I’m conscious of some movement in my wayward and
imprisoned psyche towards contemplating the aesthetic dimension of free speech
rather than the libertarian/political/social platform which our everyday have a
go hero's typically espouse.
it reminds me of the interview I heard on the BBC with
new Russian comedians - a Russian "comic" was asked how the new mood
in post soviet Russia affected his ability to make jokes and he said: "its
brilliant we can make jokes about anything we want now - penises for
example" and the questioner asked him (speaking of penises) can you make
jokes about Putin? To which he nervously replied: "yeah, we can, but we
just don’t want to."
I am always inspired by Gjurdieff more than Kerouac
when it comes to writing out of the moment but unfortunately I don’t have the
former's brains or the latter's fan club. And I do have a serious intention to
use these words to scramble for some infallible truths during the course of my
intercoursings. Only hope the crude and belligerent tools I use to search for
these pravdas are somehow bound to amuse my ardent reader along the way; even
in the case that my blithering scrawls should reveal the evident
"truth" of my chicanery and ineptitude, my shallowness and my
egomania, then the revelation will have justified the effort – in the end I may
be forced to conclude: "O, look at that, I’m a wanker.” Job done.
In short, I’m throwing words at an empty space as if
they were splashes of paint and hoping to construe an abstract formulation out
of the effect of their sympathetic juxtaposition. How do they look in
conjunction with each other? How do they taste when you ring them in the mouth?
What emotional and visceral ripples emanate from their little splashes? What
throbs and salivations do they catalyse? Does it make you want to have sex when
you read it? Does it make you wet and horny? Does it make your stomach pound
and your temples glisten? Does it make you want to dance and jump in muddy
puddles? I wish it would. I’d rather all of the above than “It made me think” –
well, I didn’t write it for people who don’t already know how to think without
being provoked and hectored! I wrote it for people who get the aim – to
wordplay is to be boy. To wordplay is to be. You better believe it
daddio.
A certain man fell in love with a certain lady but
their relative comportments made the proposition of their conjugation untenable
in amorous terms.
Proposition; Verb
1.
Make a suggestion of sexual intercourse to (someone),
especially in an unsubtle way.
"She had been propositioned at the party by a
subeditor with bad breath"
synonyms:
propose sex with, make sexual advances to, make sexual
overtures to, make an indecent proposal to, make an improper suggestion
to;
informal give someone the come-on
"he never dared proposition her"
"She" is a shadow bereft of form,
"He" is a cloud determined by coldness and breezes."It" is
a memory, an insult, a gleam. Hero, bastard, twot.
He: Why do I have to be amorphous?
She: Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of your
being.
He: What's the difference between realism and
naturalism?
She: The unreal can’t be natural but the unnatural can
be real.
He: Who are you?
She: Who are you?
He: I am the world and the world is me.
She: Who are you?
He: I’m your stalker. Your magnet, your callow voyeur
and wishful antipath. I suppose a roll in the hay is out of the question?
To be continued.
Sent from my iPhone
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