Archive for January, 2015

Wednesday, January 21st, 2015


Today I discover myself as a footnote to a footnote.
Tomorrow I shall be as a leaf on a tree. And here comes Autumn.

Tuesday, January 20th, 2015


I listened
to some of Wagner’s opera stuff
and wondered if it would help
if I learned German.

Monday, January 19th, 2015


If only the sound of horses meant that (at last) my dream of becoming a cowboy had come true.

Sunday, January 18th, 2015


All the language here
Leaves us bereft of words
As if what remains to be felt
Is never to be expressed

Saturday, January 17th, 2015


“Contrary to popular opinion, it’s not the Walking Dead who are the problem but the Walking Living.”

He said that, and from the way he laughed I can only assume he thought it was really funny.

Friday, January 16th, 2015


5 different flavours of flower cakes –
I am eating one now

I am so hungry – the typical behaviour

Thursday, January 15th, 2015



Between moments of sobriety your latest beau encapsulates all it means to be a sot. Trust him as far as you can hurl one of your uncle’s steers.

I, on the other hand, belong with the pure of heart and The Honest Boys of Turin.

Wednesday, January 14th, 2015


Seek perfection
The correct underwear

Speak interestingly
But only with those who are deemed worthy

So few

Tuesday, January 13th, 2015


I have known many poets who have written well — very fine stuff — with delicate moods and so on — but if you talk with them, the only thing they tell you is smutty stories or they speak of politics in the way that everybody does, so that really their writing turns out to be kind of sideshow. They had learned writing in the way that a man might learn to play chess or to play bridge. They were not really poets or writers at all. It was a trick they had learned, and they had learned it thoroughly. They had the whole thing at their finger ends. But most of them—except four or five, I should say—seemed to think of life as having nothing poetic or mysterious about it. They take things for granted. They know that when they have to write, then, well, they have to suddenly become rather sad or ironic … put on the writer’s hat and get into a right mood, and then write.

— Jorge Luis Borges, The Paris Review, 1966

Monday, January 12th, 2015


dare to dream of a wide water bed
a dream of drowning
what are we waiting for let’s jump in the deep end
a phantom swimming instructor
the waters are rising