i’ve been mostly off the radar this week, so much work & perhaps a bit too much booze & trying to oscillate between Foucault’s The Origin of Things (which is just now starting to make more sense after 160 pages that have taken a month to read), David Foster Wallace’s Consider the Lobster, which is hilarious especially is ventured into the sordid world of porn & of course trying to write when all that has been hounding me is a character study of a fictional character i made up called Saul Sintooth, who is an unkempt weasel of a drunk who i have plotted (among many other scenes) into an annual Dervish festival where he performs a naughty trick of getting beautiful women to hold thermometers, which he proceeds to melt with his despicable gases until the mercury drips on their fingers, then he peels off to other misdemeanours. i have committed nothing to paper, because it is such a stupid idea & i should stop listening to Viv Stanshall’s Sir Henry at Rawlinson End because although it is brilliant i just conjure festering tripe in my head, in obnoxiously, exorbitant amounts.
After that little catch up a Soliloquized rant, which may be a little hard to swallow.
(The photograph despite there being no cormorant, drizzle or Alka Seltzer® is nonetheless, where i 1. wrote the poem (though not on the day i photographed the landscape) & 2. where cormorants can often be seen, but usually in higher tide than pictured.)
Drizzle & cormorant, the tenor
of undiluted sadness no Alka Seltzer® tonic
can nurse— & snipe forage the litter
of me, find little to nothing whatsoever, not today…
perhaps tomorrow. Dirt beneath fingernails.
There’s no love just talk & U-turns.
No foresight beyond unconquered hurdles.
That lighthouse must be taking the piss;
the delineation of Biyang island advises
me on everything i need but cannot have
— turn me into a gull, anything other than
this risible flesh & shtum pulse. Parade me in
God’s own showroom, hang my pelt
on a nail & leave me to dry out.