THE NEW OLINE DIARY

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 slightly and incrementally 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.

I like it when Dr. Calculator Ptom

who named the band Oedipus Wrecks

goes on FB to say:

“there’s something quite comforting

about an Autechre interview.”

Waves are compressed more and more these days meaning the bass volume can go up and up without breaking apart.

I’ve got 18 books and 9 albums or long E. P’s out there, only in an amateur capacity that devalues my name, but can still take a guitar out at a party and play a song that sounds alright.

In Devon there are stickers on telegraph poles

saying Keep Music Live Local And Free.

Frank used to say music should be all around us all the time.

Stephen Fry says music is penetration of the suchness and quiddity of existence.

He also says meaning in music is solipsistic: it is faces in the fire or Hamlet’s three creatures in a cloud-change.

In The Flood we mostly elected to make up jams on the spot rather than play rehearsed pop songs.

“Scar sand-birthmarks beneath my skin,” I sang in one number we never recorded. Syd Barrett wanted to “hair my ire.” He said “hair” instead of “hear,” right there on The Madcap Laughs. I was a big fan of Syd back in the day.

In town there was a lamp-post called Reality Checkpoint.

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.’

The counting continued, 4, 5, 6, 7, and when I got to be the age of 11 I received the long, thin stripe up the underside which is what I mean when I say “I’m fine.”

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 during the breeding years was spent reading and writing. Reading means 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.

I didn’t like the way even September 11^th had to go through me when I was a schoolboy, and we think it is because I live in the house where the Plough alignment is viable. I left school in 2000 and went south to Cambridgeshire to stay with Paul for my gap year, whereupon the Towers fell. That meant I was raped. If you speak against September 11^th in 2000 and it still goes ahead you were raped. This manifests as a burning feeling in the psyche and when the burning feeling was somehow suppressed I lost all contact with the memory of the speech where I spoke against September 11^th in 2000.

In that speech I had also had the idea to invent earphones with tiny mics inside that the band could record on… around the time of the Towers coming down, I was in a band that were doing that. A richman had implemented the idea. Over the next few years I was effectively rendered destitute by a rich man who stole the idea to invent the earphones – and because I had suppressed the burning feeling, I didn’t even know, because I didn’t have any memory of the conversation in 2000. So that was a bit shit and where things went wrong for me. We even think the band pretended the spliff was my bifter without telling me; and treated me like the drugged up brother in The Deerhunter. Exiled from the band, I may have had a portion of my brain removed, by the rich man who swanned off with all his money at the end to have a happy life.

I came back to the north, and that was when someone had the vision to place me under a curse. He says if I even start to tell you about it all the good things I ever did will all be gone and lost and it will all be his fault. The next thing was an operation in my sleep to give me a new member. I didn’t know what it was but it felt like an attempt at my life. Then I fell into mental illness, which was acute, during my mature student degree at Lancaster. Then we had the fire-dance which I gather was blamed on me even though I didn’t know it was happening or participate. So that would explain why I am being observed, targetted.

Then when my dad died I lost my mind with grief and was persuaded by voices to go for a naked walk in the capital. Sectioned, I was then put on an antiquated anti-psychotic injection by the doctor which resulted in a side effect called “akathisia.” One doctor self-induced akathisia for one day to see what it was like and described it on Wikipedia as torture – I had it for three years without them changing anything.

The thing I am missing out is that apparently I was dressed up to have a Hitler moustache like a living art installation somewhere in among all that – and one psychiatrist commented that I had started to look like a blur. Then my files were hacked and being read out online, which my brother intercepted. I didn’t know my files were hacked but walked past his bedroom one day and heard him say on live streaming to someone that “it all went wrong with the rich man’s mum.” That means the rich man who implemented the idea to invent the earphones. I didn’t know what my brother meant but suddenly in my madness decided that it was therefore the richman’s literal mum who had made the attempt at my life in my sleep – and maybe made me look a blur unto the doctor too. So I got on FB to the rich friend, still unaware that the earphones were my idea to invent, and gave him Hell, and didn’t really know what I was doing, except insulting him, and his mother, and I showed him the photo of the sheet where pictures grew too. I doubt our friendship will ever recover, and regret it now.

That was when I took an O. D. because voices were guiding me to do so and it was supposed to be genius that I survived but coming back down I lost the ability to ejaculate. Now they don’t want me to do another book, and yet literature is therapeutic for me, and all I really have. Throughout that little chain of events writing has been my friend. I was sectioned five times during that little story too and rendered acutely mentally ill by what was going on.

Somewhere in among it all I got the impression I was an high-functioning autist and was checked out. I do like counting things, making sets, groups, lists, bunches, going round and round turning the objects in the room into a micro-circuit. The first time I was checked out they said I was an high-functioning autist, and now I think I am undergoing more lengthy tests in CBT. I am not sure what will happen but don’t believe I belong in prison. Levels of rainfall have been extreme, so to speak – I have been through a difficult few years and wish to look to the future with happiness in mind. I used to look to the future with rapt uncertainty. Sometimes voices get on top of me and tell me I am going to prison, or blame me for things I don’t think my fault, but I still hope for a happy future. Maybe in the future there will be what Martin Amis calls “gynocracy,” meaning “rule by women.” He said the men had had their turn and not proven very good at running the world and that the women should have a go now.

The future may also mean voices are perceived as difference not illness. The same thing happened to homosexuality between Arthur Rimbaud’s day and our own. Already voices could be onjects, quavers, syllabubbles, sonic machinations at the periphery of sound. Already there may be such things as magic alphabet radio or the new, synchronised word. Already they can seem co-imaginative and proleptic.

05/ 05/ 2026

Another change of plan… another hopping of files… I am back to the version that left out Let The Jews Win. There are probably still fossils of older versions contained. File hopping produces fossils if you mention it. It’s approaching midnight now. Nothing really went on today, same as most days. I look back on my Blogspot page, my published works, and my un-published works… what am I? If you look at the blog you find songs, poems, philosophy, maths, science and photography. I am uncategorisable – and that is what it looks like meeting a weird specimen – and unto you I am a weird specimen myself. I mean you might find with me what I found with The Lords And The New Creatures bearing fruit. And the text that is a big, giant “whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?” in refusing categorisation is the accurate portrait of such an encounter. Anyhow I enjoyed the recent poem writing session, where enough for a whole life’s work was organised for a poet who was in love with Flora but who couldn’t ejaculate anymore. I think it was before the O. D. attempt that that one was organised. No doubt the file is full and I fail to recognise that.

This path in life is awful. Pills at both ends of the day, meetings with psychiatrists, a monthly injection, CBT, tests for autism, health checks galore. My old friends have scattered. A plane soars over head as I write, the sentence stretching before and after the turning of midnight, meaning technically it should be a different diary date, and there is no reader and what can I do but my duty to science and then turn away to the consolation of having written some songs, and how narrow does it all seem, and who put me on this deathful path in life? Voices on the intercom suggest I tell you all what it’s like having attempted the maths of the new colour. I would say it’s as good as Arthur Rimbaud and his colours of the vowels.

And now it’s a different day, and I struggle on, through the medication wall, not attuned anymore, but pause to think how the album recorded on earphones, where in 6 tracks I climbed up and said I would plug my senses in the mains, made me a beautiful mind, and how I already was a beautiful mind anyway, judging by the experiment into the maths of the new colour as a cellular mark, and I think the melted cassette was good work too, and I want to mention the sheet but it’s James’s number, e’ en if the pictures do represent the lyric to one of my own songs, speaking of which some of my songs are alright, but not that many, and I needn’t go on for too much longer, but would like to present this document on my blog, and with it present the maths of the new colour as a metaphor for the cure for cancer.

06/ 05/ 2026

Only moments later, only a stone’s throw away, I am walking round the kitchen in the night-time asking myself how beautiful minded are the numbers I keep. The binaural earphone experiment was all about catharsis by chaos. We recorded a lot of light sabre energy, fuzz and distortion on a pair of earphones and at the end I climbed up and sang

“I’m going to get your freshness back,

plug my senses in the mains,

it’s just a bloodrush to my brains,

I’m going to get pretty much fucked up,

flee the world on a midnight plane,

dance with the aliens and the insane.”

Then I was exiled from the band, and that made me a beautiful mind. It turned out I already was one because of the boyhood book, that stored the idea of the net in writing in the attic to give it a chance to grow around the world, and to keep it free. In that, I attempted the maths of the new colour as a cellular mark. That I would say is another good number.

The melted cassette is also a good number, and you can find a further paper on that on my blog. The best of the lot is my brother’s number, the sheet where pictures grew, which I was a small part of in discovering and in the way the pictures seem to depict the lyric to a song I wrote. There were others too, like the numinous, purple-bleeding screen. It died at the exact same moment my dad died. So we haven’t got that one anymore. The Tower meanwhile started when Neil Curry’s Walking To Santiago started to smell of perfume. I came into possession of a few other books and built the Tower.

While these numbers seem alright, and to be beautiful minded, I would say the books I have brought out were a disaster. It could be that the genius of the numbers I mention doesn’t translate into book form, that the numbers are victories enough in and of themselves, and that literature is another matter entirely. I can realistically offer you a photo of the sheet and a paper on it, same with the melted tape. Dr. Bob took a photo of the purple-bleeding screen, with me in it. The binaural album is available to listen to on rhythm guitarist Tom Woodhall’s Soundcloud page. The Tower is still on my shelf. And when you talk about being a beautiful mind, you expect there to be a paper with some numbers, a mathematical proof. And the maths of the new colour left a cellular mark which is still on my actual body as well as me typing about it as we speak.

06/ 05/ 2026

I just awoke from a dream where I was being eaten by a lion, or maybe staying safe while my brother was eaten, I could not quite tell. It is today Sigmund Freud’s birthday, for he would be 170 years old. I am being guided by voices.

There were all sorts of Special Effects when I first lost my mind, like an holographic horsecock wheeled in the bedroom, and voices, and I did eventually have to go to hospital for a headwound and the nurse put a square, white bandage on; and I went to touch it to see if it was paddy and it was; and I went to touch it a second time and it was gone. The bandage literally vanished into thin air as I sat still in a chair. The nurse had to put a second bandage on. So I was put in the psychiatric unit and the next day shipped to the acute ward, not just normal mental hospital. On my first escorted walk I ran away, across a field, across a busy motorway, found a trainline and followed it to the station, got on a train and made it to Scotland. I thought there’d be a different jurisdiction but the cops found me, the cops who were out for a tall hippy with long hair and ripped jeans, the cops who brought me back to the border where I was taken again back to the acute ward. I was ticked off but it was deemed a sign of my sanity returning.

My dad thought it was hilarious but it was actually rather sad because it meant I would now forever be in and out of hospital for the rest of my days. At the time I didn’t know I was cursed or even maybe hypnotised, still thought the shaman was trying to heal my intelligence.

06/ 05/ 2026

At the time I felt I could’ve been a scientist… one of the only ideas for a book I had ever had was also in the prophetic conversation in the barn in the year 2000 where I said to my brothers I would write one called The Scientific Papers which would be a Trilogy and classed as a series of findings into itself, into the concept of art and science as a single discussion of perception. As you know things from that conversation generally came true in ways that were not in accordance with me. The earphones were implemented without crediting me. The Towers came down despite my speaking against it. Then I turned up to Warwick University in 2002 and my tutor, Mr. David Morley, had just brought the eponymous first volume of The Scientific Papers. And guess what? It actually said in the book that it was a series of findings into itself, into the concept of art and science writing as a single discussion of perception. He had the extra word “writing” in there. When it happens in sheep it is called “morphic resonance” and when it happens in academia it is uncanny embrocation. I suppose mine was going to be about The Lords And The New Creatures coming true, using me as witness in boyhood. At least it would date back to that event where I felt there was science needed.

I remember still writing some scientific seeming things. After pieces like ‘Instant Travel’ and ‘Hypertext At The Gates of Dawn,’ I wrote a paper called ‘Lucy in the Soul W/ Demons,’ about a road trip with Paul to a festival celebrating the solar eclipse. I suggested that Lucy in the soul w/ demons may happen to be an actual substance, so it was chemistry mixed with musicology. I also had an effervescent mobile reverberating the rhythm of ‘William Tell’ through every technological inlet in the room before it rang, and was in the holidays still recording on binaural earphones in the Cambridge band called The Flood. I wrote ‘Hunger’ at Warwick, the song where I climbed up and promised to plug my senses in the mains. At Warwick I also felt I needed to suddenly recalibrate my goal, and thought about the Unified Field Theory as in Einstein’s unobtained ambition, but leaving Warwick with no degree found a different pretext in defaced bank notes, as I headed for Rock Bottom and lived in the shed in the band’s commune in Cambridge. We had some fun in Cambridge for example there was an abandoned primary school commandeered by the youth artists as a scene, a venue; and there was a band tour with my band and my mate Mark’s band going to Europe.

Eventually though I came home to the north and attended my local University Lancaster, knowing that I wished to write a defaced bank note text, partly about the binaural earphones. As stated during that degree I became acutely unwell, and when I came out of hospital started my second year all over. I became quite the beautiful mind and wrote one paper about how there is no such thing as mind cancer. My dissertation was on David Morley of Warwick University and his Scientific Papers but I never mentioned that I had also had the exact same idea before we had met. I got a First from Lancaster by a long distance in the end. I was interested in the switch thrown. My reading reached a saturation point. When I stopped smoking cannabis the work got done. I tell you all this so that you know it was the Scientific Papers that was my initial ideal – that I did have genuine scientific ambitions.

Then of course when my dad died and my boyhood work emerged from the attic, that was a work of science which I didn’t understand at first. Now we are at the stage where I can’t keep my science online because the old shaman cursed me and we have to tell that story every time I sit down to write something. Now I am going to copy and paste in a revisit of the poem ‘Notebook’ which you can read in Let The Jews Win.

NOTEBOOK REVISITED

Yes, friend, I too must go.

Because I am looking for the Promised Land.

It was for peace that I wrote my last book, (Let The Jews Win), for “truce between old friends fallen out like fools,” as I said, and for the larger world as well. People said I was Nash after it, the mathematician. I can elaborate on it, use it as a template for furthering my work.

I was trying to write white. In the first of the two poems ‘Notebook,’ the opening line “il faut que je m’en aille” is a quote from Arthur Rimbaud, an archaic French subjunctive meaning “I too must go.”

The second line (“Sometimes you’ve just got to hit the road and”) is Go-Beat-stricken.

I was trying to confer a special message through the white space in-between, and sheer insouciant faith, like a counter to the red on black JE DOUBTE DONC JE SUIS which I read at the top of the Pompidou Centre’s conceptual ascent through the ages.

The original album called The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob which I was rewriting in ‘Notebook’ included a song called ‘L to the Pregnant Snorkel’ and one about Ossie the dog going round and round chasing his own tail. If ‘L To The Pregnant Snorkel’ contained inflections of my father’s education at the LSE under Sir Karl Popper, who taught of of P1 to TT to EE to P2, Ossie the dog’s song was more John Lennon. It never got as far as V, in the Utilitarian Martianist slowspell of the word “LOVE,” indicating that my heart was broken, but I made amends in the recent rewrite.

The trumpet wears his foreskin on the inside.

We have a family friend called Rafe who was also in the band, like a brother he was and is still too. Dad always used to say “you always change when Rafe’s here John. It’s called pack mentality. You start to misbehave. You’re weak.”

With Rafe on board, we were named like the Doors (almost). John, James, Robert and Rafe we were. But we also have a sister called Hannah.

Traditionally what comes after The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob is Hannah, the blonde palindrome from the 25th of May.

That means H does not = 0 – 0 because I have a heart.

The band started as 4 siblings born in a season each, spiralling Spring, Autumn, Winter, Summer, marching right left right left in the handedness – and yet this might mean that anyone can be in the band.

The Quire is opened, awakes the blame of memory...

whomsoever they’re looking for it’s not me.

Light shafts in its distilled sleep.

The dead in tired dance circle the silence,

lingering fragile moments outside the quiet Quietus -

but wait, who dreamed me awake this time?

It was me, I'm he who dared disturb.

Not to renounce the past with rapt amazement

but to forgive our sins, falling like leaves.

We have seen this all before, time

tumbling away into sleep, seen

this darkness drop and these ruins murmur

and now we are gathered to appoint the gods

and now we are gathered to consecrate ourselves

and now we are gathered to ordain this dust,

we are gathered to live and to dream.

It took a rainy day in Penn, Bucks, to write and record the original album The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob; and we indeed sang of the dog going round and round chasing his own tail; but the original cassette (a one off) was later recorded over with a Blur gig on Radio One.

That isn’t the end of The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob either, for it surely goes on and on.

I have said it before and would say it again that God is a game, and that a game is based on permutation, or at least can be, and that a permutation game can be a rehearsal for death.

I would also say The Lords And The New Creatures is a game, a wide, yellow circle with death the pinpoint centre and the circumference closing in. I would also say it is a media compression experiment dreamed up on LSD under a hot, Californian sun, maybe to expose the germs of dictatorship on all hands. It churns up evidence through the operation of a game. It tests the place where evolution is controlled, monopolised. It asks if he who controls the media controls evolution too. It is a good test.

If God is a game what are the rules? Some say God is a vain projection to cover up our fear of Nothingness. Some say God is but a stopped, glottal monosyllable. Some contend God is not to worship blind in dogmatic slumber but behead, dethrone and become. Dedalus says ultimately we all have the same definition of God.

Going empirically from personal experience I can say that praying before an LSD trip will mean a safer trip than if you don’t pray even if there is no God. So God could be a placebo. Still, I don’t wish to go on about God too much.

I like Paradise Lost, where Milton makes us sympathise with Satan for so long before we recognise he is evil. He also builds up through pages and pages of poetry to a moment of terse concision:

“She plucked. She ate.”

In Milton Jesus has a sword in Heaven. He is like one of God’s security guards! Traditionally it is the Muslim faith where we find the warrior-poet, so Milton might be suggesting “Blissful Lovingness is where all religions meet.”

I am also interested in God Simulations. Before The Lords And The New You Know Who seemed to get real in my boyhood, there was a lightning storm in France so epic, sublime and prolonged it was a God Simulation – it was Nature herself tearing up the rule book to let the games commence.

This doesn’t seem to be the subject matter of The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob though, where there is as yet all too little mention of sex. Martin Amis says a single pixel of sex is ineffable, impervious to the workings of the pen.

Voices have stolen everything now and filled it with sugar.

If Forgiveness were a fine white powder, a chemical cure, they might with-hold the cure until the price is right but seeing as it is not I am prepared to try and forgive the guy that hypnotised and cursed me.

I used to say the nature of visionary experience is not amenable to the dialectic of sickness and recovery, the language of sterile medicalese, that one’s illness is more congenial than one’s health unto those that are in charge of one’s health, for monetary reasons, meaning Big Pharma companies that can with-hold a cure until the price is right, but now I see the illness is not a conspiracy, that the science works, that I should plug in.

In my first psychotic episode I went to hospital for a literal head wound. The nurse in A and E put a bandage on. I went to touch the bandage to see if it was paddy and it was. I went to touch it a second time and it was gone. The bandage had vanished into thin air while I sat still in a chair. The nurse had to put a second bandage on.

I was not just put in mental hospital but the acute ward. This was in the middle of my undergraduate degree. This is my story. I have been on heavy, neuroleptic, soporific, homeostatic medication ever since and had several hospital admissions. When I went back to University after that initial admission I got the highest First in the year and was a beautiful mind.

I wrote sooooooo many pieces, defaced bank notes, creative non fiction, rap, and one piece was about how there is no such thing as mind cancer. Hobbes and Descartes sit on diametrically opposite sides of the spectrum when it comes to the nature of the human mind: for Hobbes the mind was just a part of the body but for Descartes the mind was separate from the physical world. When I read of Descartes clenching the idea of perfection in his mind, and using it as ontological proof of God, and I turn inward my eye to investigate, I glimpse a perfect, inner judge whose concerns seem to be grammatical.

You could say that because there is no such thing as mind cancer the mind is definitely separate from the material world but it could just as easily be the case that there is no mind cancer because there is nothing for the term “mind” to name except the dance of the synapses, electrical impulses in the brain.

The universe is indifferent to human philosophy. The human mind is a spec of dust in the cosmic order. Life is essentially meaningless.

The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob may be about Energy as much as Faith. In fact I may have lost my faith long ago although have blips. Some contend the idea of it is a pseudo-efficient, government-sponsored idiocy, others that it could unite us all. It was never supposed to be a post-Einsteinian comedy, nor about Backward Liquid Maths or Miltonian theology. I suppose it was more about Mr. Bean. The original was a bunch of young kids, the oldest of whom was 12, singing, as I say, about the dog going round and round chasing his own tail.

During my degree it was proposed that we scrap Trident and use the resources to explore space more instead; but without Trident we could be held to ransom by someone like Iran.

The nuclear submarine factory is only down the road in Barrow-in-Furness.

My brother is round there at the moment… I am home alone. I think how the nuclear sub factory in Barrow is enough to qualify it as a city, because the factory is a cathedral in the modern age.

I go out into the garden and look at the shape of the fell. The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob seems to contain a separation that corresponds to the geographical/ geological shape of the fell and its foothill Sea Ness from here at the gravitational, magnetic and telluric foot.

I often wonder about M-Theory in correlation to the shape of the fell… I wonder if the qwerty keyboard ends on ‘M’ for the reason of the alignment of Plough and oldest fell, as is only visible here, being “the last thing.”

You have to beware perfection, and beware making a text so good it could be used as Fascist propaganda.

My heart is a bass-drum stuffed with a pillow.

I am interested in the dust that lies at the bottom of things.

As my father passed, Dr. Robert read to him from the Book of John. When he was newly gone, though he’s only gone up the road, I was h-a-n-d-e-d a stack of books I wrote at seven years old and one early piece says:

“On Tuesday there was a magic car in Form 2 and it had flashing lites all over it… and we crashed on a ship REC… and since we were under the sea the whirlpool pulled on top of the water.”

In short though I only give you a fragment it Taps the Book of John for the televisual age.

Around the time of my father’s passing I was thinking, yes, my heart is a bass drum stuffed with a pillow. It could be an image from the renewal of The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob; but I don’t want it to mean I die of a heart attack! Traditionally my heart is strong, ocean-going, a liner.

Sometime after my dad’s death I falsified the Nirvana barcode. As I said in Let The Jews Win, if you falsify the Nirvana barcode it should have meaning.

Mum said it was a trick of grief.

When 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 and took it to her

she said “there is no such thing.”

The shape I mention only works

in Times New Roman, thus:

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

and the armed winged may well make

millions out of the new Nirvana barcode

as brought in by John F B Tucker but

upon writing it down I cast it on the fire

and got my mother to photograph it in flames.

It became smoke filing out of the chimney, and the smoke dissipated into the north wind, that great disseminator of seeds.

Out in the garden, where it is returned to the elemental realm, maths is the language of Nature.

Now, seeing as my dear friends Agent G and Mark too whom it would seem has a finer singing voice than me might need to see some maths, I should just say, in this system E = peace.

Starting with L to the Pregnant Snorkel, E = peace.

We could likewise start with, say, L to the stare of 3 o’ clock twice, and O needn’t be Ossie the dog, going round and round chasing his own tail, for there are many senses of O. For example O is the key of the babbling unicorn.

As for V, we could have the peace sign made with the fingers, or V to the wings of a bird.

The reason I have chosen ‘love’ for this Utilitarian Martianist slowspell is that love is as WH Auden says “a choice of words.” So many problems in philosophy and life alike are down to communication as Wittgenstein said; which is why it is good to further focus on language-use.

If E = L to the pregnant snorkel,

L to the pregnant snorkel = MC squared.

So it is that we arrive at Backward Liquid Maths, where E minus MC squared = only relative 0, but not being good at numbers, I deem that piffle, when everything is devoid of evil, went the hen.

There’s a piece missing from Let The Jews Win, about our retrieving the dog from the farm. It goes in the first of the two poems at a point after ‘Dream With Open Eyes’ by Secret Chord H and before I mourn the loss of E.

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

So that’s a missing piece from Let The Jews Win.

Nevermind, I still got it in.

And what about that time I sat in a room without moving for three days and three nights staring at a pint glass of water before me on the table untouched, taking notes on whatever went through my myriad mind? That’s a notebook I would like to reread but they are all gone.

I might also have mentioned my grand-dad Don’s motto.

The mustard has to be English.

The mustard has to be English.

The mustard has to be English

and growing outside in the wild.

My grandfather Don lied about his age at 15 to stow away to the Second World on the bottom of a sub, later won the Sword of Honour in the R. A. F. and became their youngest non-commissioned officer.

18. 49. I have just polished off a massive portion of sausages and Yorkshire puddings with delicious onion gravy so rich and thick it was like soup.

In Noj And The Mob, soup was called “moop.” Toast was called “boast.” I was Noj; James was Semaj but became Semgas because he didn’t like drinks with bubbles; Dr. Robert was Trebor; and Hannah was a blonde palindrome so I said she could be “Rannock.”

Mum was often “mumphis” as opposed to mumbo and dad was “Badmunch.”

I used to call “muppet!” up the stairs instead of “supper!” and everyone understood. I would also say “moonrag” instead of “morning” in the morning, and again the message came across.

It seems to be a Nintendo innuendo that

her breath a poisonous magic.

Then you’re faced with Hanif Kureishi,

a bit of The Buddha of Suburbia.

The anatomisation of the female

could extend for longer and longer…

her ankles are delicate ornaments of ivory.

You’re also faced with Pinchbeck

whom it would seem, in Breaking

Open The Head, talks of the division

of people into those that like

and those that don’t like mushrooms

as the most ancient division in civilisation.

That’s why I didn’t feel it was a gaff

when I wrote the original, after

poring over a Ted Hughes poem in English

at the same table as fragrant Rachel.

She was never to be my cosmic bride.

06/ 05/ 2026

We’ve seen how in both music and in the written word, it was impossible for me to seize the day as they say in Dead Poets’ Society. I’ve tried with the self-and-vanity-press published books, also the amateur albums, to seize the day but it doesn’t seem to be working. My brother seized the day and came out with the sheet where pictures grew… he doesn’t think I should be re-offering the two long poems of Let The Jews Win herein if I am to bring this to publication. So I have two files open, more or less the same but one is a bit longer than the other. I have changed between them a few times. But what was I talking about? Seizing the day. It’s just past 7 AM and I have been up for two hours already, since my leonine dream. But on the other hand, try as I might with writing all the time, I am 44, fat, skint, single, unemployed, carless, mentally ill, medicated and live with my mother in the sticks. Having two versions of this ongoing book now we have reached an impasse, I think, where we don’t know which version to go with. Does it not feel fresher to proceed without the baggage and luggage of former publications repeated?

I spend ten minutes walking round the kitchen in a circle then stop, think to myself “my brother would tell me to stop and get busy writing instead,” but coming back to the screen have a mental block, cannot just launch into New Beat sound-sex and spontaneity, wonder why the mental block, if it’s something that dates back to my childhood, some blockade to learning presented by the woods, which I didn’t really want to mention, felt would be a mistake… I am open to suggestion from voices but they can be sneaky and etch you. Another hour passes… I am at the mercy of other people including voices and some of them may be against me, or sabotaging my work. I am hopelessly open to suggestions, always diligent, always believing in literature, always trusting – but how paranoid have I become? I won’t even go to the hairdresser with paranoia about the curse issue. Everyone knows. My mental illness is a televised game, according to my mum, who still watches telly, unlike me. I suppose w/r/t repeat prescriptions of former work, without difference there is no contradistinction nor definition, so I probably shouldn’t lift the best of me out of the teeming morass and repeat it herein. But things seem to have gotten lost when you even have a debate about your own work in your own work, like an empty medicine narrative stretching out. Medicine packets build up very fast as days become weeks, weeks months and months years and I more or less have nothing to show for myself apart from a Blogspot page and whatever else I brought out in books and music, which is not much.

In my dream it was either my other brother or I who was being eaten by a lion. I think I was the one successfully hiding under a bed, trying to protect myself with a duvet that wasn’t big enough, and the lion bit and for that bit I was my brother who was the one bitten even though I experienced it myself. So here I am, a survivor of a dream lion, writing a diary I started upon surviving an ingurgitation of 200 anti-psychotic pills which is an extreme dose. I like to read and one of my favourite poets is James Schuyler – who wrote about recovering from mental illness after a suicide attempt where he thought he had been conversing with the Virgin Mary. The laws of physics break down in his mentally ill poems inside the ward. I myself have been noted to write about “sunlight blowing my hair about” as if Nature were turned upside down – but my poetry never got going. I told you the awful tale of woe about how my computer was crashed the night before my first collection was due to be sent – and it never recovered. And throughout it all I have been under a curse, so there’s only really the boyhood book that contains the maths of the new colour that is exempt from that. As I say there are good works – the tape, the sheet, binaural, the purple screen, the Tower, and as I say the maths for the new colour left a cellular mark which might also count. I was thinking though that even if you meet a weird specimen in the wood in boyhood like James Joyce it could be a number. And then there was a second which could also be a number. I don’t want to say any more about that area of debate, or non-debate, because I am instructed not to, just to note though that your number needn’t be a page bound effort, or a song, but could exist outside the known boundaries of traditional art. This is but a guess – but I imagine the bird in the wood is a good number if a number it is. And some people have been on spaceships in the cosmos, which puts our work with words on screens into perspective.

I like Crow by Ted Hughes, where Creation is a dark machine, whose dynamism is reflected in dynamic verbs, doing words. I like Little Johnny’s Confession by Brian Patten where we actually feel the hurt of the innocence to experience journey when the poems about Little Johnny himself cut out. I like The Lords And The New Creatures by Jim Morrison which seems an organic whole, a system unto itself, even a game. I like Walking To Santiago by Neil Curry which started to smell of perfume and inspired the Tower… but now I am just making idle chit chat about books of poetry. I have never done a good one as far as I can tell. But you heard about my recent life, Drugs Curse Madness Suicide Hell. How could I have achieved a good book of poems without even seeing the light? No, my best numbers are possibly found within the likes of the melted tape, the binaural earphone album, even my brother’s sheet. And now this is attaining the condition of tea.

Inimical voices not to be trusted are at hand to say my brother who helps me is inimical and not to be trusted, for example the way he won’t even allow that I helped invent the net because he says “you don’t deserve to have helped invent the net,” even though it’s already happened. I think James would be the first to admit that he sabotages my work but I think we’re okay with each other and have a good relationship. I think I trust my brother, even though he’s very quick to put down anyone else’s genius and to big up his own. If it is true as the female medical professional said that “we would deem it that you re-invented the human form,” maybe even James would admit that that is genius – but then again he’s more likely to say “the maths of the new colour is what actually restricted your growth in puberty.” He’s very sour is James. He’s into games, predictability, bets and I think he thought I was being a genius when I successfully predicted September 11th to the day in 2000, and turned out correct in 2001. You’ve got to hand it to him, if he has designed the sheet where pictures grew that is genius, and I don’t wish to say any more about it, other than that I still have no idea why the pictures seem to depict the lyric to one of my songs.

I resent that voice anyway, a particular one that comes with a particular tone that just a moment ago tried to cause trouble between my brother and I. There’s always someone you don’t want to be in communication with that gets to you and ruins your privacy, someone who seems against you in life, someone who indicates a state of war nor peace.

Having said this a new voice comments that I should revert to the former version of the text with the repeat publications in, and I get a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes with chopped banana and think about it.

06/ 05/ 2026

Today I did nothing but go back to bed, despondent, at about 10. 30 AM and wake again at night-time. My brother James stays in his room all the time and my mother barely leaves the couch in the sitting room where she sleeps by night and sits by day, doing crosswords on her tablet and watching TV at the same time. Quite often I find myself starved of conversation, wondering when the day is going to begin and it never does. Yet at the same time we all seem to be tuned in to the same text at my screen. I know nothing of James’s book on his screen but he seems to know everything about mine on my screen without reading it, as sometimes my mother does too. I also hear voices who only a moment ago said something or other. I realise I am still being treated in A and E, where they raped my veins backwards with needles, and where I nearly died. At one point I remember waking suddenly, saying “plug my senses in the mains!” then dropping back into unconsciousness. They’re all trying to share my heavy load, all those things I did with my life, the face of stars andcetera, and how before I could really come to anything all those bad things started to happen, like the curse, or walking naked in London in a state of madness because voices told me to. They all think I should be some kind of Lord with the things I did, the King of London perhaps. They murmur as I write about it all. They deem it the best one I have done, and yet that I am “furloughed because of below.”

07/ 05/ 2026

We have learned that the new colour could be a metaphor for the cure for cancer; that maths needn’t be about very complicated things but in some contexts a mere case of counting; that the maths of the new colour as a cellular mark isn’t racist but quite the contrary, able to bridge the divide between races and inspire admiration in people that are not white; that the result of the experiment is something beautiful that recalibrates the co-ordinates of the possible. Even if it is all had done, and it isn’t, they say it’s as good as the new Euclid and that if I move on I should be a new poet.