BETWEEN 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.