my head is usually thick, fuddled, heavy, painful,
my mouth parched, my throat stabbed repeatedly from the
inside.
i am the only one awake,
and though i share this hour with all humanity
it is my own private hell.
pain in isolation brings its own special terrors,
quite unlike anything else and nothing to
get used to.
i protest to myself
never again
never never never.
but with agonising self-knowledge gained though
many painful moments and days and years i know
i'll do it again, and soon.
i have that feeling common with all the (fairly)
young, that no one shares my
fears.
well, perhaps they don't for
i don't fear death or other men or real
consequences; my fears are terrible for being so vague.
they're a sense, a terrible fog which pervades my
being, clutches my heart, dwarfs my ego and pities my
soul.
i have them all, all the undesirable traits:
low self-esteem, nervousness, cowardice, vanity, paranoia, lust and
hatred; years of anger and hatred, sedimented between my eyebrows.
avarice, need of acceptance, love, recognition; and how unlike other
men i thought myself, how superior i deemed my self to
be.
but no...a delude nut stuck in a rut, no better but perhaps far less
saner than most...
can you tell me?
i devalue all praise,
buckle under any criticism and am utterly
uncertain of anything.
but i brag not on my faults for
i despise my home,
my hell.
nothing to be proud of
though fools think pain makes great
art, and therefore pain is good.
what fucking shit these people spit...
i would love to confer on them one moments
agony and see how they fucking like it.
it is very easy to flirt with the
dangerous, the degenerate, the unknown when you have a
safe place to do it from.
to feel bone white and cold anxiety,
every morning a different and uncertain hell,
never to inhabit a recognizable place.
and when it dissipates you tell yourself you are
thankful for the experience for
how much you've learned.
a futile fucking procession it all:
the stupid certain, the wise full of doubts and those who don't want to
see have their eyelids torn off and can sleep no more.

although drunk fri. and sat. ngt feeling great today/ sank a phenomenally healthy supper last night and retired to bed at 1830, waking at 0900 this morn./ diet is key to mental and physical health/ i just love the fact one can go to a supermarket and for very little money purchase goods that will improve one's mental and emotional disposition/ my mind feel clear and light, weight's dropping off and i look 10 years younger/ viva healthy food!