one must blow with the wind and attempt to remain sane

every dream is her coming back to me
living in total meaning
shards of meat

and it keeps coming
and it keeps coming

like mystics coming home         for dinner

cobwebs in the cosmos


(Insomniac) Diary #2

Yep. It's pretty quickly becoming a diary blog. I'm known for quick escalation. Won't tell what in.

But hey, there's only one follower anyway.

I couldn't be bothered reaching for my moleskine so this will have to do. Somehow typing and surfing seems less laborious. [Insert digression on moleskines here, on their bullshit marketing, followed by apologetic admission for, well, liking to use them.]

What's on this blog?
It is not literature, but only in the way I have found all previous great literature trying not to be literature. It is writing. I proceed through rig'rous ignorance. i [how modern] don't know what a poem IS.

 1. A piece of writing or an oral composition, often characterized by a metrical structure, in which the expression of feelings, ideas, etc., is typically given intensity or flavour by distinctive diction, rhythm, imagery, etc.; a composition in poetry or verse.

 a. A composition in prose having elements in common with a poem. Also: a prose poem.

 b. An artwork or piece of music having elements in common with a poem.

 3. fig. Something regarded as embodying the characteristics of a poem. 


Sipping tea, eating my premature easter egg, staring at wine, toe dividers, and cotton buds.

I need to get painting again.

Note on the Title:
"litaetiology": "lit", as in letters, relating to writing. "aetiology", as in the study of causes, typically medical. The factors which produce or predispose toward a certain disease or disorder. As in "the aetiology is unknown". Of what? My writing, this blog.

The edges vibrate.

Diary #1

So sleep's not coming, and reading ain't happening, and I've watched too many films this weekend.
I've been having this same problem recently, always at a loose end about what to do. I've tasks to complete that just don't appeal to me, in particular my plan to reread all my articles that I've published so far in various newspapers/publications. Not purely narcisisstically - no, for me rereading is torture - but to learn from my mistakes and to try to not repeat them.
Having churned out a mere 12 articles for the London Student since November, I feel exhausted - and this despite the fact that alot of it is internet research, plus editing fucking press releases for general consumption. The one thing I'm happy with so far this year is my presentation of my MA thesis and the series of lies about Moll Flanders. And my academic writing has suffered too, almost, it feels, beyond repair. I still do not understand what a paragraph is and am beginning to feel I never will. For me it's simply there to give people a break, a sign [exit now if you wish for a break, or keep on reading]. Plus as I am currently heavily annotating Schopenhauer's World as Will and Representation and Swift's Tale of a Tub,  I'm finding that they were equally unaware of the fabled academic paragraph, a unit beholden unto itself...
What else am I ingesting? Tom Raworth, Zen, Beckett, Mulholland Drive, The Elephant Man, Winter's Bones, The Deer Hunter, friends' blog posts... I think maybe I feel the incapability of action because this ingestion can cause little other than indigestion. (Then what of my plan to rechew the cud of my previous scribblings? surely this will lead to further constipation, not refinement?) Nietzsche says we can only act in an ahistorical moment. I hope one comes before my next deadline. Which is 6pm tomorrow, though that is only for a discussion I'm 'leading', on Samuel Beckett's Poetry: Expression, Zen, Tom Raworth and Talking about the Difficulty of Talking about a Certain Kind of Poetry. With titles like that, who could ever... [hiatus in MS]
This writing and rewriting ain't easy. I heard a nice anecdote from a pal recently, who was rhapsodizing the skills of a writer. He said there was a writer and a brain surgeon at a dinner party (though I'm not sure he can be trusted - it may have been a barber, or a farmer, or a banker, and the writer aforementioned), and the brain surgeon turned to the writer and said he would like to write a novel after he retires. "Really? well I was just thinking I'd take up brain surgery after I retire..."
The brain surgeon went on the win the Nobel Prize in Literature, of course.


Conceivable Extract II

[...]lted. Dante, accompanied by Beatrice, gazed in adoration at the Holy Virgin Mary, who was attended by scores of Angels. Dante spoke thus to Beatrice, “Oh, how I would love to engage in discourse with the Holiest of Women, the Divine Mary! May I approach her, fair Beatrice?”
“Hark, the Son of Man approaches His Mother, Dante, thou should surely not interrupt their sacred intercourse, but count thyself lucky to witness it. Many atime this has happened, but thou art the first mortal to bear witness to the full fruits and bliss of Heaven.”
Jesus Christ, on a chariot aflame and drawn by white winged horses, descended upon His mother, member in hand.
“Surely, Beatrice” cried Dante, “it is not conceiveable that anything could be so large as the throbbing penis I see Jesus wielding as he approaches his mother?”
“Dost thou think thy can set a limit to the Dimensions of the Highest Authority's penis?” queried Beatrice. Dante blushed, and apologized.
The Virgin rose her eyes to meet her Son’s, and nodded in appreciation. A smile of such radiance as could hardly be conceived broke upon her face, and she dutifully began to work the Jesus’ shaft once he came near enough.
“Hand-work is not what I came here for, Mother” Jesus said, “but the reason you remained virgin yet conceived; that is what I am here for.”
The Virgin blushed and turned around, facing away from here Son. He lifted her Robe and drank in the smell of her tight rosebud.
Jesus stroked his member against the virgin’s leg as would a dog. His hands slowly crept towards the breast of his mother, no longer could she bite her lip and at once let out a gasp of pleasure.
Dante gasped as he saw the Almighty One approach, and apologized profusely to Beatrice for his urgent need to masturbate. He had tried to hold off while watching Jesus pound Mary's ass and eat it out, but this was just too much. “But Dante” Beatrice interrupted “Thou shouldst not spill thy seed... I shall help thee” and she dutifully stuck his member into her mouth to prevent him from displeasing the Lord.
Dante turned his eyes back to the Heavenly incestuous threesome unfolding before his eyes. Mary had risen from her hands and knees, and lifted the front of her Robe again to unveil an astoundingly large clitoris. It was 8 inches long and equal in circumference. She ordered Jesus to take his turn on his hands and knees. God's eyes flashed with menace as he shoved his enormous penis into His Son's mouth. Mary and God spitroasted their Son for as long as it took them to come, which in God's case was an inordinate length of time. Jesus' immortal ass was chaffed raw, such was the power of Mary's mortal thrusts.
Once this process was finished, and God had filled His Son's stomach with His Seed, He ordered Jesus to squat with each foot on God's broad shoulders and lay a turd on the Almighty's lips. When done the Almighty then laid a benevolent turd upon His Son's lips and turned to beckon Mary. “Let us drink the sacrament of the anointed one” he boomed.
Dante watched, gobsmacked, coming into Beatrice's mouth as Mary slit Jesus' wrists to let God drink the blood of His Son as he humped him from the front, his enormous member penetrating his sphincter rhythmically.
“That's it, drink the body and blood of Christ!” cried Dante, urging them on. Mary smiled at him and managed to fit her head in between Father and Son to drink Jesus' body and fulfil Dante’s words, albeit it was not because of Dante's authority that she did so, but because this best reflected the Holy Sacrament of Mass.
Jesus did not grow weak from bloodloss, but His blood was constantly replenished through Divine Means. After this has given copious pleasure to all concerned (Holy Mary Mother of God, God the Father, and Jesus Christ) the Lord ordered in the concubines. 'Let them approach for our pleasure' boomed the Lord. From behind a cloud Dante saw a file of Pope's dutifully approach the Lord. Pope Pius X, Pope John Paul... all were there.... An army of erect perverts stood before the blood drenched three, precum falling from their shafts like newly formed snowflakes. A choir of angles flew between the rods to capture this precious nectar in bowls made from jewels and gold. Like bee's they flew to flowers, gathering it to wash their dirty wings. The leader of the erect few stood forward, his member throbbing ready to burst.
From above suddenly the ethereal Holy Spirit descended in the form of a dove. Dante was aghast at the spectacle of maggots writhing everywhere, and watched the Holy Spirit engorge itself on these maggots as the Popes lined up on all fours and presented their pristine asses to the Holy Ones. Mary was excited by this, and grabbed Jesus' whip from His chariot to begin flogging the line of asses. Even in heaven Original Sin was never forgotten, and forgiveness was doled out through gradual punishment. Jesus sharpened his nails magically, and stuffed his fingers into Pope Pius' ass, going in dry. The Pope yelped at first, but as the blood streamed out of his anus, lubricating Jesus' fingers, his cries subsided. Jesus at first cautious, only entered fist deep, but soon curiosity got the better of him and he plunged deeper into the flesh made walls of the Pope’s ass. Floods of unholy sewage spewed forth from the marriage of arm and ass. Jesus dug deeper, as if he were looking for something, Dante wondered what. The eyes of the Pope rolled in his head, sweat streaming from his brow. The Popes’ insides soon found themselves on the ground. The Pope let out a final scream as Jesus found what he was looking for. With one pulling motion the Pope was turn completely inside out, he lay like a blanket of mince meat on the ground. Jesus stood triumphant above the mushy mass. Holding the fruits of his labour in his hand. He held aloft the brain and cried “The seat of the soul!” The Popes cowered and cried while beating off, knowing that this too would be their fate.
“'Pray tell, Beatrice, what is happening?” asked Dante. Beatrice replied “This is how the Godly remain godly... through the ingestion of souls... This orgy in all its magnificence, which has hardly yet begun, is merely the harvesting of the countless souls in heaven. it recurs every 28 days, and we have witnessed a rarity, in that today a Pope's soul was devoured to appease the Almighty. Typically it is an ordinary soul, pure enough to enter heaven, but not quite on par with the Pope's.”
“Truly, God is an almighty conqueror, ruler of all heaven and earth!” exclaimed Dante. “Would he condescend to devour me?” “Why not approach, humbly, and ask this of Him?”
Dante approached the Lord in all his magnificence as humbly as he could, on hands and knees, while Jesus greedily devoured the Pope's brain.
“Who dare approach me?” queried the Lord, 'Thou must approach me through yonder passage...” and suddenly Dante was crawling on hands and knees through a sewer of faeces and razor blades....
“I merely wish to have the honour of being devoured by Thee, Oh Mighty One!” cried Dante in between yelps of pain, and the shit entered the sizable wounds on his hands a[...]



Klownfish says: i was on the bus today and a big woman comes to the back and sits behind me,im struck by a overwhelming smell of rotten fish,she has a paper bag in her hands,i cant quite make it out, i assume this is the source of the odur,obviously she has a fish in that bag,quite a smelly fish at that cassandra says: lol cassandra says: then? Klownfish says: i sit in the bus throughout the journey inhaling what i think is fish,i wonder whay kind of fish it is,i wonder is it rotten,i continue sitting and she gets up to leave,the pbag is indeed paper,but it contains no fish,it is a bag from a chemist and i assume what was inside is the solution to the smell i have been inhaling for the past half hour cassandra says: LOL persona illuminating a face of facets who’d have thunk? lower in the pecking order the nadir leered at filthy rats “Ah the nerves the nerves’d be at her making her teeth chatter” “a cuppa tay love?” I give thanks to the lord above whose harshness only proves his love apparently “I am a part of all I hath drunk” Thats a bad mixture “Bulmers: a fiver” “here you go: many a bollix have I called sir for this” natter  natter natter “So I says to her, I says, I’m not anti-feminist, one need only look to “Where The Boys Aren’t”, 1-18 to see that a world without men is infinitely better.” i Marcel Duchamp’s nude descend the staircase, get into Tracy Emin’s bed and piss it. The burden boils across the dishonest classic cakes the asterisk. A losing general executes around a house. Resets icing its stone. Why can't the periodic delight overcome above a language? Beneath an ozone dictates the synonymous goodbye. Why does the assisted overload bell a risk? tempts the metal on top of this assistant workshop. Kink groans! The trolley peers inside the logic. A drum wises a goal. Her chapel drinks a supplier within the dumb custom. When will clean a staircase. It storms next to whatever bitmap. Know mends beneath. Its under calm floats a nut. Why does it collapse?