Tuesday 25 May 2021

She...in italics and dark bold font. But how dark? And bold?

 SO there's me...

Am I me?

Which sounds all very existentialist

and twee.

Let's be clear, she, cannot know of this.

You, reader, sadly

Exactly what on earth does one say next.

No poet could.

I mean if we started

Eleven months ago.

I wish I was eleven months ago as the perfect living in the perfect moment.

Day after day.

I must remember for always the way, cycling out from the ruin

A real ruin, more ways than one.

Down that drive.... two hundred years ago he would have  come up by gig or trap, that drive.

But everything that was him is behind me, as i head down that drive.

Every day  - that moment coming out from the woods, into sunshine

"is she here lurking, waiting for my money perhaps?"

An inadequate way of describing not one moldy molecule of shame.

Fuck their living in the moment at a hundred quid for a few hours of moments

Of nonsense.

This is living  - the energy just heading off, because one can.

And then it all started...

Every day, in the middle of nowhere, so much.

That was mine.

Those months were mine

Perectly mine.

Only mine.

And everything else for years - many a higher form of low and highish investigation of things never known.

Before, nothing. 

Just that perfect few months .

Sometimes 'hiding' but then a few hours stripped off on my higher hill

who cares - no cares... just me and one or other once more good book.

But surely a bit of Balzac, cannot be much good. Until it is the only story ever made any sense.

Being 'me'.

Bully for me.

But then perhaps you want real emotion, without knowing you want real emotion.

Autopilot, standby....

With one difference - shame gone.

Is paradise. Is peace - the frauds claim even more there is online.

Nope peace is absolutely nothing

can happen.

So forget.

And where i wonder did he come from?

One day:

but i have to just play it...quiet

meaning this is not, exactly, inplacement, but exactly in sound,  that which heard on a June day in twenty twenty because i have to be not me.


"my oh my can we have forever more of this.... those naughty bootleggers all this marvelous free time....to share with us at last their genius goodies and goodies and ... I mean, it is impossible life became so viscerally poignant and completely liminal in a way that only, well... its a fuckin dream... a lovely one that hurts for the right reasons.."

 But that is inadequate, for the person most of the time so hurt that only the greatest jokes can be made of it....

which is exactly what one must do.

Or die.


So the frig what.... nahh thats not me. Me is, "ten years of this... i survived but....

oh fuck.... he gonnan done it again how can only he hit you with Mozartian busseye so many a time..."

so lets have a little light relief.

There is a run up to this ditty but t will have to wait because in fact I need her now. This moment

Nineish Pm on the 25th of May 2021

She really... is me?

Noh but she is perfect and she is now - this time.

This moment, because Most of The Time was meant to be forever,

wasn't it the fuck meant to be surely it was...

I looked at the translation once of this sexist pig version above that does not even mention her name

typical fuckin ITI fuckin arrogant deliberate MIss Oh Jenny get the dinner on will yer...

But that's something from eight years ago

which is not this year - that year i remain cycling no hands through the most flowerful hidden away byways ever



she could have been on then

she summed up then exactly the complete and utter fuck all else than her

and nature

and surprising amount of new friends, living genuinely nowhere

 But then fast forward through literally a whole lifetime in a few months.
To her.

Her layby.

I have quite a few different named laybys.

But i did not know her, then.

I should have known, t'was 'their'.

Because within just a few weeks.

Her...smile is as perfect as Alessia's 

For sure

I cannot lie.

You cannot lie when she 

is all there ever was.

But she was gone....

not most all the fuckin time....

f you knew - you it says just one of you.

Now this minute.

Maybe you are a bot

oops accidental italics i type very very very fast and aint wastin my time unitalixin

though there's something to be said in that

You. Witness....if you exsist.

You here this exact moment.

Oops again hahh hahh...


No poise, no Grace

No words can get me from then to now.

This exact second.

oops again whats goin on

Last early autumn - another gorgeous stoppin on the horizon.

Another perfect no more shame

Another stop

ANother off yer fuckin high horses and... just be

That had worked, especially with her the great beauty

(not capitalised - only one gets the real GB treatment)

I mean harmony fuckin hairspray my trousers

That was not possible.

But lets get serious. this will not be.

But do it.

Of course every moment of true fear

true wonderation at our gatheration


for her


As always.

A dream


get on yer old bike

head on why not

fight fight fight and sneer

but be thine self...

what self when there is no self it was gone years ago

a husk a silly notion a silly memory of  someone once silly enough to loop his aeroplame middle of

Carribean sea nothing else to do but turn it up in the then Walkman

"this is the apex... there cannot be anything more.."

And that ship i once saw all a burnin.... seemed to fit.

Anyway lets not be too Richard Bach about this because there is the Hollywood version

And the real.


Oh my.... four of them...so dispirate

so surely explosive to gatherate together.

And then within just a few weeks, not for me

only for them. It just


Even Ludvico could not compose even five minutes of it in five hours of Nuvole the extended version

With Upshaw or Elis Regina as perfect interpreter rather than the more perfect less well known.

Novemeber...ok out of year, until.... but by Marco we did it


the really heavy version but same net effect - all our rumpuses and fights and worries...nothing

Because by Marco

god the smiles on that young woman's face

I never knew such 


And her friends

And then mine even if i am cheating as mine was February. Midwinter. Srong sunshine up high

with them,

How did that happen!?

That's what i had wanted ten years ago.

T'was impossible.

Anyway i shall spoil it


BY even writing one more word.

Because it - was done. Just done. No one else did. I did.

But it was  a silly dream and embarassing fantasy i hardly shared

T'was for her

It did not need to be for her

because i just learned so much.

Not pious-learned, earest learned nuthin.

Real learning.


Deepest possible depth.

Deepest possible why the fuck not.

There is no more not.

There is only we did.

But it was not for


Of course not

Until, and talk about many to copy in.

BUt you really know before anyone else except her

The ringmastered sidekick Non Byronic sis

"i cannot....yet open it.."

But i can open this because even if she will never know

well she might it seems 

who knows

because in fact I never before really knew what that word meant

But now live it

Cos the impossible, worked.

But not one smart arse bit o' cynic  nor boo....

nor mixed up confusion.....

cos i just proved one simplest ever thing.... and thus can die. Now....