the direful spring of woes unnumbered. homer

well, if you wish to learn how to waste a day, apply to me/ i have this fetish, which i can't be arsed to explain, for annoying myself, viz. with bad music, literature, poetry andcetera/ thus i've spent a sunny day watching grime videos and drinking white star/ extremes of turgid shite are indeed as exhilarating as joyous extremes, though not as pleasurable (at least not in the conventional sense)/ burn baby, burn/ i cannot conceive of living any other way (id est fuck delayed gratification)/

the real comic muse is the one under whose laughing mask real tears roll down. gogol

my current predilection for quotes came with the discovery of an old notebook in which i had transcribed phrases from books i was reading/ i have found a running theme, somewhat in line with something saki said, viz. 'he's simply got the instinct for being unhappy highly developed'/ i think i am unfair to ascribe this sentiment to myself, but nonetheless i think it true one finds comfort in what is familiar, good or bad/ i'm more of the mind of blind willie mctell: if i could change my way of living, it would mean so much to me/ however for real change to be effective, particularly from a state of distress, it must be gradual/ the mental upheaval of sudden and dramatic change is often too much for the distressed mind-body to handle, hence the near total failure of rapid detox treatments/ i think the resolve for real change often comes in a flash, an epiphany if you will, but it's implementation, to be lasting, must be carried out gradually and thoroughly/

...flushed with slaughter...he...ranged the wild deserts red with monsters gore. homer

f'n'n' 'k'/ drinking china tea, black, and pasting the disparate fragments of my self back together (an ambitious notion, but one must have goals)/ currently as bust as a humorous remark (and it certainly ain't funny)/ not reading much/ listening to a lot of music as per/ hendrix has found his way back into my cd player (having played his two best albums to death i needed a bit of a break)/ current aural intake: 1983, hendrix; whispering leaves; distant siren/ head dense and unsettled so will write more when i've attained some degree of equilibrium..

a world cast in frost! hughes

f'n'n' passable/ slightly static and poisoned but have barely got circulation moving/ ekootin: seeing red, killing joke/ trick shit, bitch/ now stranglehold, ted nungent/ pecking at caffe schwartz 'n' gaining my bearings/ must write a pome 2joor/ most of the stuff i'v' bin producing d'late smacks of no clear direction and an unforgivable absence of effort/ well, i'm not too keen on effort (most good stuff comes in a flash, thank you muses) but when the muse is abroad some degree application is essential/ and one must write both under inspiration and as a daily grind because both improve the standard of one's work/ and the better acquainted one is with one's trade, the better chance the muse has of being represented accurately/ nah mean?/

This is the tongue of the dead man. How far he is now, his actions / Around him like living room furniture, like a decor. Sylvia Plath

i was seized by that fanaticism of love which has repeatedly been so fatal to me. masoch

i have no idea why i'm so jumpy/ the mat just stuck to and then fell from the base of my glass and i almost leaped out of my skin/ t'other day the door bell went and the same/ i literally flew up in the air when a motorbike back fired along the high street last week/ who knows why.../ listening: fungle junk, dj food/ got the place to the self and just started my second glass of fizzy alky apple juice/ shit i've been listening to this album (dj food, recipe for disaster) since i was 15/ takes one back, what?/ the colossal, life shattering events which have occurred since are not inconsiderable in number, and 13 years is a long time, but nonetheless 15 doesn't seem that long ago/ it was a great time/ i had plenty female admirers, plenty of mates, was beginning to properly discover drukqs and rave culture, going to festivals/ it was a time when two great musical genres, grunge and rave, were at their peak/ magic memories, man/ now i'm a drunken relic of too much rave and too much post-rave activities, but i'm still here, sentient and passably content/ anyway...uh4 i leave, check this wonder -IN:

an indigenous canadian hunter was called to give evidence at an inquiry into a planned dam that would flood his homeland and destroy his traditional way of life. he was asked to swear on the bible that he would tell the truth, but having not seen the bible before wondered how this miraculous truth-telling instrument worked. he spoke with the translator at some length and finally the trans. looked up at the judge and said, 'he does not know if he can tell the truth. he says he can only tell what he knows.'

&

Being an artist doesn't take much, just everything you got. Which means, of course, that as the process is giving you life, it is also bringing you closer to death. But it's no big deal. They are one and the same and cannot be avoided or denied. So when I totally embrace this process, this life/death, and abandon myself to it, I transcend all this meaningless gibberish and hang out with the gods. It seems to me that that is worth the price of admission. Hubert Selby Jr.

i have to get drunk before the day begins. easy-e

f'n'n': 'k'; ekootin: blackfoot roll, mr scruff; drinkin': cyder with ice, plenty of that good ice/ jus' tekken foyst sip d'joo-or, hoping sustained drinking will ward off my crippling h'over/ to the park alba-d up yester, where at drank much merrydown cider (a bargain: 7.5%, £1.99/ltr and proper sussex cider, no tramp elixir merrydown)/ stayed most of the day, watched the sun retreat and the grasses glow a rich gold before home, where at began the serious drinking, consisting mainly in k cider and cheap table rouge'/ stayed up till 0200 watching annoying music videos and footage of bukowski enacting his juvenile routines/ the mistake i made was pouring the remainder of all my drinks in to a can of beer that'd been open 24hrs or so (maybe 36), thus gifting myself 650mls of pure excellence/ when i woke this fine morn felt a tad off kilter but have managed to redress the balance somewhat with coffee, food and now cider/ remarkably my eyes are sparking clear/ i expect that because the damage has showed so little i'll go to bed one night looking 28 and wake up actually 50/ go figure, as the saying is/