DIARY (NEW)

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 the work leaves a lot to be desired – poems and songs andcetera.

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.

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.

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 like something from Autechre, a clickety clickety clicking, a pecking order bird, like a sonic machination from The Lords And The New Creatures, when “the chopper blazed over, inward click and sure.” It went down as a quirk of technology, even a malfunction.

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.

My dad 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.

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 is 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.’