an occasional poem on addiction; or, a valediction, forbidding.

PART 1 – ADDICTED TO MUSIC

1. Introit

it wasn’t my singular vision
it was our double vision
my singular vision - 
were she to sing, she’d sing like this:
[c.f. what came to pass
out of piped music in
Ask Restaurant, Cambridge, 
19:20, 27.02.08]
lily allen (apparently) sins –
were she to sin she’d sin
like this:
Sing, heavenly JEWS.
what did I drop? jew-drops?
click-click, scuttle-scuttle.

2. Bach to the future

In my dream-conception of reality,
these conditions, for the possibility of existence,
apply: how far away would
you have to go
tangentially from
earth to reach
bach’s organ works,
played by bach
the sound wave
doesn’t degrade, my boy - 
click-click,
scuttle-scuttle.
all you must do to reach back
(the secret of music) is:
to travel faster than sound
away from earth, in the right
direction considering earth’s
spiral marching about.
presumably, I don’t know,
my dream-physics was complex enough
for this.

PART 2 – ADDICTED TO ME

First despised, now despising, 
he secretly wastes 
his own worth 
in unsatisfying egoism.

Goethe's, Harzreise Em Winter ("Winter Journey Through the Harz Mountains"). Set by Brhams in ‘Alto Rhapsody’

3. I, I

unsatisfying? 
you’re working into corners, David:
egotism or an excuse - 
it can be, if I ‘want’
‘charity children with cancer.’
oh, you’re reading? I thought you were.
paroxysms of respect?
was it his campness?
or was he commenting on
the campness of the text
as a thing-in-itself?
ego ME[fsut] clare colon[y] 

ego me, militant Jews,
Bach to them, latterly.
have they arrived?

I think it would be periodically
self-aggrandising…
why do you want to 
introduce two pens,
David?

‘What happened after your
hand was met,’ said I?
‘You’re narrating this bit, 
You’re god,’ said he.
Well done, David.

Appropriate shades of tentativeness
He’s got, that man, man.
Back to Poole, then
we realised we were:

PART 3 – ADDICTED TO LITERATURE

4. A peppery crisp for Adrian Poole

With pepper in them, embedded,
Our hands had met over the peppery crisps 

‘You’re like Sancho Panzer, to my Donkey-Hote:
I tilt at the windmills – 
That’s a complex eye.’

anyway, in my kindness as an
egotistical superbeing,
I left him the last one
- that woman has no
underway! write it down! –
Stent-master Poole, 
he smiled at me in his stentorian way,
‘that’s a pentameter, isn’t it?’
yes yes, well done David.
make sure there’s David there – 
I’m the one to write it. David.

milton’s goatish: 
a study in the singularity of Hurley’s bawdy.
textual love to Hurley, xx.
‘breaking open the text
I don’t wanna find ‘niceday’ inside.’
This is practical criticism, David.

8. observatory, sea?; or, a unionisation in harmony

Line, break!
Break, break, break,
on thy cold grey tomes – 
O, see,
an impressive beard walked out of the
door.
I saw it in passing.
a constant history, i shat
of disappointments,
it wounds me, David.

‘Shout shout,’ shout I?, encompassed in pith
by solitude, I feel the fulcrum
about which all this
activity bustles.

take the pith, marine litigation.
more dick, dear?
is that like Xerxes whipping
the sea, or Canute
sanctioning marine
the union?

6. Groping on the shoulders of giants

yeah, it’s an insectual fatalism -
insectual snuff movies
me – 1, sam – 2
you weren’t there? were you there?
were you? you were there? there?
‘jarvista-juggernaut-ho, march next!’
‘write that down!’
Katie, to Quentin Skinner’s homing sense,
Ben-yah-mien, I should say,
he don’t care – Cambridge Geisha – 
he dead, David.
it looks like you’re trying to be, 
James Dean, but remaining yourself.

7. PASSUS: A SYLLOGISM

a: he who laughs last, laughs loudest;
and b: he who laughs loudest, laughs longest;
therefore c: he who laughs last, laughs longest.
hah.

8. ‘Knee-deep in pussy’; or, She opens the door, and she got nothing on but the radio

A man is referred to as "gay Perry" throughout the movie. 
how waspy!

I’m developing a republican corpus.
I’m a drop in educational standards.
I’m a terrorist motivation –
always Hurley, but never in rhyme.

the chair she shat on, like a burnished throne:
lock me up, lock me down, lock me in 
fanny-house, what is the phenomenology,
lecher, of cock, David?
lecher me – to die or not to die,
you’re – now that is the rub - the lecher.

why is anybody running? one might ask:
running away from that fulcrum,
they shot a man in the
snooker room, just to watch him die;
so is it physically unsafe
to go in there?
no. it’s just because there’s
work going on in there:
you dream it, we build it –
houses individual, buildings complex.