..

Deitise

I do like the random firework jerk on the nerves
the clockwork rationale,
the banal and the senile,
Ones and naughts
primary symbols like those of
penile and vulva.

The dignity of man is all we've lost
that well of feeling
the hell of being.

In post modern
there is no present
it isn't regal
it ain't deity
there is only past, future

My piss be digital
my scope narrow, binary
the chastiser's drizzle digitised

Post modern
like post-mortem
also means
afterdead.
In Digital
diffuse
emotional pain,
escape from this blackened ark
Away, away from
Medusa's heart thump

into fractured imagary,

hollow rain,
Zero's and ones
non-accumulative time
reflecting non-continuously
without the continuity of
the silken aisle, serendipity.

Running from the blight of 
the dark and wooden dead
One can choose to be digitised
instead

Milton's Lucifer,

devising debased imitations

of glories,

this scheming understudy

with futile knowledge

this fool needs in perpetuity
the future.

you have to live by your wits everywhere

Everywhere there are beasts, their numbers
Increase, their number is humanity.
They fleece and foul
Befuddle and bejowel
Bejewell and amuse,
stomp and pronounce
unwilling to grace any deference
nor able to swear precedence to
women of the lake,
prickly pair or
gloaming dragon of
green vapours

Rome is
downhill from here 
foreigners, socialism,
demolition
Beat your beasts and flail
all one gains is wisdom
and wisdom is not
music or love.

post year nil / untitled

Londons a silly slum borehole once more
Sorting through cheap
Canned soup
Oh to slurp on some peasant's
pottage
My beer smells like an heiress
My piss smells like beer
Working forward, walking toward
Making asses out of clay and scrap saw
Makes as about much sense as
Taking your wife to a brothel
and paying for corkage.

Save water - Piss in bottles.
Coca cola piss is poison.

Once we were Vikings here
living in Turndyke lane
Honoured to die over a trivial thing
rather than face the fiend within
feed the face to the blender-in
(now pikeys living alone in tudor grove)

It ain't 1897
 as if we aren't
Coupled to the Internet whore,
That's right, blame progress once more
For one's dilapidated &
onerus selves.

Casual saxophone
fictitious financies
Shellshocked
post-muddy & trenchant,
tortured ambivalence
(Say no to plastic).

Marx unravelled
admitting now
we have too much
freedoms of illusions of european summer
golfgrass and wine,
babes of the industrious & uniform line
hypocrit rose lording over manurities

Seems all this yawnworthy movement
resembles
paying one's death duties
in advance
The question is not
whether we exist afterwood
If in life existence so doubtful-
  , when you're
Near The precipice
The query is
What constitutes?
because strangewise I dont have a taste
for existence today.

Ciao Bella

An old fave of mine on Lambs Conduit St, Bloomsbury.

Good Olives & Parmesan laid on every table, very nice.

I always thought it was at least as good as any pizza express if not better, besides being non-corporate, an authentic entity.  

This stunted memory, I have to now withdraw from.

The 'Napoletana' pizza seemed reheated from yesterday, that telltale hard sweaty cheese that appears oily on the surface.  The anchovies were bristling with minuscule bones.  Service was as I remembered it;  lacey casa-nostra insouciance.  This may be why people regard Ciao Bella as the real article. It is lauded by a circle of pocketbook-conscious uppercrusties as the best Italian in London. 

The sea bream from the specials menu was perfectly acceptable although bony for what is stated as a  fillet.  No matter.

It's individualistic enough but merely acceptable, in Italy itself it would be a dire low tourist trapjoint with pizza express prices, although without the standards. Yes, they have a live piano player inside most of the time, but on a dry summers day you'll want to sit outside. Choose the specials - everything else might be leftovers.

The waiting staff are a masterclass of broken down, autumnal Italian machismo but this is where its uniqueness ceases.  Next time I'm going past to the lovely Lamb pub next door. 

Sea bream special, 'Orata ai Gamberetti' (£15.50)

Napoletana pizza (£7)
House dry white wine (£12.50)

Tea at Trianon: The Real Lincoln

Tea at Trianon: The Real Lincoln

Onan sings

The onus to articulate the sages
to eulogize Onan,
one should keep the
belt of chastity on
pandora's wanton wishes

When by shore for a war
waiting for a whore
its over moreover
its everyday closer
the war and its end.
the shore and the blend in
the bore in the wend.

Radical sophists
in Onan's office
bleached bitches
who have wisdom
wielding a bend in the wye
a knowledge
unknown but to the
room's eye.