07/07/2016 Cats and fucks and contradictions and the liminal constraints between profanity and contemplation. Today I'm a guest on radio nothing having a trialogue with my selves. I didn't write anything today. The day was full of rain and thunder. Sultry and cool by turns. An overhanging sky corpulent and polarized, grainy as a Bronica and interspersed with luminous monochrome outbreaks. It was going to be a cats and fucks contemplation exercise in the context or space of a radio nothing interview. A languorous resonance abstaining from the agenda of the day the memory of last night or the ambitious projection of the next million years. My id wants to say how much it wants to fornicate and frolic and revel in the images which convert into thoughts which translate into desire. The image of being smeared with honey by a smooth skinned lady in a black bikini and massaged forthwith by the same lady in a steamy banya springs to mind. Funny how we can walk to the metro together after that without mentioning this erotical interlude. Do I want to write about that? Another day perhaps. My clown says: I wore a hollow sky today and a five pound fifty paper hat. The laconic compilation of emptiness and detachment which I conserve like raspberry jam amounts to a fat waddling pregnant mama trying to load my Instagram and a closed curry sauce and chips venue which sublimated itself into a vampires nest in an sms intercourse with she who happens to be bitchy to herself. And the clouds just kept on gathering, like Zulus on the hill. Radio nothing leads to a pillow fight. Or better still a paintball style mortal combat open season hand to hand combat session with peaches and cream. Well, maybe not cream. The contemplation is related to vinyl. Is there a right minded person who doesn't acknowledge its beauty? A thing of beauty is a joy forever and I'll never lose the memory of taking an album out of its sleeve for the first time. Don't touch it, there is an art to handling a record. File under pop. So it was a nothing to report day. Headache cracked like a mudflat. Lethargy remained in selfie. Brought my shorts home to wash from judo. Wore sandals in the rain. I toyed with an image of reticence, flushing like a release of love. There was no need for embarrassment, in the acres of mewling nothing's, clinking against the chintzy glasses of gin and tonic being raised by the metropolitan skeletons to the ghosts of Bonnie and Clyde. Sent from my iPhone
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