have dramatically cut my drinking down: 2 glasses red/ eve, plus new diet of fruit, fish, rice and salad washed down with flagons of iced water; i feel phenomenal; whilst i still have can-pangs occassionally, i ride them out, remembering the feeling of lightness i now experience in the morning/ gone too are 4am suicide fantasies, sweating, and my weight's dropping off/ i'm also working damned hard at my poetry/ nice/ but, how long will it last?/ watch this space...

the flashes of spring, of warmth, soft air, explosions of blossom, clear skies and opening flowers takes me back/ i note i cannot seem to live in the present/ when i'm in the present (physically, say) my mind will cast back to another time i'm reminded of by say a smell, an image, a feeling/ this is pleasant (when, of course, the memory is pleasant) but i have no idea why i live predominantly in the past/ perhaps i find the present too prosaic wo have to overlay my present perceptions with memories and analysis of the past/ the con is that the memory if so untrustworthy, the rose tinted spectacles (or the terrible soiled ones) so unavoidable that i live largely in a questionable reality/ but when one says 'seize the day' what pray is there to seize?/ most daily tasks are mundane and thus need something to spice them up, or the mind needs some pleasant or stimulating diversion/ discuss/

When the mind is not focused, unreal monsers are imagined, like a sick man's dreams.

Everyone feels the impact of the imagination, but some are knocked down by it.

I have a short memory for injuries.

M Montaigne.

Memory is a great and powerful goddess.

Plato.

My memory is an odious death-cunt.

Will.

A powem (geddit?).

So much fucking ugliness in literature today.
Haven’t got much to say?
Well, pretend it’s free verse and go on like this:
Tony o’Neill?
Shockingly bad
The Brutalists?
Cliquey muthafukaz
Fante Jr?
…
Buk?
Fuk off
Fante Sr?
Wanker capable of occasional turns of pleasant poetic phrase.*
Such authors simply pick through the contents of their shit, write (poorly) about it and pronounce it genius.
HST was an author for people who don’t read.
Where does that leave the sub-pseudo author?
You are fortunate in that you have such powerful delusions re: your talent you can no doubt formulate any criticism in a manner favourable to yourselves.
Popular? I’m great (but can I handle the pressures of fame/ be sure that mass popularity reflects a genuine understanding of my isolated, fractured genius?)
Unpopular? I guess they…didn’t understand (but this is great because my public are too stupid to understand; thus I’m vindicated)
Buk talked about fooling college audiences.
Not fooling them because they didn’t understand.
Fooling them because they did and he was weary of the fact he couldn’t get away with much.
Where the craft of verse?
Free verse is not a choice for you people, e.g. over any other verse form.
It is a spurious excuse for any lack of understanding/ grasp of form.
Buk knew he was (largely) shit.
You don’t.
You are promulgating ugly literature, both in content and form, largely to satisfy your own fragile egos.
But Plato’s moral sub-set’ll always come around and kick any ass.
Brutal enough for you?

* order of lack of talent and my despair

how i loathe this habit/

hideously drunk again last night/ several beers, roughly 1 & 1/2 btls rouge and a bottle of port/ started an argument with the alba, chain smoked, passed out, waking at 0500 with a cold back/ revolting h'over ensued, though i've managed to redress the balance with a beer and a sandwich/ currently broke as a humerous remark and thus prospects for this evening is bleak/ meant to be going out but funds are so slight i fear i have not even the liberty to fart/ never mind/ i'm sure my ingenuity will kick in soon/ as horrifically overrated wilde said, it is the mark of genious to make opportuinites where none are apparent, or something along those tracks/ out

feeling good/ these ssris are most certainly working/ sitting in i-caf eating a sub and sipping a beer/ been tying it on uber heavy de late so trying to slow consumption/ 've been drinking from the minute i rise, strong wine mixed with the pills, culminating in my blacking out and then being unable to remember anything substantial about the evening the following day/ i have long and involved telephone conversations, cook meals, go to the shops, do funny shit, start arguements, fall down, and fail to recall any of it/ moreover i don't suffer physically so much but i keep ruining my clothes, most of which are now scarred with wine stains/ what i have accomplished though is quitting cider, namely cheap white cider, the ruin of many a fine vagrant and very nearly your's truly/ vile and unmitigated evil it is, and i have forever banished it's ruinous ass from my house/