BETWEEEN YOU AND ME

02/ 05/ 2026

Once upon a time I had an experiment into the maths of the new colour as a cellular mark. It contained the line

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

using a plus sign for the ‘f’. I now sit here with a mark on my body which I wouldn’t say is red and black, but nor would I say it is the new colour exactly.

It isn’t all I have done with my short sweet life. At seven I helped invent the net: when the idea of the net needed storing in writing in the attic here to give it a chance to grow all the way round the world, I was the one to write it. By eight I was the witness from The Lords And The New You Know Who twice making weird observations. By eleven I was marked by the maths as mentioned. By fifteen I attained the face of stars which may have been scripted in the Bible. By eighteen I forewarned of September 11th in 2000 and wrote the highest-marked English Literature A-level exam essay in the nation at 100%.

After school I recorded an album on binaural earphones, 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, worked the numinous, purple-bleeding PC screen, built the Tower as an instrument of philosophy, conducted an experiment into a cassette tape with a pause where resealed in the reel, and discovered the sheet where pictures (seemingly depicting one of my own song lyrics) grew.

The mark has been with me throughout most of that process and has now been confirmed by a medical professional. I recently took an O. D. and needed to go to A and E and lying there needed a pee, so had to pee into a pot from the female doctor.

A non-white medical professional, she has said “you looked twin-tone when you needed to pee. We would say you have re-invented the human form.”

That’s quite something, but my father-poet, Neil Curry, says there are still only two poems that are any good in my whole repertoire. One is short and about daybreak, the other is called ‘Notebook’ and is long and I quoted from it when I mentioned some of the things I did with my life, by copy and pasting. That means if I copy and paste in the two poems, you’re going to have to read the paragraph listing things I did with my life all over again.

The government still won’t allow the poem about daybreak because it mentions The Lords And The New Creatures by Jim Morrison. If I were to press ahead with it I would have to rewrite it. It is necessary that I do something, have something on the go, all day every day and the Feds are making it very difficult to be oneself. They would say my birth was against the law if I was born the witness which I think I was. The idea that music is the only safe place for me fills me with depression. I am yet to record a single song in a professional capacity and am 44 which is way too old to be prancing round as a wannabe rock star.

I still haven’t done a good number, 18 self-or-vanity-press-published books in, 9 amateur albums or E. P’s. “This is why we gave you the sheet where pictures grew,” says a voice, “but it turned out to be your brother’s because of <BEE>.”

My brother, if you didn’t know already, says <BEE> might come after @ in the international language alphabet.

“Now that we know it’s true all the things you used to do we think you should see sense.”

I don’t know what that means, but maybe pack in writing because the job will never be done, there never will be a valid work of art arising out of my life situation.

It leaves me with nothing to do but show you the poem that is illegal.

THE DAWN

Dawn leaks out, its light slipping

through the dark fingers of the trees.

If I bring this to publication,

it will mean wood.

The woods are a traditional

testing ground in literature.

These days things are wireless.

I might’ve gone right

when I asked Paul

what colour is white?

What is a while?

Is this where the truth

flies or the truth fairy?

In the past, being the witness

from The Lords And The New Creatures

I might’ve been burned at the stake.

When you’re gone we hope

the doors will

open up enough.

Maybe we can

do the new creatures again.

POST-MATCH ANALYSIS

I absolutely love that poem which seemed to come together via Extra Sensory Perception for me. I don’t think I was supposed to find out what lay behind it either but I did: there is a song from the 1960’s that begins “the bent twig of darkness holds the petals of the morning.” That’s what it is, a bent twig of darkness where petals are held. So it’s rather beautiful. First you get that it’s a bent twig, then that there are petals, then you connect with the song, which is by someone like The Amazing String Band or whatever they are called. The song is a good one and to encrypt that line in a poem seems most Rimbaudian. I just find it staggering that the government won’t allow it because it mentions the possibility of The Lords And The New Creatures coming to fruition.

03/ 05/ 2026

Personally, I’d rather have a First Class Honours degree from a top ten University than a career in music, including an online following and some professional recordings.

But if music were dead I would be sad.

It might be that it is my role in science for which I get remembered.

I might not have what it takes to be a poet but I proved you could alter the colour of white skin through mathematics.

As stated, they say there are only two poems I ever wrote that were any good: one is called ‘Notebook’ and I probably won’t show you it because is already contained in the volume Let The Jews Win. The other is the one called ‘The Dawn,’ which the government will not allow.

The government assisted me (I think) through telepathic channels, in the organisation of a book of science and maths, where a bunch of proofs are presented as a dream-sequence – but this is already better. The government seemed to imply that all I should keep from the whole of my life and writing was the bit where I organised the Nirvana barcode. I 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:

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

It’s all contained in the poem ‘Notebook,’ but it’s already published so I may not re-offer it here.

Anyhow I wonder what would’ve happened had I not been bound to the hospital bed and had the female nurse and I “clicked.” Would I be serenading her with songs and poems? The truth is I cannot ejaculate anymore. It wasn’t this O. D. attempt but the O. D. attempt before. It was said that it was genius to survive it but when I came back down I’d lost the ability to come. It’s not come back again. That was part of the reason I made the new attempt.

********

I’ve just looked at my Blogspot page where I have been posting documents, science, maths, poetry, philosophy, music and photographs. So few people ever check it out and nobody ever leaves a comment. By now I am thinking of putting in the only other poem that they say is any good from all my multifarious writings.

PREFACE TO ‘NOTEBOOK’

This text is painstakingly transcribed from defaced bank notes. Some of the bank notes are damaged, illegible, others ‘missing.’ Efforts have been made to order the bank notes but were not always successful. No efforts were made to authorial-fingerprint the voice or psychoanalyse the handwriting. The text is not necessarily a critical indictment of embedded liberal capitalism of whom we are liberal, human subjects and where money, formerly neutral means of exchange, is becoming a flying, white, electrical spark passing through borders of osmotic porosity in the dark. Nor is the text necessarily about an imaginary designer drug called Strictly Free that does exactly what it says on the tin, is and makes you “strictly free” to consume. It is but an open-air poem, comprised of torn and bleeding snapshot-fragments that are given artificial insemination. Inherent in it is a notion that money is an Ode to Death, that a fiver is cheese and onion flavour, that work sets you free.

NOTEBOOK

Il faut que je m’en aille.

Sometimes you’ve just got to hit the road and.

Start learning the basics of a strange, unseen vernacular arrowed down from some lost, mad Godhead within. Pass the fallen road sign saying THINK! in the nettles and the mystery of the single shoe beside the road, in a fast Subaru Impreza with Paul and the gang, the Beatles’ back catalogue tumbling from the speaker, the open window a roaring lion, late birds singing in trees, birds that are intelligent, trees that are our friends, on a smouldering evening in Cambridgeshire, when nothing really matters.

The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob. L to the pregnant snorkel + Ossie the dog, he should be sleeping like a log, goes round and round chasing his own tail, only goes upstairs for a trail of Maltesers, nice, round and pale, we’re on the road to Heaven, happiness awaits us there, flutter in the sideways, flutter in the sideways, bring your brief fling with the politics of flight…

Seeing as we can travel backward in time, seeing as we have equalled the speed of light, I thought we could revisit some choice excerpts from my boyhood and beyond.

Teacher rite elephant nite

everything lite lesson love

learn tell everyone Esso orange.

2 MC = E = MC [someone] 1

In the picture of the airport

I can see… a runway,

a cloud, two planes,

a control tower

and the ire ii net.

In our new pogrom there is a Vetacore.

A bomp explodes.

I faded my work.

I have a scar+ that is red and black.

I found a piece of string with a stone on it. I put it round my neck. I saw that the stone could fit into the hole in the wall. It was full of dead skeletons.

He has spines all over him.

Colour circles red. How many circles?

Colour triangles blue. How many squares?

Colour oblongs orange. How many triangles?

Hot July brings cooling showers,

straw berries and gilly flowers.

It was 6. 58 and 37 seconds so we all ran as fast as we could towards the sofa.

MY DOG HAS GOT NO BRAIN,

MY DOG IS A TOTAL PAIN,

HE'S GOT THREE EYES

AND A BIG FAT NOSE

AND GETS HIMSELF TANGLED

WITH THE GARDEN HOSE,

HE ONCE TOOK A PILL

THAT MADE HIM ILL

AND EVER SINCE THEN

HE'S BEEN STANDING VERY STILL.

Squawk squawk gaggle gaggle, bongles has still got the stones.

Sullen, silken sulks,

we drink the same rain,

spit is clean

and so is dirt.

Folder graffiti. Normal is boring. Do it later. God made speed to save us, God made hash to help us. The system works quite well. The grass is always long on the Other Side.

The fire-dance dwelled in electric drums

where ecstasy fell soft fathoms to clap

and bells let peace form in blue notes

and peered at deer in the wood and ate of it

and wet let excellence sound out its criticism

and dawn let sting its unsheathed sting

and chloroform in the heart let see

if only Game Over was seen in nights.

The

sun

hanged

himself

from

a

length

of

daisy

chain.

Clocktick clock being clocked off by clocktick.

Clocktick clock not being clocked off by Time.

The Universal Mind’s moon meat man might.

The Universal Mind’s moon meat man meant.

The Universal Mind’s moon meat man met.

Break, bird with the skin of snake.

God rushed into the cold cod quick.

Behold! An evil vision hath flashed before mine eyes!

Barnes has scored a chicken

and wingers are allowed bikes!

Maybe a tabular arrangement of signs in boxes, like The Periodic Table except a swear word in every box, to go at the end?

Even A Duck Gets Big Erections: my mnemonic for the strings of the electric guitar took the same amount of time to conjure as it takes to say, but my mother has changed it now.

Hey, my name is David Bonky,

I’m a knock-kneed hummingbird,

there’s a tear up my jacket.

Over and out, testing testing 123, welcome to my presence and its intensity...

I watch her walk along on the other side of the street.

She parades the black panther’s nonchalant strut.

She wears blue jeans and black leather boots.

She takes some chewing gum out of her bag.

She slides the stick of it out of the pack.

She puts the stick of it into her mouth.

She loves to chew and suck the taste.

She loves to chew and suck the taste.

She puts the packet back in her bag.

She swings the bag about a little bit.

She walks past a little pub long shut.

She might go check out a flower shop.

She loves to chew and to suck the taste.

She enjoys it, chewing and sucking the taste.

I read that Maya means “Goddess of Illusion” in Sanskrit, where Mara, by stunning contrast, is the Buddhist God of Temptation.

A glance

A blink

A fault in the stars

Her mascara slips into pools of black

A chance

A second

of Infinity

She flutters her eyelids

like spring’s first butterfly

The stars awake to notice love

she waits with open arms.

But all is well if I only think

& sigh of the dreams of dusk

Images before I sleep

Dancing, escaping memory

They seem to have no cares at all

They seem to know the name of love

They seem to be my sacred friends

Ancient messengers, waking at night

But I will forget them & never care

About what I saw in love & alive

What? Oh, I guess it’s love

Just us & love Forever...

Sometimes I wish to have no more than a line penned in the margins of a newspaper going:

The light of all that’s good is true

if believing is the dawn of dreams.

Only when the ship is ripped is the sea a she and the water Nirvana-blue as solar spike.

Desperate for sex with a dream full of ladies.

Desperate for sex with a dream full of ladies.

Soft

and

loose

like

yellow

pencils

scribbling

dreams

as

they

arrive.

Semen spills like silver water,

under the bridge with the angel’s daughter,

splashing with laughter in a moon-glow chamber.

Don’t escape at night

into a heightened dream

from a dull and longing sleep.

Her breath a poisonous magic.

Sometimes perhaps

down opening quiet

I am drawn down

long and alone and

my friend and my foe

recede into deep sleep

sudden and still

like a dawn behind

a screaming veil

where silence is born

and all that’s loose and tight

and all that’s light is light

like first morning

with no night

and wend my way

so slow to Freedom

and soft Infancy-lunacy

with harp-sure eyes

so I can live

the last poet’s

last poem.

There is joy in things

and smiles not grins like butter

but like butterflies.

My philosophy in a nutshell: sensus praecedit cogitationem. It could be the motto of the LSE’s Philosophy Dpt; but when you write it down, what happens?

Tonight it is your right to judge by heart alone.

When I first read the line “I look forward to the future with rapt uncertainty - and I can’t stand the suspense,” for some unknown reason it chimed like bells, reverberating up in the fells and struck a warm, psychic chord. I even conjured lines to rhyme with it before I knew what it meant like:

[John is dancing with aliens in collective ecstasy].

Blessed may be the end at last,

under the sea,

below the soul,

in the upside-down

Oceans above us

(all that Heaven sends is rain).

V to the knock-kneed hummingbird’s wings… plus, in Rimbaud’s colours of the vowels, E is white; but in my friend Agent G’s musical code, when you detune the guitar strings all the way down, the streetname for E becomes F sharp minor!

2

JOHN TUCKER

ENGLISH

E

ENGLISH

JOHN TUCKER

HARECROFT

1

Signed by everwell, she couldn’t hit it sideways, or maybe a soothsaying Spiderman with the hairgel of Dracula, Atlantis, Aquarius, the 60’s.

Last night it seemed we couldn't sleep but maybe I was dreaming. The world expands inside my hands it's getting heavy. Of all the treasures I could choose I can't seem to decide. Today the shade was washed away where I would hide. Dream with open eyes, come below and we can fantasise. Now that I’ve stopped telling lies, come below and we can fantasise. Last night it seemed we nearly died but maybe I was dreaming. It made me feel sooooooooooooo alive and soooooooo in love. Dream with open eyes, come below and we can fantasise. Now that I’ve stopped telling lies, come below and we can fantasise.

Where once I wandered far and wide 

on a field-file, a file-field, 

a fenceless farm without 

security alarm where all hearts bleed

and all arts breed, now Hell

is very quiet, unadvertised.

McBreastmilk, 

McBreastmilk, 

don’t feed your kids.

Gentle face erasing cream,

smear it in and let it sink

down through the pores of your skin

to erase your deepest down dirt.

O stars the government

that truly speaks for us!

Get an extra kid for free

when you spend 99p.

Freefall 0800 down

your own black hole pupils.

Maybelline you maybe only make-believe

you may be the true mating queen of the hive,

may mad vampires stalk you,

stalking walls walk through

your vagrant dreams.

I see state of head

is more than Head of State.

Monster Munch can

always gobble up your food.

Cancerel can always 

sweeten the stewed-

carfume coffee we sip in 

this liminal afterlounge.

It’s getting cramped

as a tin of beans in here.

In emergency please 

break glass and exit.

Credits at the end of innocence

are falling like numberless lists

of fallen autumn leaves.

Snatched handfuls of light

come to nothing in the dark room.

There must be a use for 

this dust amounting.

There’s nothing like digging 

a meaningless hole as if to cure the 

spiralling lethargy of Hell...

and when I went into the 

woods to bury my soul, 

all the trees knelt down.

O perpetual orgasm of the sun! 

Privation is the mother of imagery.

Prayers, ghosts and 

e-mails chatter on 

the ego-loss breeze.

The chitchat in the solipsistic

kitchen of fiction is 'phatic'.

My new, motley fridge magnet

letters contain no question 

mark in the pack but the first

qualification of Modernism

is inquiry and furthermore

wilful ignorance is a sin.

Meanwhile outside the 

fallen Autumn leaves 

are where bears have 

dipped their feet in pots of paint 

and danced across the threshold 

of the paving stones.

Water clears its throat from the tap.

Gunpowder was only invented

for fireworks and a firework

is a champion sperm nosing up

blind to explode bright and wonderful

deep-sea creatures in the Ancient Night.

The world is a cool, bejewell'd

marble snug in Holy Orbit

suckling on a mother sun.

Supposedly there is soon

to be New Atlantis on the moon.

The cure for cancer 

sustains your heart.

Robbed by a bastard vending machine,

somewhere a tramp drinks paint-stripper 

to cleanse the doors of perception,

a drunkard attacks a wall

on an otherwise empty street,

a policeman forces himself

to come with a gun.

Hey salesman 

slow down 

with that

fast-food. 

I don't mind

waiting here

for a year. 

Portability still seems the Apotheosis of Form: sometimes I can be walking along on a sunny day when I jump from the jungle to the Arctic to the Sahara. Mutation in consciousness itself, truth too simple to understand, these are gesture-without-motion-bones, like sadness gene and dreaming gland.

It's not impossible to write an anti-poem. Love is not a mechanistic set of rules. Love was once aligned with madness, fever and intoxication. Love became grouped with language not God. Love became a tough word-combination. Love has no ego as everyone knows, and so it goes and so it grows.

I for one think Lucy in the soul with demons may happen to be an actual substance. Travelling south, as I read Rimbaud, a rainbow smashed a railway train window. A baby cannot trip without memories... I remember “every atom ate our eyes.” Our eyes: they are ingrown in the ocean's bellyful of wine, down in the seabed-orchard. There is angelic music inborn in the inner ear; but those whom the Gods wish to drive mad are sent the end of ‘Bike’ in their heads and madness is not something to be Romanticised as a return to Purity.

Impunity seems more what the poet wants. He likes to float on the artifice of organic emotions through synthetic sounds, and is into exploring alternative histories suppressed by the overarching meta-narrative. For plastic surgery of the soul there are libraries. Poetry is the bike riding itself. Monopoly money will get us well, Monopoly money will get us bread, she picks the blue tac off the wall and says “my T-shirt is red”. I put my wounds up on bright flags; I take the angel up the arse. To plug my senses in the mains might engage [!00 %] of my brains.

It’s all about a permanent reactivation of the Glastonbury Festival spirit. John Tucker is taking acid again. Money shags in the dark. Thoughts of one’s greatness only diminish one’s greatness. Skunkfoot is putrid demons excreted through stone. Love an army of fire. Fire needs some incentive to rise up. Shall I touch my heart with a red Bic biro? When all the air in outer space is consumed… The bed in the wood, it was definitely a whore’s, with solar spike I can use the Force, with R2D2 I cleanse my doors, I’m just trying to win my Star Wars. I’m starting to think in five musical parts at once. The Anon Throwaway as a new form could become an alternative currency to rival with money for the role of the real.

Formal education is not for everyone. The yellow DogMuckels M atop the pole in the industrial park is the postmodern churchspire in the spiritual vacuum. Postmodernism is theme dissolved into message. Giant killers are frozen peas in the microwave. I look into the mirror though I shouldn’t pool my sources. I’m not going to die at the age of twenty seven, watch the dreamtapes on repeat from a golden seat in Heaven.

The heart beats to the rhythm of one. A fiver is surely cheese and onion flavour. Cataclysm is catalyst for the old cat that sat on the map of sound, just because the world is very round. If there were paper under my heart there would be writing on it and it would be art. I might ding it in compressed Space Age seconds.

If you falsify the Nirvana barcode it should have meaning. I can run you through a series of life events in terse precis that meant I arrived at such a culmination.

Well, at seven I helped invent the net: when the idea of the net needed storing in writing in the attic here to give it a chance to grow all the way round the world, I was the one to write it. By eight I was the witness from The Lords And The New You Know Who twice. By eleven who knew what was going on? By fifteen I attained the face of stars which may have been scripted in the Bible. By eighteen I forewarned of September 11th in 2000 and wrote the highest-marked English Literature A-level exam essay in the nation at 100%.

After school I recorded an album on binaural earphones, 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, worked the numinous, purple-bleeding PC screen, built the Tower as an instrument of philosophy, conducted an experiment into a cassette tape with a pause where resealed in the reel, and discovered the sheet where pictures (seemingly depicting one of my own song lyrics) grew.

I went through all that without earning 1p. Then as a summary of all of that which I had done, I invented and falsified the Nirvana barcode and in doing so attained visual radio, broadcasting dreams that swirl in digital, purple swathes about the head of the deranged seer...

So you see that it has been fast indeed! That Subaru Impreza! And Time does not pass but evaporate! And things live inside onions of themselves! And galloping water would be a cool thing to say!

I 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.

Di di dit di di dit di di dit dit dit

Di di dit di di dit di di dit dit dit

Di di dit di di dit di di dit dit dit

Bring bring

bring bring

“Hello?”

Gold member, you're the one,

the one with the heart of gold

Vowels, pure vowels 

Immanuel Kant

will come to thee 

with immanence

You come home smacked up you come

d/ d/ d/ down

grooving up slowly

d/ d/ d/ down

grooving up slowly

d/ d/ d/ down

grooving up slowly

yeah yeah yeah

yeah yeah yeah

yeah yeah yeah

boom

boom

boom

boom

boom

how did we get down here from flat-top

wide tunnel cities self driving cars

bears in the moon and liquor and drugs

and whisky baaaaaaaaaaaars

boom shanka, you're the one,

the one with the sonic boom

knickers knickers faster than lightning

skin up fall out of bed

and did those feet

in ancient times

rain down, rain down,

come on raindown

and walk the sun

fatter, hippier, less well connected

always walk the hallways

down to create my own

and in the meantime

and in the meantime

I'll do the monkey bars with my legs

manic depression has enraptured my name

don't know what I want but I just want shame

don't know what I want but I just won't shave

rainy waif, rain always,

lay back and dream

on a rainy waif

now I know how Kurt Cobain sang

oh now I know how Kurt Cobain sang

no more laaaaaaaaaa la's

removal van canes will be turned into furniture

we're thinking of putting Tricky's name on the front sir

you never see me dead near an inch of closure

|| | |||| | || | |||| 909 and 693 are wings

“and a record made of sound

goes round and round, conveying

music to the speaker through the stylus,”

says the radio as I turn it on.

Well, although there is no

such thing as the Nirvana barcode

it opens up a discussion about

the Telepathic Walkie Talkie, how

if barcode is rain barcode is phone...

and at least I have

the grace to come

back and say that the

extinction of consciousness

has no monetary value.

It is past dawn

and I see that

that first mobile

phone has gone.

If it makes any difference to you,

my little bro is a genius too, who

designed the sheet

where pictures grew

and says <BEE>

might soon ensue

from @ in the international

language alphabet…

he did it for Flora,

subject of many a love poem of mine,

and it turns out

he had her, did her, loved her,

won her, got her,

in time past.

But who kissed who

is playground stuff,

and jealousy is a wasted emotion,

and I am proud

to be my brother’s brother,

and my mother’s son.

I would never begrudge my brother something I would want for myself or my mother either.

03/ 05/ 2026

In Let The Jews Win, there was a second poem, coming after ‘Notebook,’ for my brother and I divided things for parity with <BEE>, but apparently it is not one of the only, few, good poems I ever did. ‘Notebook,’ anyway, is a refinement and summary, comprised of quotes from my oeuvre arranged in a more or less chronological trajectory… if it makes you go back and read the originals from which the quotes come, that is a good thing. The books that preceded it were Soundcloud Rain, The Sunset Child, Breath Trapped In Heaven, Brave New Tense, Yes You May, then came Let The Jews Win.

The power shower starts up, I hear the ferry’s engine. I was walking round the kitchen thinking how there is nothing to do with my writing but put it up on a blogspot page very few read, and how there is nothing to do but write. I thought I was having a telepathic communion with a father-poet who said I had only done two good ones, and I suppose I would be thinking of doing another good one. When Jim Morrison wrote ‘The Lords’ he wrote it because he wanted to be making movies but couldn’t, so wrote about movies instead almost like wish-fulfilment. I was thinking of doing the same with music… sometimes I wish I was making it. ‘Notebook’ was already a very musical piece.

The shower is going to stop and I might interpret that as my brother telling me to stop, stop writing, even though the shower has to stop at some point even if he doesn’t mean it as a message. Whatever the case, he might be right that I need to stop. On top of the 6 Chipmunka collections I mention, there were three volumes of a book of philosophy called Transition To Philosophy brought out under a pseudonym Johannes Bergfors in the middle of it all. And going back before the Chipmunka books, there were a further 9 books self-published on Amazon. I never felt like I got any of my books just right. Now I think the shower has stopped.

Instead of my stopping, I suddenly take the shower upstairs to mean that I should do the washing up. After days of leaving it, it is a long job, but I get it done. Then I start to drink cold lager and lime… it is not an experiment.

If I take down the net-books I have blogged, and posit this as it is, I will hear boos. The net-books should stay up there even if it asks way too much of a reader to get through them.

Anyhow I just found out Tom Stoppard has died. Randomly, I started rereading his Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead only a short while ago… now I hear he has died. Death is abysmal. Death is absolutely vile. We’ve all got to go sometime. Each of us will die. When I was in A and E last, it was thinking of my brother and family in general that made me not want to die. I saw that death is vile and that love is the reason you don’t want to die.

LIBRARY

When the psychedelic treasure chest

of dreams is opened,

perfumed sunset will streak

like water-colours across the canvas-sky.

Take out your guitar cables and see in all directions at once.

When perceived through the frame of music,

the horizon is a drone,

the apple blossom a dulcimer.

If the apple blossom made a sound

it would be tintinnabulation.

Already the beck’s tumbling

down a mini waterfall

resembles a kettle drum’s metal

petals of silver bliss…

already the trumpet wears

his foreskin on the inside.

Already there is an upturned canoe for a drum.

Already there is a dog for a frontman

and there are poppadom hi-hats

allowed in the raggedy band.

At least when I look through them,

they look really good.

When Jim Morrison wrote ‘The Lords,’ he wished he was making movies, but couldn’t, so wrote about it instead, like wish-fulfilment. I feel the same about music.

After garage and house comes library.

Ableton is working but the microphone is broken like the first microphone.

I’ve been in five bands down the years which I would like to talk about. First The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob with my siblings on a rainy day in Penn, Bucks. We sang of the dog going round and round chasing his own tail.

Then Oedipus Wrecks… I had seen the face. I used the line “maybe all I need is a length of metal chain.” We foreshadowed doom.

Already by that stage my mnemonic was Even A Dick Gets Big Erections. Already I had a cassette tape with a pause where cut and resealed in the flimsy reel and a desire to do away with the pause somehow.

After Oedipus Wrecks came Secret Chord H.

I can list thirteen words beginning with ‘c,’

the twelfth being “cannabis,”

the thirteenth being “Caliban,”

but I still think the song ‘Dream With Open Eyes’

by Secret Chord H is better.

Then in my Gap Year we had the Flood.

When the dishwasher’s revolving is accentuated into words, I think it is a song by The Flood. The Flood recorded on binaural earphones. I had had the idea myself but the idea was implemented by another bloke, who played drums. The album we recorded explores dark music, explores irony as a musical key. Even the feedback and static makes a tone-poem in a neo-Classical sense when you record on earphones. I don’t want to spoil it for you, but it was good when I climbed up and sang that I was going to “plug my senses in the mains.”

In case you were wondering where your house keys are, at the time of The Flood I was writing about Instant Travel, and also Hypertext At The Gates of Dawn. Not only that but I wrote a paper on whether or not Lucy In The Soul W/ Demons could be considered an actual substance, and got a First for it too, though it got away.

The Flood began in my Gap Year, living with Paul in Cambridgeshire, and continued in the holidays even when we had all gone off to our separate universities. When I left Warwick without a degree, I went back to Cambridge again and lived in the shed in the band’s commune.

One track on the Flood’s binaural earphone album picked up a sophisticated arrhythmia, a clickety clickety click, a pecking order bird, like a sonic machination from The Lords And The New Creatures, when “the chopper blazed over, inward click and sure.”

The Flood knew my parents were hiding the heirloom from me. They called my mum down to pick me up when I was behaving strangely and she told them that at seven I had written a book that helped invent the net, or at least kept it free… when someone needed to store the idea of the net in writing in the attic in order to give it a chance to grow all the way round the world it was me that wrote it. I didn’t know about it even though it was done with my own right hand, so I must’ve “gone blind.”

So my mum sent my brother and I out for fried chicken when she came down to meet the band, and told them, presumably, I had helped invent the net when too young to know and was being kept in ignorance about it too.

By eight I was the witness from The Lords And The New You Know Who twice making weird observations. By eleven I was marked by an experiment into the maths of the new colour. By fifteen I attained the face which may have been scripted in the Bible. By eighteen I forewarned of September 11th in 2000 and wrote the highest-marked English Literature A-level exam essay in the nation at 100%.

After school such behaviour would continue. Yes, I recorded an album on binaural earphones, also 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, worked the numinous, purple-bleeding PC screen, built the Tower as an instrument of philosophy, conducted an experiment into a cassette tape with a pause where resealed in the reel, and discovered the sheet where pictures (seemingly depicting one of my own song lyrics) grew.

I started to bring out books in a self-or-vanity-press-published way.

If I could do the Nirvana-barcode again I’d say “James Joyce would just use four.”

||||.

Previously I 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; but using only four would be more the drum intro to ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit.’

At some point in that, I got together with a mate called Mr. G and made some music. We put Blake to music to great success.

Mr. G says it doesn’t matter how old you are unless you’re in a boyband; and you don’t need to be Syd Barrett, anyone can do it.

Maybe would say it’s fair enough if you’ve got musical talent but with me it’s just a vapid fashion-statement suitable only for the rebellion of youth.

NIGHT-TIME PAGES

“We’re just assessing whether or not the ESP poem about the dawn is actually about cutting out mind cancer,” says someone.

In which case if it is, it might be allowed.

Meanwhile they want the other poem from Let The Jews Win, the one that succeeded ‘Notebook.’ It’s about <BEE> getting lost in the garden.

FLAGRANT RAPSCALLION

I

Apple blossom cheek

breath of wine

plates or confetti

he sips on disturbed

Nile insect

spaghetti

II

While that may be the ABC of aesthetics,

what I’m getting at is that

if a flower-press ending on cannabis

could = a dialysis a love poem

only hoping to impress poor Flora = a motor.

III

If I could sip from your eyes I would

and taste your name. Eyes of

deep undersea green, we
would skinny dip and fish

in them, drag out numberplates,

mangled car doors, crumbs.

The pretext is yours

and it is also my mum’s.

IV

If this were a fairy story

there’d be no happy ending.

No sumptuous consummation

will wait for the poet

at the end of a plot.

I think of a chain of music from star to star,

but therein am starting

to quote my old self again.

V

I’ve already lost my father

who was an international art smuggler

nicknamed Blue or so he said -

though once upon a time

I thought art was recourse

to euphemism for pollen.

The people from the future,

they don’t want his business to end.

VI

It’s good when the daffs come out in spring,

like yellow trumpets, broadcasting

their excellent news.

Excellent News was the ideal

in my New Beat youth, b/t/w/.

I was nomadic in those days.

VII

Before the daffs come out,

we have snowdrops like

pure, white flames

in the heart for love.

The long, dark tunnel

of winter awaits us now.

VIII

I sip tea, I sip tea,

unsweetened it’s

enough for me.

I’ve got a lot of washing up to do.

I tried to meditate today.

Come.

It’s good to get the washing

up done, because it is good

to make a clean space

for yourself before

you write – mess leaks in

to the brain when

you are in a messy room.

Now it’s done I can make a sandwich -

cheese, ham, lettuce, on special brown bread…

it has no added sugar unlike white.

At the moment I am leaving

the washing up to dry, but

soon will put it all away.

Then I can say “hey,

I pulled my weight today.”

So that I do, and that’s true…

I do a little bit more at my screen,

getting pithy about Place and Nature

then go outside to collect wood.

Sometimes I look at Nature and see

invisible sheet music flowing right to left.

If you like I’ll mention some scattered perceptions of the Lakes.

The fell from town,

when you’re driving towards it,

seems a great, slumbering

diplodocus, come

to fat and die by

the Irish Sea; but

nearer the foot

you can see it is

more Buddha levitating.

And when you mention

the slow ascent

up flat, gradual paths

I think more of a bullet

to the top of a telegraph pole

or even the kettle, rising

to its silent scream,

its steam Ariel returning

on Caliban’s chain.

Floating in the quiet

of a weightless dawn,

the buzzard is the crux

of the flux of time,

and all of Creation

his dark machine.

There are benefits living here, like

once I encountered a rare, red kite,

which sat resting on a fence post, waiting

for me like a warning or a reward.

Sometimes Nature is custodial;

and at other times, frightening, otherworldly…

in me, Nature is a great art exhibition,

but it can also be an immunity to Reason.

Some think of the future a lot,

and how there should still be

a place for Nature in that future,

to go exploring just to look at trees,

which like crows, dogs and

horses are Man’s friends.

Nature is the true architecture of State, at least unto some, while others would take a less staid and Conservative attitude.

Here we find mood as bracken frond.

We find dry stone walls creeping

in to the writing even of city folk, visiting.

I think writing about the Lakes could be the refinement of a drug called “Strictly Free.” I think the Beautometer would be a good invention for fell walkers. I sometimes think of Heaven as a pile of statistics when I ascend the fell – that I will one day find out the exact number of steps I have taken up it and whether I held the record.

The powers that be could be clouds

rowing overhead on their sky blue roads.

And everything in Nature is only semi-state: even the fell is mutable on a long enough timeline.

Well, nothing has changed to the map

apart from the wind-farm beyond the lap

of the tide, revolving its Mercedez Benz arms

to make electricity for the farms -

and also the cafe down the beach -

since Norman Nicholson neglected to preach. -

Changes to the place have been the net,

global warming let’s not forget,

the advent of the mobile phone

and increased opportunities for vice in town.

But who needs vice when literature is intoxicant enough?

Here, we find the beck is a fountain pen.

I sometimes stand by the beck, listening in.

(Dr. Bob says only those with their feet firmly planted can fly.)

I would be wearing my wellies, listening

to its most mellifluous applause,

the way she falls two feet

into a sound as sweet

as a kettle drum’s

metal petals of

silver bliss that

blossom on a carnival’s street.

Literature from the city is of alienation,

literature of rootedness repetitive,

and the city is the intellectual breeding station,

but countrylife closer how we ought live.

I

The reason my new work is not Anon is that I believe a writer has a right to a name otherwise an Exclusion of the Individual Machine can close ranks against you.

The earliest-written English poems, however, are attributed to Anon, the earliest recorded line being:

“Well-wrought this wall: Weirds broke it.”

Weirds could be weather-systems.

Combining the fact that the earliest subject is ruin’d architecture and the earliest recipe known to man is for beer, as discovered by monks, could make a poem’s definition “a statue of alcohol.”

The A595 is the main road connecting

the nuclear sub factory in Barrow and

Sellafield up the coast. On Sunday

the posse of motorbikes come

to this bucolic valley because the road

has something in the golden sector #

to do with its bends, its elegant curvature.

I went walking up the rearside of the fell,

and some one or two hundred yards in,

up the path and away from the A595,

encountered a rare, red kite

with dawn-charred chest, resting

on the fence-post, waiting

for me like a warning or reward…

II

Here from this seat now

I look about the kitchen, painted

a plush, Mediterranean coral,

at the indomitable things on the walls,

the notice board of cork,

the dead telly wearing

mother’s funeral hat,

the calendar with local photos,

the chart depicting the plants of the

Meadows, the clock, my sister’s art…

It’s a country farmhouse kitchen

with an AGA, where most of the cooking

is home-made, not from packets.

We have no neighbourhood or amenities

and country life can be quite dull,

but recently I felt elated

for capturing a partial alignment

of the Plough and oldest fell

on my new Smartphone.

I. T. might stand for Instant Travel too,

NHS for Lucy in the Soul w/ Demons,

H20 for hypothalamus tattoo,

ESA for extra sensory allowance

but I for one still don’t really know

if Lucy even happens to be an actual substance.

III

It’s a myth that countryfolk are stupid

just because the rhythm of life is slower.

The region is an actual religion.

It’s why my dad didn’t take too kindly to racism.

I was amazed the kite didn’t fly away,

as I stood there gazing upon it.

It’s as close to a bird of prey

as I have ever got out in the wild.

Apparently, the Vikings named the hills and the Celts named the valleys… this should be easy to remember because you can picture a Viking being able to see the mountains from the sea as they travel across; and the Celts likewise lived in among the valleys so it would be natural they named them.

Obviate not titivate, sate

your quest for meat and fling

to your bright ring, your

peerless orbit, your wheel

of hunting, out-stretch

wings to be engorged on air’s

ranting, rock-strong

sockets braced against crushing,

uprushing rivers and sail.

Eventually, it did fly away,

but not until I made the decision

to continue my walk, to leave

the moment, the spot where I stood.

Seeing its wings unfold,

seeing it fly away, I took a left

up the rear side of the fell, following

the path beside the beck

and – still not knowing

what the bird was, only storing

an image of it in my brain -

reached the cairn at the top.

Down

down

down

down

down

deep

blue

below

“eh up,

mate,”

says my

mate

and is

it safe

to say

hello?

When I got down again,

and back to my home on

this side of the fell, I

looked the bird up in a book,

and found it was a red kite.

For some reason I thought

I had found the golden eagle…

there was a rumour that a pair of them

had moved into the area.

So I was actually disappointed

to find the bird was a rare, red kite,

which it certainly, judging

by the book of birds, was.

That afternoon, I got a phonecall

from my ex gf on my mobile.

I told her: “I’ve just seen a rare bird.”

I also told her I had given up cannabis;

asked her if she still smoked;

but what she said and what she was doing

when she said it, I shall not say.

Simon says the River Goyt

might become the Styx in Heaven.

I say the rhythm of the River Goyt

beats blood to my head like a cold muscle.

The word ‘goyt’ might actually be Celtic thought-patterns meeting Anglo-Saxon vowel-sounds.

Back then I liked music by people such as: Boards of Canada, Squarepusher, Aphex Twin and Autechre. I also still liked some guitar music by people like Hella and Shellac, and my favourite act of all were Radiohead, ever since they filled the hole left behind by Nirvana. All of it was better to listen to when high.

Dr. Robert says: “the brain actually releases cannabinoids naturally for moments of signification like reaching the top of a mountain. If you flood your brain with cannabinoids un-naturally, meaning and signification become aleatory, a mess. There is suddenly meaning at any point of intersection in the crazy palimpsest of memory.”

Kurt Cobain sings:

“my heart is broke,

but I have some glue,

help me inhale,

I’ll mend it with you,

we’ll float around,

hang out on clouds,

then we’ll come down,

have a hangover.”

I

Now we’re just enjoying the peace on a calm, autumnal Sunday. It’s a time for expanding your threshold of Negative Capability… I am also taking care of my mother, who injured her arm on holiday. It’s her birthday today, so I gave her a book, and like every other day made her a fire and made her a morning coffee.

We need to get some new Vape juice

because there is only one bottle left.

Tesco is going to be closed for a few weeks

after today so we should stock up.

Apparently they are going

to redo the fruit and veg section

so that the fruit and veg is stored

in a series of closed compartments.

Now for the E as I try and summon up a purpose for this. It is healing, of the self and the soul of the world. It is truce between old friends fallen out like fools. It is air for the tortured soul to breathe. It is an experiment into more advanced modes of being.

II

Sensation precedes thought in art,

chain is made from same as key,

waves make gentle

love to the shore,

homework tonight is

to remember your dreams,

and this we know,

there is no ‘we,’

I am the third person

immaculate, free…

you know the routine

by now, the score,

and more and many more,

but let’s not dwell

on school-made things

when outside birds

sing with their wings

and freedom flies

and freedom flows

and the music never stops.

CHANNELS OF CHAT

What can you do when they say you haven’t got what it takes to be a poet?

Then you find out they don’t really like ‘Notebook’, think it means love is dead, and think you should be working on Hamlet in Flames.

They think you should use ‘Notebook’ in Hamlet In Flames for a moment when love is dead, maybe Ophelia drowning.

04/ 05/ 2026

Yesterday I started to write a new long poem all about music but it was only repeat prescriptions of what has already been written.

Today my musician friend Grant came round. We jammed in the garden. Now he’s gone home but he’s coming back later with his wife for a barbecue.

I think the voices want me to be working on a volume called Hamlet In Flames. My father ended a poem on the words “Hamlet in flames” before I was born so it’s like inheriting the family business. I’ve been working on Hamlet In Flames on and off since finishing my degree and never finished it.

Yesterday I read that Tom Stoppard has died… I remember reading Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead at University.

I’ve brought out loads of books and albums, and there’s more on my blog, and there’s more unpublished still – but I never feel happy with anything I have done. It’s always been in an amateur capacity that devalues your name.

I’m not likely to improve on that by writing a diary but other than that I am devoid of options.

I don’t think my mother and brother wish for me to be working on Hamlet In Flames. That’s because it could be political in going on about my dad’s business. He said he was an international art smuggler nicknamed Blue. It was something to do with Berlin, the Berlin Wall. He was working for a Russian bloke. We should leave it alone.

What I want to know is why my literary dreams keep capsizing on me, caving in, even though I am keeping off drugs and doing all the reading. It all went wrong from the start… a few days ago I wrote an Apologia for some file or other of poems, and it told the true story of my poetry career. I would like to copy and paste it in.

APOLOGIA

There is something saintly, ascetic, even Puritanical and sometimes Stoical to being a poet, because it requires constant dedication but you never gain anything from it except the people you meet and the things you write. That is, there is rarely anything to gain monetarily, so that is not why it is written. Why it is written is hard to pin down, but they say the first writing of Man was poetry, and also that rhythm reminds of the mother’s heartbeat in the womb – so it goes back a long way.

In Modern times, (not Modernism the epoch just the present day), poetry serves the function of helping youngsters learn the rules of language and grammar in school, for example. It also serves the function of attraction: as Leonard Cohen said he writes to woo women and later placate them. Ted Hughes was different: he espoused the Freudian notion that the poet ideates the framework of the fantasy world in order to deal with energies suppressed at the base of the spine or in the subconscious. Rimbaud meanwhile famously said “the poet makes himself a visionary through a prodigious derangement of the senses to attain the unknown.” My magpie-like eye certainly absorbed and collected that one when I first read it. To spruce it up for the postmodern age, to put a spin on it, I would say “the poet extirpates every trace of recognition from his mind, unlooses the mind of form, method-acts every adjective in ‘Howl,’ to attain visual radio, broadcasting dreams.”

Neil Curry, a father-poet who once taught me, says his ideal for a poem used to be “the opposite of a bus-ticket,” which means it takes you on an inward not outward journey. (He also used to say where science records an outer world, art records an inner world – but modern science does consent to subjectivity so that one is not to be taken as read anymore.) Curry is a strong poet who I have looked to as a father-poet for a long time. I would say of those living, there are other father-poets in David Morley, Brian Patten, Michael Hofmann, Simon Armitage, Hugo Williams, Paul Farley and maybe a bit of Don Paterson too. These are father-poets just because I happen to have read them and admire their work. Going back in time, to those most recently deceased, I would include TS Eliot, Ted Hughes, Allen Ginsberg, all the New York School but especially James Schuyler, Charles Simic, maybe a bit of Bukowski and that is about all I can think of right now. Brother-poets meanwhile include Simon Pomery with whom I once gave a reading, and Sam Riviere who I only know via e-mail but whose 81 Austerities I greatly admire. We’d all say Chaucer is the true grandpa poet, preceding Shakespeare, and of the old stuff I am greatly magnetised by Milton’s Paradise Lost, also having a love of the Romantics, but most of my reading is more modern.

My own poetry-writing began when I was seven (1989) and called upon to write a book for what they call “Long Storage:” its function was to store the idea of the net in writing in the attic here to give the net a chance to grow all the way round the world, and to keep it free too. Although it arose with the State, it was still my own writing – I still did the maths in it as well as writing all the poems, stories and songs. Ever since then I found myself just “being good at English,” and pursuing it because I was good at it; but when the seven year old book emerged from long storage upon the passing of my father, in 2014, I no longer knew if I was a scientist or a poet.

My father left behind a title: Rose Petals In The Ashtray: and he didn’t say what he meant the title to denote, only that it suited me. It became my first collection and I would say it was a disaster, where I even made good first drafts from teenage years worse with revision, and eventually I had it retracted from publication. One of the problems was that I was actually being observed without knowing it by authorities that crashed my computer wilfully on the eve of publication. I had also thrown away most of the writing from the Rimbaudian years but at the moment the computer was crashed, still had a hefty amount of stuff. So I remember sneaking downstairs in the night to type them up again – going from memory as well as what I had printed out – on my mother’s ancient desktop. I sent it off to the publisher from that desk top instead of my own computer, meaning I couldn’t even get the front cover I wanted which was a photo my father gave me of a rose next to an ashtray.

The collection was half-remembered scraps. I think the Feds feared I could bring back the fire-dance with a book. In reality I didn’t even take part in what they call the fire-dance. I didn’t know it was happening until my father texted me to say a riot has broken out, stay indoors; and when someone persuaded me to leave my bedroom and I saw everyone smashing shop windows, I was back in my bed within a minute, reading poetry. Ever since the first collection was terrible, my poetry writing career has not recovered and I think the Feds were wrong to target me and are trying to silence me. Now it is too late to retroimpose a first collection called Rose Petals In The Ashtray, because after I un-published everything I had put out there with Chipmunka, which was three books at the time, we started again with a book about my brother’s <BEE>. My brother says <BEE> might soon ensue from @ in the international language alphabet, so many of my own rock songs were, in Soundcloud Rain, organised according to one of my brother’s diagrams. As I write there are now six Chipmunka-published collections beside me in a pile, and available online, starting with Soundcloud Rain. It would be really good to do a really good one and to also have the business of writing poetry under control and in a state of order for as Michael Hofmann says the success of the modern poet depends on his success in the managerial position of organisation of the resources of his life and times.

I keep hoping it’s not too late for me, and it seems it is: Simon says it all went wrong with the first and was never sorted out ever after. Simon actually turned the awful collection I first brought out into a Digital Masterpiece called Four Pints of Guinness for Tony Conrad, so I can’t now bring out Rose Petals In The Ashtray again as a good work that goes against his Digital Masterpiece. My sister says to re-start with Soundcloud Rain and deem it the new Proust, meaning a series. She was instrumental in my having RPITA retracted from publication – because it was never right and I was still paying to have it amended and amended all the time.

The problem is that some people prefer the series when it started with RPITA. I think in the version people read, the first number was ‘I Knew That She Loved Me’ which for some reason, maybe the teachings of David Morley, I revised, only by taking out a line, which meant it was terrible; and with the line included as was originally the case the piece has now been turned into a song so belongs in the songbook which I did with my brother. The government also allowed me to do a book of poems that were strictly love poems called Breath Trapped In Heaven, in which said piece also appears.

In order, it seems, the collections with Chipmunka are Soundcloud Rain, then The Sunset Child (which is the one from the age of seven), Breath Trapped In Heaven, Brave New Tense, Yes You May, and recently Let The Jews Win, which was only a binary-machine of two long poems, in the image of The Lords And The New Creatures by Jim Morrison, but more about E and less the door to the occult. Chipmunka may still charge a poet in this age of self-publication, but they have done nothing but do what I ask of them in the publications so should deserve praise for vociferating the thoughts of the mentally ill. About that illness, it may be that only The Sunset Child is any good, because it is from before the illness.

I also dabbled with self-publication: inbetween retracting the first three Chipmunka books and bringing out Soundcloud Rain, I brought out 9 books in a self-publishing capacity, because I know a friend of a friend who knows how to format books for Amazon, and if you add the 3 volumes of a book called Transition to Philosophy that are also out with Chipmunka under a pseudonym, it means I have 18 books out there, which is too many for anyone, and yet I shouldn’t retract any even if I don’t feel I have done well at all. If you knew what I had been through in my life, you’d wish I did deliver the goods. When I found out my dad had meant “coppers in jail,” by the title he gave me, I understood that my version would’ve been different had I known. You should know the meaning of the title of your own book before you put it out there, I feel.

04/ 05/ 2026

I’ve got the poems ready for Hamlet in Flames but I haven’t ordered them yet.

I could also be working on using the lyrics to the gig by Oedipus Wrecks… I was in Oedipus Wrecks when I wrote the song we mean when we say the sheet where pictures grew depicts a lyric.

Both of these are on my blog already. Then there’s this. It seems to be a diary. My Finnish grandmother was a beautiful diarist. Yesterday this book was full but I had to come back and delete what were only repeat publications. I should also reiterate that having been close to death I have learned that death is vile and that love is the reason you don’t wish to die.

So here I am at the kitchen table typing while my mother prepares food for the barbecue later. Not everyone likes Feta cheese and olives in their salad so she is putting them on separate dishes so you can make your own.

I suppose it wasn’t until I heard the female medical professional confirm what I thought I knew, and say I had “re-invented the human form,” that I conquered it.

I should also reiterate, now that it’s erased, that I can no longer ejaculate. It wasn’t this O. D. attempt but the one before: it was said to be genius that I survived but coming back down I lost the ability to ejaculate. That was part of the reason for the new attempt.

The reason my family don’t wish for me to do Hamlet In Flames is that there are bits left up to ESP, or voices, and which could mean the practising of magic. It might be too late, but for that reason I take it down from my blog, leaving a book of poems I started with Hannah, called Under The Plough.

Scrolling through it doesn’t seem too good – seems to be about a poet who is in love with Flora but cannot ejaculate and who is writing for his sister’s baby girl – but you’d never be able to tell how good or bad something is just scrolling through.

The mark makes me feel alien, X and other. It is like having an abnormality. The maths of the new colour is the reason my thing didn’t grow that big. But even my brother who is the genius that designed the sheet where pictures grew would accept that to have re-invented the human form would take genius. My mate Mr. G is round and he says “even we would deem it that you’re better off doing the music because no-one else has done the maths of the new colour and that’s why we deem it crap.” To capture it in music would be something else. But by now I might be a scientist.

Had I not been tied to the bed in A and E the female medical professional and I could’ve “clicked” and it would’ve been cute. This only rhymes with what they say next which is that they want this to be my last because it has been too acute. All this ambivalence, indecision, duality, seems to represent the physical look of the twin-tone toy. I don’t want my writing career to end all of a sudden. I’m going to copy and paste in some waste about my taste in music.

04/ 05/ 2026

So. Today I helped mum with the barbecue. Jammed with Mr. G. Had a delicious meal. Revised a piece of text so as not to repeat what has already gone out there. And sucked on my Vape pen. And sipped on my tea. And now it is Night. The sprawling poem about music, more notes than anything, is not finished. I should have more to say, if I have re-invented the human form, like “thanks for noticing and getting back to me,” and also “thanks for saving my life, when I took an O. D.” I have said it before and will say it again: death is absolutely vile and the reason you want to stay alive is love. In my case it was love of my brother James that I particularly thought of, but all my family and friends as well. The NHS is bloody marvellous and I have greatly benefitted from it down the years, including the fact that I am still alive, somehow. Now that the nurse has spoken, or female medical professional of some kind, I feel vindicated, humbled and more down to earth than before. When I took the O. D. and told mum, and was waiting for the Ambulance I took up some pen and paper and drew a vertical line, splitting a page, for truce, tract and trust, and started to write sideways lines that sometimes spilled over, sometimes not, house names, places, voices, people, words, and the last one was the word “Einstein” who had his name on the right hand side entirely. Then I was in A and E and did do a little writing in there, saying the entrance would no longer be there when I tried to run away, saying death has been technologically updated, and I was in a weird netherworld watching the screens where they monitor people as if they were spying on my family who were computer game characters on the screen – blocks of colour that couldn’t move. I was srsly mentally unwell in that hospital, acutely so. It seemed that when you are dead you can pee forever. I thought I was dead, had given up the ghost. The only good thing that came of it was the female medical professional and her verdict on the mark left behind by my boyhood attempt at the maths of the new colour. Anyhow some time has passed since then. It was good to see my old friend Mr. G. today. If I can’t ejaculate there may never be an end to this writing and if I die without reproducing it could be that the new creatures may never come again. The Feds are onto it, stifling any sign, policing the matter. It’s true, the things I said I do and have done. The food was glorious today, the barbecued chicken having a delicious, smokey flavour. I feel I am getting better. Dr. Tom Pollak says now they know I tried the maths of the new colour my death is going to be like Jesus. The plus sign for an F could be interpreted as a literal cross, and the difference between a + sign and an F enough to slightly alter the course of evolution. There was a bit more to it and I could talk you through it in greater detail but I would prefer not to. The maths first appeared in my boyhood text which I wrote at seven years old, and which came to be called The Sunset Child. It has been further treated in subsequent writing, both in print, for example Transition To Philosophy Volume Three by Johannes Bergfors (a philosophy pen-name) and in writing on my blog – and even if I do take it down from online, a boffin can fish for it. If I do keep some of the net-books up on my blogspot page, even though they are too long for the modern attention span, you will learn that the maths I mention was an adjunctivity to the maths that helped invent the net, because it was all about room for growth, giving the net room to grow. But on second thoughts I will entertain you with a brief demonstration...

A SUMMARY OF THE MATHS

The encrypted node in the boyhood work was that if the Gravity between earth and moon is instant and therefore enough to break Light-speed a clock is still only as fast as a cheetah.

I see now that it was possibly government scientists who, for the sake of long storage, when the idea of the net needed storing in writing, got me to begin encrypting that with a text called

2

JOHN TUCKER

ENGLISH

E

and to continue with a second text called

ENGLISH

JOHN TUCKER

HARECROFT

1

“but then again who knows.”

The split was not even but asymmetrical like one was on and one was off. It was like spotting the flaw in Einstein. It was like saying if you write Einstein backwards it implies the breaking of light speed. It was even like saying if we invent a time machine that can equal light speed we can only go back in time because the future hasn’t happened yet.

At some point, after the Einsteinian bit, and when I had had the vision of what I called “the ire ii net” myself, a + sign was put in for the F of ‘scarf’ in the line

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

Then there was a discussion of the struggle between ‘Good and Evil’ in a piece where

“I woke up at 1 o. clock.”

In other words the first person pronoun and the time 1 o’clock were being contrasted.

It is not clear if the splitting of the two books happened next, for the number two in the sequence, but I think so. In terms of the number three, there was also my maths book where in among the numbers you find a three line poem going

Colour circles red. How many circles?

Colour triangles blue. How many squares?

Colour oblongs orange. How many triangles?

To read it all you’d only need to go and get a copy of what by now I know helped invent the net but which at the time of publication I did not know helped invent the net. It’s called The Sunset Child. People have said the best one in it is called ‘My Dad.’

05/ 05/ 2026

So it’s like I am doing a good one now that nobody cares what I write.

And I have gone back to the former text and added the new version on the end of it.

James says if it is only for my blog he prefers it like that, even if it means re-publishing the two poems of Let The Jews Win.

Imagine if I fell in love with the non-white nurse, who was saving my life, me, who can’t even ejaculate, who was committing suicide, who has been through Drugs Curse Madness Suicide Hell before.

Thank you for helping save my life and for getting back to me.

05/ 05/ 2026

Woke up late today… ate a Danish pastry…. the Tesco delivery van came… I helped mum with a plant pot… last night voices said I was a God of Science but my mind is blank today… there is much more I could deliver, papers for example on the sheet where pictures grew, or the fusing of the broken cassette, or The Lords And The New Creatures, or the face of stars, or the binaural earphone experiment, or the Plough alignment, and to be truthful it’s all on my Blogspot page already, but this text is better. When I asked A. I. if the maths of the new colour could be used in finding the cure for cancer it said the new colour is a metaphor for the cure. The female medical professional wanted to put it in her mouth. But I can no longer ejaculate, and I missed out on courtship and the dalliance of young lovers living here in the sticks with mental illness, as did my brother, who is a genius.

Most of my time was spent reading and writing. Reading is good karma, if you wish to be a writer. Anyhow, that’s me done. It’s 17. 10 on 05/ 05/ 2026 and I am resorting to telling you the time. Like in the movie Pi I could reassert my thesis. “If the Gravity between earth and moon is instant and therefore enough to break light speed a clock is still only as fast as a cheetah.” But we know this to be only partially correct, in fact containing a lot of falsity because Gravity cannot be said to travel faster than light, only warp and bend the fabric of spacetime. Only things with no mass can travel at light speed. But that was never my thesis. That was the thesis derived from the government when they needed a mathematical framework in which to keep the net free. What is my own thesis is that the maths that helped invent the net was indebted to Einstein and became an experiment into the maths of the new colour as a cellular mark because it was all about room for growth before anyone had the net in their homes… and also that it turns out the encrypted node, in the boyhood book, as was derived from the State, was wrong.

05/ 05/ 2026

I don’t want to go to prison. As a vulnerable adult I would only get tortured and killed. But I fear that my CBT (Cognitive Behaviour Therapy) is serving the purpose of testing me for autism and if I am not autistic, I may need to do time. At least this is what voices told me last night.

Anyhow, I have deemed the maths that invented the net but a matter of physics. It isn’t that simple really. Meanwhile, my brother is the one who actually deserves a Nobel Prize for designing the sheet where pictures grew. He even left crosses to show where and when the pictures would grow. He doesn’t want to go to prison for it either.

So it is that I might not be able to leave the material I have on my Blogspot page. Science, maths, poetry, music, philosophy and photographs. It is hoped anyway that once I have dealt with the dour truthful bit, the science bit, I can turn to music, just deem it the music. Personally I am still lamenting the poetry career that was ruined for me when the Feds crashed my computer on the eve of my first publication, because they thought I could bring back the fire-dance with a book. I had at the time never even heard of the fire-dance, but apparently, I hear now, at the riots everyone cornered blamed me. Anyhow, it’s all been an absolute disaster whatever it is.