THE BLIT

THE BLIT

Follidot, once upon a time there were only four motley fridge magnet letter jungle birds, called whitecrow, beckstub, chardud and stillwalker. They mingled on the fridge in a state of chaos but one day my brother set the whole mess in order when he designed the new da Vinci circle:

@

<BEE> [long squiggle]

Infinity Symbol

Not follidot is a rogobert, Rigobert bot-getter.

Not Flora is a princess of dialysis and motor.

Not Lucy in the soul with demons may be an actual substance.

Not I. T. might stand for Captain Marvel too.

Not oceans, O over them we fly, we fly.

Not the clock that got the rock to feel shock.

Not the other whatnot bits and bobs but my brother.

Not the Nirvana beercan, but the brother.

Loving as we do that love is the answer.

The law says it’s okay; but if you want to smoke green, you’ve got to go to Amsterdam. Squeezyjet can get us there. Then through the streets we will wander casting ad-libbed hippy poetry about neon chameleons into the breeze.

A plane exists on 2 dimensions including Time.

A pyramid exists on 4 dimensions including Time.

But to turn a plane into a pyramid represents

only a 1 dimensional step. Therein find extra

dimension of the words “1 dimensional” meaning

stupid, a dimension which could also be called a separate

plane. And did I mention that I wanted to die?

Then you get that the plane is a curve, because the world is round, because the shape of spacetime is curved, because Gravity warps and bends spacetime.

When we got there, we bought the monkeymoo from the Doors cafe, and got skunkosis. It’s a neologism from my father for my own condition. He said GM skunk makes people feral. I myself have added a few new words to the language as well.

Ounce upon a tome, a while ago,

I invented the word distractionary

to contain such neologisms

as comnambulism, meaning

online sleepwalking, as

funger meaning hunger for fun,

as filence meaning delicate speech,

as amazeballs to replace archaic ‘gay,’

as emocracy, meaning rule by emotion,

as agovernment, meaning

the opposite of government,

as gravitolution and evity

which might go without saying,

as co-imagination, as in to be

diagonalised by omnijective

interface of random access

co-imagination, which is not fun,

and I thought isness was another one,

as in music is penetration of isness,

but it was already done in Joyce,

whom it seems knew a lot of these,

and I have just recollected another,

not just “indwellable” meaning

the opposite of indomitable,

when it comes to cinema,

but the word entropy spelled backwards,

as if to frame the first, unformulated

spark of appetence in Nothingness, preceding

Creation, yet again, even though

the universe was born in silence
not appetence as far as we know.

While we were in the Doors cafe, I thought I would boast a little bit about my position. I told the proprietor “My latest thinking, aged forty three, is that my father was positively sponsored by some philosophers to provide the real, human witness from The Lords And The New Creatures by Jim Morrison.” He asked me if that was true and I said yes and told him a little bit more about my life.

“Already at seven I am said to have helped invent the net: when the idea of the net needed storing in writing in the attic here at the foot of the fell to give it a chance to grow all the way round the world it was me that wrote it. By eight I had made not one but two very strange Naturalistic Observations as the witness. By eleven I was marked by the maths of the new colour as was contained back in the book I wrote at seven (it didn’t turn out to be the new colour in the end). By fifteen I had attained the face of stars which might’ve been scripted in the Bible. By eighteen, in 2000, I forewarned of September 11th and wrote the highest-marked English Literature A-level exam essay in the nation at 100%. I also predicted the hunt for the God Particle from looking at dust in a late ray of light angling in and founded a new religion based on the elephant.”

“After school, to cut a long story short, I recorded an album on binaural earphones with mates, had an effervescent mobile reverberating the rhythm of ‘William Tell’ through every technological inlet in the room before it rang, hosted the Plough alignment for a rhythm change in the White House, got a First despite the onset of mental illness, noticed a sensory overlay of my name on Piper At The Gates of Dawn, worked at a numinous, purple-bleeding screen, built the Tower as an instrument of philosophy, conducted an experiment into a tape with a pause where cut and resealed in the flimsy reel, and discovered the sheet where pictures (seemingly depicting my own song lyric) grew. Then I falsified the Nirvana barcode in writing and attained visual radio, broadcasting dreams.”

All of that then, that backstory was what lay at the @ function in the <BEE> diagram. <BEE> is an attempt to progress forwards from all that which lies at the @. It is as essential as anything I have ever done workwise.

The proprietor, of the Doors cafe, he took a photo of us together and got me to surrender my signature to a document. In fact, he got me to sign his copy of The Lords And The New You Know Who. His English was very good, so good in fact that one needn’t learn Dutch in order to communicate. He asked me if I was working on anything new, and I said I was working on a Rimbaudian word-science notebook – an experiment into the international language alphabet.

If I wree wiintrg aoubt paniylg agetenmud fhtfis at the pnaio, for eaplmxe, I’d use taht mddelud up lgaugnae. For it is psbliose to samblrce all the letrets of a wrod aprat form the frsit and lsat and for the eye to siltl raed it.

It is also possible to float an hypertext of the word ‘pi’ over the real text like an astral body. This is especially possible if you make the eye walk the plank, going

1 2 3 4

6 7 8 5/ 9

My ex conceived of the dichotomy of “given-ness VS craft.” For her what was given was akin to the freedom of automatic writing, as opposed to laboriously slaving away over something. I took the idea of given-ness to mean the exact opposite thing though, taking my cue from The Lords And The New Creatures where “we are too content to accept the given in sensation’s quest.” Interesting how the same word can have diametrically opposing meanings for two young lovers.

The oldest word in all languages of Indo-European etymological origin is said to be “da.” It is in The Waste Land of course. It seems like a “monkey-unit” to me.

The word that is said to be least changed in all languages since the dawn of Man is the word for “water.” You can still just about hear its similarity across different tongues, and picture people gathered at a well, people of all ethnic origins, sharing water, at the start.

My undergraduate dissertation was an immanent, Kantian critique in mimicking the methodology of David Morley’s series of findings into itself, into the concept of art and science writing as a single discussion of perception. The micro-analysis focussed on the line “the heart trammelled and rammed on the anvil bleeds visions.” I worked out he was using the anti-dactylus, two soft, one hard; and not only that but the stressed syllables in that metrical pattern all rhymed on a short A. The effect is kinetic; and there is invective monotony written into the line’s musical configuration; but apart from that it is nameless, nameless in all the array of hyper-specialised tools of sustained critical micro-analysis.

For the sake of tidiness, it could be instructive to mention herein that there’s a defaced banknote missing from my last book Let The Jews Win, about our retrieving the dog from the local farm, that specifically goes after ‘Dream With Open Eyes’ by Secret Chord H and before I mourn the loss of E:

“One night, we were having a Scrotbag Party in the caravan. That means drinking and smoking. And suddenly I got a preternatural sixth sense that the dog had run off and was trapped on the fence at the local farm barking. So we walked up through the fields, our tombstone-shadows looming tall beneath the moon in the church field; and we found the terrible goat which was tied up in the triangular patch of land past our field; and we noted how its eyes gleamed a baleful green colour when a lone car passed; and we made it past the terrible goat and to the farm where we indeed discovered Ossie the dog trapped on the fence, barking. I was wearing a fur coat and had a bottle opener in the pocket and used it to cut the dog free. Then we made it back to ours and told the dog he was a bad boy for running off and continued with our Scrotbag Party.”

The name John F B Tucker might be a mini, Shakespearean poem.

For that I have to thank my dad, who concluded one of his poems with the words “Hamlet in flames.”

“Full fathom five thy father lies,” from Shakespeare’s last play The Tempest, could not be four or six or any other number because Virgil says “there are tears in things.”

O is not a ghost-vowel, no, but U is a ghost-vowel

when opened unto the gloom under

sliver moon I slide her over

and semen spills like silver water.

We’re soon enough in the flotsam ether.

I would’ve said, prior to my bro’s contention, that after Acid comes Bic in the international language alphabet, then maybe the choppy sea, Donald Duck, ecstasia, Flora and Google. But maybe after Flora comes gay?

I do know of David Morley’s equations for water’s effect on water but shall not say. I can say, however, that H does not = 0 – 0 because I have a heart. Sometimes my cardiovascular heart readings are like the hills!

Waves

[squiggle]

crossed the FTSE

[squiggle]

and the Helter-Skelter

[squiggle]

crashed in the electric-sea

[squiggle].

“Words, words, words… what are words? These are words. Words in this epistemological system could be useful tools associated with the instinct to survive. Man is words and “man” is a word and words draw bridges across metaphysics and words make connections between first and third persons. Words are also a great bandwagon of falsity we must presume is not false in order to make life easier. Words are, well, ONLY words.”

“Mayfly,” I say the word “mayfly” phonetically,

sounding out every vowel sound alphabetically.

Permutation games can be a rehearsal for death. Not sine wave with minus sign coursing through. Tony Eade the gay maths teacher stood with his arms in a T and spoke in a strange tone when announcing to the boarders that it was chess club tonight. Intention – what is my Intention, but to shed scientific light, to make an imaginative advance, to contribute to the history of knowledge and maybe make the world a better place? In this world we are all equals. The image is of Egyptian mystery. Maybe. You don’t need a knife to achieve it.

The symbol [R] represents the stance, the large-R, Romantic stance that there is room for Creativity in the synapse gulf, that the creative spark is not all mappable/ predictable in advance.

Now I’m off and away thinking about things that might escape every word in every order.

I think of exemplums like [R],

like the number “!00%”

like my old Nirvana barcode

|| | |||| | || | |||| 909 & 693 are wings

like James’s notion about <BEE> might soon ensue from @ in the international language alphabet,

even the plus sign for an ‘f’ in the line

“I have a scar+ that is red and black,” -

and whether or not computers are so advanced they already have all these instances of creative spark accounted for. Even as far back as Gulliver’s Travels there is a machine that can put every word in every order, which is now not fiction but reality. I think they would’ve D’d them all apart from the suit. The supercomputer cannot compute the suit!

Dadrafistahide deutemol doolally, donking

doormangrite gresticle, grapple-grinking

trestlewave, tristlewithy trusting

boogiloss bonkyfloss boogs.

Emprohistifide applabong ding dong,

omporifestic applebong bang-gally.

Appladocky flocky nocky,

nihilipilificationist abstraxic crax,

abbladong tristleworthy blex, blenk, blenk.

Avrabo gontockolocky gontockalix,

tresting the gentricle indreariaterbee.

Ingresting a lingo-bling-killing silence.

If Deconstruction is a dream, letting the eye become distracted by things not meant to be in the text, then the monster learning the language in the hut in Frankenstein could be Caliban from The Tempest.

Implockatude absoluckety absoluking.

Post-apoca-lipstick love-bomb leaking

leviary soundsex connections instead

of logical cogent cohesive ones.

But not for long. Only for song.

Ungodadilling diagatribe trubal,

true absodolling ablove-a-guv groomy.

Professor Squillegybob says: “The Great Gatsby could be an infradiegetic heterotopia pertaining to panchronic, panoramic overview like a chronotope turned euchronia, unless this represents a word-world gone polysemic with the multifarious possibilities of hermeneutic autonomy through whom the esemplastic has fled away with the quadlibetical.”

“Shall we go to the Pink Floyd cafe next?” I asked.

So we went.

The word “went” is not past participle of the verb “to go” originally, but the verb “to wend.” It is thus a fossil; and language is full of them, fossils, coins, corruptions, dead metaphors the brain is built of, ossifications, word-shades, word-frequencies, ghost-vowels, consonantal masses.

The English language is worth billions of pounds, the creative industries second only to the financial markets for bringing in wealth.

Breasticoffavitch brewmie breaming,

breeful of flastangahadra, broning,

bewli-collovitch casta-bata-bye, bodra-hydring

blackra and bleckra with impellibule stont.

Destitatitude desting destiatary dist.

Dingobat bongheavy hydradeutemol parafang,

plestiacorit imbeamitutde booly,

boomiatrix bestocovavitch blenk.

We went to the Pink Floyd coffee shop and again I started to boast. “I was once in a band called The Flood,” I said, “in Syd Barrett’s hometown, Cambridge. We recorded only on state of the art binaural earphones laid on the floor, broke the ancient silence that way, were badass as Hella and Shellac. I climbed up on the album and said I was going to plug my senses in the mains. Our music was dark music as in dark matter. We even encrypted a node in musical truth without any words.”

The proprietor this time didn’t look interested.

Ablabong kelf, bittle apsoopiama,

oopsamadaisical badaboom catatrash.

Epsolio entropomorphic entropitude.

Tudoxica engsongify absoler doovet dong.

Umbongitude absoluticum absoliticass.

Untrong istleworthy obstatiatrix.

Obstackifile pylon-nose’d obstatrix.

Ingstofficate the ablabate angronify.

So I told him that Piper At The Gates of Dawn is transmitted as well as genes; that when I made an experiment into the maths of the new colour as a boy it was very Syd Barrett in a way. I told him “my boyhood book went wrong when I tried the maths of the new colour.” I also told him it still made an interesting E and an interesting F for the international language alphabet.

“I see I am going to have to delimit something about that experiment therefore,” I said and told him all about the + sign I put in for the F of scar+ in the boyhood book.

I told him that the original Barrett book, where I tried the maths, had now been stolen, and we had the <BEE> experiment, my brother’s sheet where pictures grew, that is, to replace it. I said the Barrett-child document was old-fashioned compared with <BEE>. It was time to move on. It was time to accept that the boyhood book was if not outmoded technology – for writing is technology – but not the latest thing. If I wasn’t going to make something of <BEE> then I would be an outmoded songbird.

The proprietor started to laugh at my Barrett-maths, and was in paroxysms over it. He was after all high. We used to smoke weed like it was a magical sacrament, and a self-legitimising pact developed round the stoner circle. We were trying to get sober from the advertising trance, abjure a worthless dogma to consumerism that robbed us of our bodies, renounce fidelity to surface-gods of illusion and to temporal wealth.

Obladobabong, dongcrastic, dongify.

On-donk-a-saurus wobbling the gooseprint.

Obladonky blonky, can’t wrap my hands around it.

Wriggley’s chewing gum wearing Wrangler jeans.

“Well you can’t just talk nonsense and claim it is arcane experimentation into the international language alphabet,” he said. So I tried to explain to him the beauty of <BEE>. “There was a time,” I said, “when my dad died that my seven year old book was still in the attic, for long storage, and meanwhile down the barn my brother’s <BEE> experiment had resulted in the sheet where pictures grew.” I told him that at the same moment in time, my book was allowed out of Long Storage and my brother’s sheet where pictures grew came true. He asked me to explain the sheet where pictures grew so I told him.

Once, in detention at school, and aged only 15, I wrote an essay about a green parrot sent to space through the conch. The teacher, an Irishman, read my colourful and imaginative essay and said “if you keep going like that you’ll go far,” but I haven’t kept up the nimble flight.

If you think I’m a genius for all that I went through, my little brother James P D Tucker is a genius too – he designed the sheet where pictures grew. Admittedly the pictures seem to depict the lyric to one of my songs – but I concede it is not mine. I did not lay it down.

James designed the new da Vinci circle as follows:

@

<BEE> [long squiggle]

Infinity Symbol

The new da Vinci circle is a discrete system containing the international language alphabet in 4 Points of Difference. It not only suggests <BEE> might soon ensue from @ in the international language alphabet but by incorporating a long squiggle, hopefully and ideally escapes “every word in every order” as a new super-computer can by no doubt organise.

I think it a brilliant piece of work. James had also made a previous document, with some deliberately-imperfectly-quoted Badly Drawn Boy lyrics about the power of the sun rendered in an anti-clockwise spiral like a word-sunflower:

sunshine inside of you

old sun warm sun

spreads over you

soliel all over you.

He left the two documents to rot on the upturned box we used as a table in the den in the barn. I think there was also a picture of the upturned box itself, with candles on, turned face down, on the reverse side of one of the two documents as if the whole thing were the new da Vinci circle, as if, that is, any part is a model of the whole.

You get that heat rises… so maybe with the upturned box with all its candles and wine bottle candle sticks drawn on the underside of one of the sheets, heat would start to rise through the paper.

I went down to the den in the barn and read them and at first couldn’t see the <BEE> one. We don’t know why this is but I saw a tabular arrangement of signs in boxes on the <BEE> sheet. It was like the Periodic Table except with the characters of the international language alphabet laid bare, a sign per box. One was [backward f, forward f, equals running through.]

Backward f, forward f, equals running through could stand for “fish.” But who augmented the paper with that touch? It was the main man himself, my brother, upstairs, sneezing while plugged into the same synchronicity as me, the same new co-imagination, the same sympathy. Anyhow, you can trust me that the international language alphabet as I read it was beautiful, and yet it turned out just a layer of pentimento in the parsimonious palimpsest.

I was impressed, and left it alone. But going back down to the barn to reread James’s imaginary alphabet or whatever I thought it was found the <BEE> document as James initially drew it – and couldn’t find the tabular arrangement of signs in boxes anywhere.

Again I left it alone, and some time later when our dad had just passed I went down to the barn another time and found the Badly Drawn Boy sheet had by now grown pictures. They seem to represent the lyric to a song I wrote going

I’m the only one left,

left to shoot my own gun,

this is the dead land,

crack a smile and curse the sun.

It’s not possible to curse the sun. The sun is a nuclear furnace burning in ecstasy miles away.

The pictures never got as far as the chorus. The song was never intended as a literal curse either. The bit you would’ve thought was the curse bit, coming after “crack a smile and curse the sun,” was actually written before the verse. I wrote the chorus first that is, and then the verse, and was just trying to make it rhyme too. What may be true about the song is that it represents the sublimation of The Lords And The New Creatures into a singular, pronominal act of Romantic, first person lyricism or ‘I’.

There are also two blue ones… the ones depicting the song are petrol negative mud Cola brown but the blue ones are a fat, greedy, Tory pig on the left and a calm, placid face on the right. This made me wonder if I had written theory, for it to happen, for at the solar eclipse with Paul, after guzzling too much LSD the night before, and during the solar eclipse itself, I wrote in the road book “Every Atom Ate Our Eyes.” Not long after, writing about the face of stars in a poem called ‘An Inward Prayer,’ I wrote “Blessed is peace as blessed is ‘FUCK!’” Still, this would take away from James’s genius. He harnessed Einstein’s cosmological constant ‘c’ as an author. It was him. It wasn’t me.

So anyhow, I g-a-v-e the document to James, who laid it down so must still own it. Truth be told we haven’t conversed over the matter much but I think if he was using ‘c’ as in Einstein’s value for light-speed as an author it is genius. Not only that but I would say as he would say that it was because he wrote “sunshine inside of you” that it worked. It was all about what’s inside.

Some of my songs were organised according to the new da Vinci circle for the songbook Soundcloud Rain. It’s why I am not free to redo them as something like The New Oedipus Wrecks Gig, because we deem they are already wheat. I might be wrong about the sheet, meanwhile, but at least I gave it a go, comprehending the surprise.

And that is what I made of it, regarding the narrative of how it all happened – but there is something else I realised since which I am not saying. And it worked because the sun is golden. And this has been a golden trance. A golden trance that is good to beholden. And now I should put it on my Blog with the science.

Truth be told, I don’t really know what happened with the sheet where pictures grew nor is it my business to say because it is my brother’s work. I shall just impart that with experiments in the international language alphabet I found a good womb for my writing for once… and b/t/w/ who wrote Simulations of God? If you look in, say, the volume Yes You May you find plenty of beautiful-minded ideas for inventions mine own. But the sheet was not mine, was my brother’s and is. I don’t mean to give things away and am being a bit bait so should keep shtum. The sheet is a piece of genius by my brother. It goes nicely with the maths of the new colour as a cellular mark which affected my forearm. They make a nice pair.

The man at the Pink Floyd cafe said he could see the succession and evolution of signs going on. He said he could see that my own book from seven years old had suddenly already served its purpose, was surplus to requirements, would essentially go bust and give way to my brother’s <BEE>. I told him that is exactly what was happening, that my work already did its long storage and <BEE> had taken over, was in fact the future. He asked me what I was going to do about it and I said hopefully make a word-science piece all about the succession of ideas. He asked me what I meant by word-science and I told him it was about applying pressure to language, stretching language to its elastic utmost to see what would happen.

I read in The New Scientist that we developed language on the basis of meat; that we grew our brains by eating meat; that we then needed to spread information about farming, hunting, killing, cooking and eating meat – so developed language.

One of my Professors, Prof. John Schad of Lancaster University, says “language speaks Man.”

Another, Professor David Morley of Warwick University, says “language is a word-world where words are a species.”

My friend Paul the poet and I think that “language is the emotional condom of the world.”

Part of that is that the pre-verbal, the thought-pattern, when translated into words, via the mechanics of meaning, always represents a dilution.

Sostaboster gontrackle blowbit.

Boji boji blangtacking avragon.

Abladonking applabloom applestashworthily.

Angtockocratick accistix accuload.

Endromomorphic estoplasm ecstasia.

Intrepitudinal inkstassed ackickstocktatic.

Unmplonubule umbulo under-dagger.

Umplombulo abstacratic obfuscate.

Professor Squillegybob says: “maybe the lesson of post-structuralism is twofold meaning:

(1) the condition of being a text can extend to any object

(2) the condition of being a language unto itself can extend to any text.”

In the meantime, after we had smoked ourselves slow, we decided against getting any more monkeymoo, and came home by Squeezyjet to Manchester Airport. The plane ride was high dizzy whiteness crammed in an air conditioned package. Some one went in the toilet for a smoke, thought the smoke detector was an extractor fan and started blowing smoke into it! It set a little alarm off, and the air hostess said he had to put it out. When we landed we picked up the car where we left it in the long stay and drove back to our house at the foot of Black Combe.

An interlocutor picked up my hands while I was at the screen and got me to type:

He found himself on a plane.

He found himself on a.

He found himself on.

He found himself.

He found.

P.

But what “P” means we do not know. Wittgenstein for example would say:

P = ~ ~ P.

The poet at the limit braves death to bring back intelligence from beyond.

I think there can be no more strange a transaction you make with yourself than deciding to be a poet.

Not that it is a conscious or image-conscious decision – for very often it chooses you.

Just that my soul is more plush and strange and luxurious than if I were not a poet.

The poet keeps the sacred fire of the heart alive.

The poet delights in a wilful opacity, bats, black magnets, firking, encryption, code, symbolism to attain the condition of verse.

The poet can even extirpate every trace of recognition from the myriad mind, unloose the mind of form, method-act every adjective in ‘Howl’ to attain visual radio, broadcasting dreams that billow like a weeping willow in the wind.

There were details of my own life story I had missed out back in the Doors coffee shop. The holographic horsecock wheeled into the bedroom. The bandage that vanished from my head as I sat still in a hospital chair. Skywriting at the Secret Garden Party sent by people from the future state. The way only my tent was utterly covered with birdshit in the morning and no other tent was remotely defiled in a field where you couldn’t even fit another tent. Or the single, little-fingernail clipping arrived between my bottom front teeth like a female e-mail. Or the pint glass exploded from thin air as had also occurred to someone else at the face of stars. Or BACKPASS ATTEMPTED instead of NO MONEY on the Oyster card reader on the East End bus. And after the sheet where pictures grew, came a blissful inscape of wings, and after the inscape of wings, visual radio indeed.

In the movie Pi the protagonist is a mathematician that has God’s name and its syntax embedded in his head and is therefore chased by people wishing to control the Stock Market and religious fanatics alike. He ends up attaining the simplicity the other side of the enormously complex, just sitting there gazing at a tree with the sun in it and the wind, as if to be endlessly inveigled by the delicate, vein’d instructions on a leaf.

Leaves that played on the surface of the water,

these are the leaves they have in Heaven,

these are the leaves of love.

Once, I lay back on my bed and just stared at the light on the ceiling, wearing as it was its paper lightshade; and in the lightshade I started to see an ecstatic medley of maths. I took notes on it but it moved too fast and I didn’t get most of it down but I got some of it down to give you a flavour of what it was like. I shan’t replicate it here but it did say 4025 is 2058.

After I turned out the light that night I couldn’t sleep so flicked the switch again and sat up reading Descartes. By chance I stumbled upon a passage where he said we must even doubt mathematical demonstrations. He was saying we need to doubt everything before we can begin to know, and this included the reliability of sensory data and as I say mathematical demonstrations too. Descartes seemed particularly brilliant… but Cartesian doubt seemed an effort of the will. I didn’t follow or buy his reasoning either, when he deemed it that he had proven God, (which I believe is the ontological as opposed to cosmological or teleological argument) but as I say he was still brilliant.

When I read Descartes on Perfection and turn inward my own eye to investigate, I glimpse a perfect, inner judge whose concerns are grammatical.

Instead of Cartesian doubt applied to every preconception, I applied Tyler Durton from Fight Club’s philosophy, where he makes you go to Rock Bottom and face your fears and find out what you really wanted to do with your life and do it. When I asked myself what I wanted to be I was in the midst of several files that stretched across the board, in terms of discipline boundaries, so the answer could’ve been poet, philosopher, musician, scientist, and in that moment I decided I wanted to be A Beautiful Mind, which is another film, as opposed to Jim Morrison from The Doors film I suppose. I stayed up reading Descartes until dawn.

In the end I got some sleep and dreamed of the dream-book in the undersea below. I am a dreamworker, b/t/w/, who has tried to smuggle language out of the unconscious; and I have grown convinced there is a book in the undersea of dreams. Once I flew to the Isle of Man to pick up a poem collection the shape of a remote control and made of chocolate from a white, garden table. Another time, the dream text was signed three times by Einstein’s value for light-speed c. Another time I held the book in my hands and it was a mate who had written it, and I read it, and it was genius, full of pretty spirals, oneiric-textured dreamwriting and liminal phrases. Maybe our best work remains lost on sleep’s crumbling biscuit shore.

<BEE> got lost in the flo,’

o’ er the ocean of green,

extracting pollen from flowers,

to make honey, for the mating queen.

Anyhow I heard it said

that poetry is dead.

Conceptualism and Flarf

don’t make me laugh.

For I am the witness

who lost to the fitness.

So I think there is more

behind a closed door.

There needs to be hope.

Without hope the heart cannot survive.

Love, which is a choice of words,

could also be said to be that hope

that the heart literally needs

in order for it to survive

without which it can stop.

For you can die of a broken heart.

Surprisingly quiet when it falls at our feet,

the great, hulking, mammoth universe…

it’s hardly a delicate flower, petite

and everything in it is mending worse.

Have you ever noticed that rain at the window is typing?

That it’s staccato?

That it sounds like fingertips at a type writer or qwerty keyboard?

That the frigid fingers are scattershot-logical in their permutations?

I think we might be working on the same book!

I was young and now I’m not,

and look about – what have I got?

I am skint, single, unemployed,

mentally ill, medicated, paranoid,

car-less, living with my mum,

and all this time to have my bum

parked on a seat, but what of luck?

I think the Gods don’t give a fuck!

Anyhow by now single is my jingle

so please God let it still tingle!

I feel I have been cut out of a loop

and am still coming down from brain soup!

I don’t watch films anymore, nor

follow the football much.

All the old props

have fallen away.

Here in winter’s

long, dark tunnel

find me, waiting, hoping

for a brighter day…

Abladobbabong, goograiny.

Appladoxy, polyformic.

The other Aphex Twin I am not

but speak of gootmocker bitumin the same.

Wumadumabong, bong-crastic.

Bongtafficate, bongsplastica.

Bong ding dong doolally.

Bongdong, bong bastardly.

Anyhow, tonight I woke up at about 3 AM, after a beautiful dream of having a little baby girl with my ex. I came downstairs and James came from his room and followed me downstairs. It was his turn to say “I woke up at 1 o’ clock.”

They say the attempted maths of the new colour is in key and in keeping with the maths that stored the idea of the net in writing in the attic to give it a chance to grow all the way round the world – that it just followed on – that things didn’t go wrong when I did it - and they also say that it required my brother. The original poem with the + sign for the ‘f’ is about feeling horribly guilty for hitting him one time when he refused to play Lego with me. It’s the only time I really hit anyone and I learned then that violence is wrong and that I love my brother dearly. If we got separated when I soon enough had to go through the wood, I hope we are teamed up again.

My brother – dad said he even dreams creatively; that still waters run deep. James says, in allusion to the new da Vinci circle, that “a dog is a dog is a dog is a dog.” What a saying, what a fair equator! What a way of vocalising the new da Vinci circle!

At some point <BEE> leads to c, and that is Einstein’s “cosmological Constant,” his value for light speed. Understanding this, I recognise I still don’t know everything there is to know about the sheet where pictures grew.

We worked together as a team, my brother and I, and my mother too, when we brought out the as yet only six collections with Chipmunka. I am the one with the name on the front, through whom everyone goes, the mouth-piece, the frontman, but we are attuned to the same moment, the same co-imagination.

The <BEE> one was good, meaning Soundcloud Rain, just songs structured on the new da Vinci circle, but the About The Author section showed I still didn’t know what I had gone through as a boy.

The Sunset Child, my boyhood book, worked, back in the day, if inventing the net was the efficacy, but not knowing that, I sold it to you as the homework of the witness from The Lords And The New Creatures.

The love poem book Breath Trapped In Heaven said “stop the war,” letting all else but love fall away, but there was no happy family at the end of it.

Brave New Tense looked at the condition of water at the foot of the fell in terms of a contract on universal human rights – or something like that. It was about writing off the top of the head to discretely “do the beck” in the back garden here where the Plough alignment is viable, but it only meant Long Foot Disease.

Yes You May was about not using force. I did it with my sister who is born on the 25th May. I think she was trying to say “it’s so bad you’re charging too much.”

And then we had Let The Jews Win – and it worked… it preceded a ceasefire between Israel and Hamas. As if the poet truly is the unacknowledged legislator of the world. So it didn’t matter that it repeated a few bits and bobs of my extant oeuvre because the point was peace.

06. 33. Repeat my proposition. Maths is the language of Nature. But now I am echoing the man from the movie Pi. I keep thinking there is something more to learn from my brother’s work – or mine own – and that it is to do with maths – something as beautiful and lasting as the Fibonacci sequence – but I can’t quite pin it down. Actually, it’s Dr. Bob, my second brother, who is trying to invent A. I. that teaches maths to children, also looking for a pattern in the Stock Market. He has his own company and works in computing. James meanwhile is trying to write a sci-fi epic set over 1000 years in space.

Normally I know what I’m doing

when I get up early in the morning

but today I haven’t a clue

what it is I’m trying to do.

The one with the maths is enough.

The one with enough is an eagle.

Although my life has been tough

I still come out good as Smigel.

08. 27 AM. I’ve been back to a previous file from a couple of years ago, a paper on the maths of the new colour. This <BEE> document is better but there might be one or two things from the former paper to factor in. There were flighty, speculative bits – joke equations! A poor impression of A Beautiful Mind!

I had a song when I was 15 about a little bet that the next guy after me to attain the face of stars will still write the line I wrote about it at the time and think it his or maybe even her own:

________________________

I shouldn’t state my equation for dreaming about Flora whom it would seem was the mating queen from the green pages in the flesh, that I now renounce…

__________________________

Here as well is my equation for being the neo-Rimbaud whom it would seem deemed it love:

Her breath a poisonous magic.

I do know Professor Morley’s equations for water’s effect on water but can not say. I can say however that H does not = 0 – 0 because I have a heart. I can also say that E minus MC squared = only relative 0.

By now my equation for the alignment of the Plough and the oldest fell Black Combe is the way the qwerty keyboard ends on M:

QWERTYUIOP

ASDFGHJKL

ZXCVBNM

and my equation for hanging my coat on a primary school wall a long time ago in the capital as if to start again is:

+ x ½ = –

Here moreover, is my equation for the healing and fusing of the cassette tape with a pause in the song where cut and stuck together in the flimsy reel:

H = t times Pi.

Here is my equation for the Ratio between light speed (c) falling and Gravity (G) pulling on my brother James P D’s sheet where pictures grew:

c/ G does not equal G/ c.

Also of note, here is my equation for turning pain into pleasure:

Dog = Pi times MC squared.

Now I deem it we are back round to that false notion with which I started, a long time ago. So, here is my equation for the idea that if the Gravity between the earth and the moon is instant and therefore enough to break Lightspeed, a clock is still only as fast as a cheetah:

G = c times t

and if G = c times t, I have to express what t = and might be wrong in saying

t = c divided by G

and might be wrong in saying t = 0.

That is after all to employ my faulty mathematics to falsify it in numbers as well as words!

I might as well add that even as we speak I still deem the word “entropy” spelled backwards to somehow frame the first, unformulated spark of appetence in Nothingness preceding Creation. I would spell it with a dot between each letter and say

y. p. o. r. t. n. e. = 4

E = starbeams. Of all the joke equations it’s my favourite one because it might be true. A star is a sun is a nuclear furnace is a ray of light is energy beating down on a planet far away.

08. 42. If only I could win my brother the Nobel Prize. He’s already had the Snowbell Prize foreseen in Flora’s eyes. Technically speaking, according to Granny, I am to get the academic success and James the women – but he’s even done the sheet where pictures grew. He’s removed competition!

It was for Flora that James designed the sheet where pictures grew. She’s beautiful, the mating queen from the green pages in the flesh, an evergreen light I must abjure, as I abjure nursing the suffering of my ideals. Put another way she is a transcendent signifier, a blind, metaphysical objective which I can only renounce, as I learn the falsehood of my own opinions, journey from idealism to pragmatism, temper the wild, impassion’d and Romantic proclivities of my temperament.

If I may but say one more thing it is that I even made the Nirvana barcode to be but the beat of ‘Scentless Apprentice’ by Nirvana tapped out in approximate barcode shape using the tool of the qwerty keyboard as in

|| | |||| | || | |||| 909 & 693 are wings

and threw it on the sitting room fire here at the foot of the fell as if to falsify the figment, the fallacy, fully, and have my mother photograph it burning on her Smartphone too.

Let’s just say, it remains to be seen what would happen if some young sprog who takes care of Einstein’s E in a particular way came by himself to write:

“I have a scar+ that is the new colour.”

It may be that no mark would be left at all.

Gilly flowers curtsey, not off the sound-map.

To make a flower-press would be womanly.

When our days still ended on cannabis

we would bemoan that flowers were legal.

To the tune of the wind I sink, then swim.

I no longer puff the evil weed these days.

It would be a reward, a kind of dialysis,

that separates the murk from the excellence.

I would need it to balance out my mind,

one homeostatic device for another one.

Now I worry that I am hurried and florid.

I hear an A. E. I. O. U. bird toot its long,

hollow horn out on the A595 and relax.

I hear its wheels go round, that it’s heavy.

*ketamineguitar*

“What’s the most obvious donk around you

and how many donks deep

and did the donk descend

to get to the donk on the end of it?”

These lines were written on a train,

stoned, newly stoned, coming

back from town with a stash

to the foot of the oldest fell.

Looking around me now

I see the kitchen, and do not miss

stoner life, going out in the rain to score,

begging a tenner off your neighbour.

And the writing that came hand in hand -

it was no better, only seemed good

because of the effect, even the line

“ride the wave of paranoia.”

Writing stoned can make you

write things that are untrue,

misremember half-formed things,

give the wrong impression entirely.

I write for many reasons. To heal the soul of the world, and my self first and foremost. To modulate mood in mental illness. Because writing is freedom. For approval and affirmation. Because writing is an experiment into more advanced modes of being. To sound out the sights that have been seen. Because it is a Hobby. Because it is a dream. Because since the age of four, it has been my ambition to be a writer. Because it’s the only thing I was good at during school. Because you should do what you’re good at. Because light might be attained.

You should never talk about Jim Morrison’s book with a pregnant woman. Even if you are making polite conversation about biology. This hangs heavy on my soul. Sometimes I curse my luck, curse the situation into which I was born. At other times I am asked to see the triumph over those that would wish to monopolise evolution, but I think what I went through was evil and don’t wish to talk about it again. Even if I have now got all the right answers, for papers.

I can’t believe I am hearing it but apparently I might still go to prison for speaking against September 11th in the year 2000 when, as a schoolboy, my brother asked me what I thought of the plot of the movie Fight Club. I think the world has become a very sick place driven by technological advance and profit and there needs to be a Revolution in the arts like in 1960’s. But I only say this because something needs to be said. I might have done better saying “children like yellow crayons.” But I thought I’d keep it to an adult theme. I was asleep when the Towers came down, at least the first one; and when the Towers still come down even though you have spoken against it, it means you were raped. This happened to me. I was raped and it manifested as a burning feeling in the psyche and when I suppressed it, I lost all contact with my prescient speech from 2000. To this day I don’t why I was prescient but it happened on several fronts across the board.

I also wish to go down as a genius and a hero, like Wittgenstein wanted. Helping invent the net was one thing, and taking care of The Lords And The New You Know Who another. Affecting my own evolution, even if it be but a thin, slight stripe up the underside, through maths, is another. Attaining the face of stars is another. The story went on and on but have you seen him recently? He’s drugged up to his eyeballs on medication, can’t get an erection let alone ejaculate, has the massive bushy beard of a philosopher, going grey, has become fat, and has the bewildered stare of beyond in his mad eyes. And he’s being watched and doesn’t feel like a satisfying book has been written about it all yet. Maybe one day, eh?

I’d actually like to write a fiction about a guy called Jack Costello. Once upon a time, in the happy world of Haribo, Jack Costello was born, and being born with a hard-on, his birth was heralded as being especially beautiful. His father had been sponsored by some philosophers to provide the real, human witness from The Lords And The New You Know Who, and had not told the mother. You know the rest, when enough media is or are compressed, the results of anything penetrative are bad for those who would wish to control the media.