The Man in the Record shop broke a record...

So it was that perhaps ...

I know a homosexual man in glasses that inspires me allot. He is a dead man and openly so. I had a bath this morning and the howl of the pipes made me think of him. I then thought about if it is a naked man, such as myself (at the time), who is the one that is to be laughed at. I have always see my poetry as a cheap form of such a high art. To perform for me is to be naked and proud, humiliated and secret mocking the listener by dropping in a line I know they will not understand. Not due to superior intellect, which begs how the illogical can seem scientific? Due to personal amorous self hate I strive to pain but for fill, perhaps through the means of S&M and cycling through busy streets.

And so I scowled and ripped off one of my favourite pieces of Poetry ever- Allen Ginsberg's Footnote to Howl

Footnote to Scowl.

Like totally, totally, totally, totally, totally, totally, totally,totally,

Her hands were totally, and her face was totally, her breasts and ass, and cunt was totally.

Crammed in a loud box of ketamin fidgets and totally skinny caramel lattes and that extra topping of cinnamon.

Totally scared, totally Leopold, totally Woolf, totally Virginia tobacco farms and seven pound cigarette packets smoked in a day, totally pimple scratching undergraduate hours, totally smash doors to shout and windows to breath.
Totally fuck and balls and Hoxton square mopeds totally tickets, totally card, totally forgotten and totally reality is not a wine bottle in a cunt or a pig bought for a prized bracelet on Christmas Eve nights on BBC Three or however they spend it up in Essex.

Totally minds worth destroying, totally generate degenerated

youth pink wind holes and Bukoski readership, totally rolled and in drains, totally flat warmed and broken again by an instant photograph I keep under my pillow case for self keeping until the Marrowbie Jukes saved by Indian boys and Vertov films cast a dampener on my investments.

Totally miss, totally sand in toes, totally saw an eldery woman thrown through a gate in my front garden, totally wish I was born to myself, totally a good mother paints, totally Solomon and destoryed la

nguage and internet connections, totally status updates, totally died for no god reason. Totally unholy, totally no room in the Inn,
totally the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul.

I was going to do a ten year project on what we are told on a single day. So once a year, (perhaps my birthday because it would be yet more pretentious and somehow spiritually symbolic), no? I would get a newspaper (not pay, because if I am going to be talked at and told stories too, it might as well be free, right?) and then read it. So one day a year I would know what was going around me nationally and internationally. Just one day and see, just what differences there are. Slowly the greats I listen to, watch films of, or mock in a voice I do, will slowly die, ( not necessarily a slow death, just the passing of time seems slow). I would have gone to the point of counting each word on each page, the amount of time the word panic or bound was used. I would have cut sections out of pictures, see how many eyes are pointing forward and upwards (not together of coarse), it would have been understanding in context and the conte

nt would have been so unmoved and thus the world it would have been portraying would have been unmoved or caused such confusion.

But I gave up already and read how, once again 'rock and roll' has died, (apparently it was Kings Of Leon's fault, which I protested, merely stating that Ragoo is not really Black Dog or Sabbath Bloody Sabbath, but it still brings a smile on my face, (the smug cunts)), or how 10 years ago Ken Livingston said it would be great to erect a massive 310 metre glass spike shit thing with 44 elevators right in front of St Paul's Cathedral, (but don't worry there will be some office space in there for TFL to spawn and ectoplasm-ate in). I give up and I hold my head held high now saying that if it is a city I wish to live in then it is a city I wish to kill my passions and soul for.

Etgar Karet is an Israeli, multi translated, writer. He is, in my eyes the best short story writer since Edgar Allen Poe. This is a film based on one of his ideas.

Shall I leave it there? Okay.