things move around

I didn’t go for a bike ride this evening, I was too busy mourning the death of the next month’s news.

But here’s one thing worth recording: the other day I, one of sixteen, was sprawled in numb congress with a table, one of four, imbibing daft guff, when my roving fingertips detected that my fly was undone. I wasn’t too bothered, since it was partially covered by the table. But I got a tremendous thrill from doing it up again without the slightest concern for who might see me.

I’m now an advocate of what I call “unflashing”.  Doing up your buottons, putting on your clothes in front of strangers - for me this is much more of a thrill than its opposite. Precisely, perhaps, because it’s so unorthodox. It’s only a matter of time before a naked man with a bag enters the field of a major sporting event and proceeds to clothe himself - and maybe that man will be me.

I’ve been having very few realistic dreams lately - none, in fact - so this category of my blog has been quieter than a colossal explosion in outer space. But this is more realistic than most: last night I dreamt that Sir Alan Sugar gave me £90 for thinking up alternatives to the game of football. I had asked for £100, and he had offered £70, but because it was Christmas Eve and I was persistent he ended up giving me another £20. The ideas were many and varied, but the only one I can remember consisted of 22 Sir Alan Sugars bouncing around a field on spacehoppers.

I’m disappointed that the president of Gabon, Omar Bongo, has carked it. Although there are doubters.

Staurday: I rode up to the westernmost corner of the British Properties, where the mansions are still under construction and so is the road; then I traversed the top, like putting a dunce’s cap on a simpleton, and then I stopped on the Cleveland Dam and went screwy-eyed for a while at the insanity of it all. I had a piss and a banana, then zoomed home, blackflies blatting off my eyeballs, and after a bottle of rosé and a curry went to the Orpheum to hear the great Tovey conducting the cowbellacious Mahler 6. I wandered  home thru whooping carnal hordes and when I got home - N and the kids are in Calgary - I was so adulterated with bliss and rage I could do nothing but deflate beachballs, immolate pixies and plough up fields of lobelias, all the while my tongue lolling lustily after the next ambrosial peal of cowbells.

Sunday: I rode to Horseshoe Bay and lunched at Troll’s.

Poets are neither born nor made nor found in a field like the ash of a falling star. There are no poets, there are only poems.

- William Gass, The Tunnel

moon,
bucket half-filled with sand,
spill on my spilt wine;

moon,
meringue,
sweeten my home, shine;

moon,
sad pallid pudgy gourd,
resign.

Motorhead. Bruce Willis. Convolutions of Broca. As a runt I would put Motorhead on the jukebox to the accalamation of beeries and hairies. Willis exhibits his habitual rictus; and he too has a brain, his broca too are convoluted. One brocum, many broca. Ah me, to what contortion is my life somersalting? Motorhead! And in the other corner, Convolution of Broccoli!

Bruce Willis. Brucellosis. Infecting the galaxy one wifebeater at a time.

Motorhead. She wears a glittering gown.

Convolution of Broca. We weave through sheave on slew of you.

Cada día es absurdo como un pozo al caer.

I am home (wet) from a week in the interior (dry), and already my lips are beginning to billow and uncrack - so like the Atacama after a deluge that I’m fielding enquiries from bearded oxbridge fellows wanting to drive jeeps across them, dragging a token camel behind, hoping it doesn’t gobble up the flowers which only bloom once in four hundred years. Yes! I cry, yes! But I get to keep the camel.

Doxy, oh! thy glaziers shine 
As glimmar; by the Salomon! 
No gentry mort hath prats like thine, 
No cove e’er wap’d with such a one. 

White thy fambles, red thy gan, 
And thy quarrons dainty is; 
Couch a hogshead with me then, 
And in the darkmans clip and kiss. 

What though I no togeman wear, 
Nor commission, mish, or slate; 
Store of strammel we’ll have here, 
And ith’ skipper lib in state. 

Wapping thou I know does love, 
Else the ruffin cly the mort; 
From thy stampers then remove, 
Thy drawers, and let’s prig in sport. 

When the lightman up does call, 
Margery prater from her nest, 
And her Cackling cheats withal, 
In a boozing ken we’ll feast. 

There if lour we want; I’ll mill 
A gage, or nip for thee a bung; 
Rum booze thou shalt booze thy fill, 
And crash a grunting cheat that’s young. 

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From here, via here.