revision of comment

für poesie
seinen widerlichen
lebenszweck:
seine autobiographie /

   for poetry
      his disgusting
      purpose in life:
      his autobiography

    (to borrow from
ernst jandl)

lazily: a thought
experiment -
    the front drive:
more like a patio...

deweeding
trimming the shrubs
and most certainly
armed with a hook
working at
the miniature canyons
in between the
brick-o-slabs...

chaos at first...
before i actually managed
to relieve myself
of a self-conscious body
and the prospect
of the other making
inquiry: which did happen
at the beginning of
the task...

   an old man with a grandson
passed me...
inquiring with delight:
you'd get this chore done
with a iron bristle brush:
what joy emanated
from his face as if i had
a promethean rather than
a mediocre attempt
at: boulder upon a hill...

in all honesty i was chaotic...
i could have attempted
at a systematic:
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓

i did get there in the end,
but at first it was more
like

↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔ ↔ ↘ ↔ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓       ↓ ↓ ↓ ↙ ↓ ↓ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓      ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↙ ↓ ↙
↓ ↓ ↓       ↓ ↓ ↗ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↗ ↓ ↘ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔    ↓ ↓ ↓ ↘ ↕

i wish it was a thought
experiment -
                 but...
before reaching a climax
of automation and a variation
of pristine methodology concerning
such a base posit of: use...
no... not talent...
              if i were a bricklayer...
hell! if i were a surgeon!
not today: not this life...

    but once the hedge trimmer was
out and hanzel und gretyl
was blasting in my earphones...
well... a running theme as
if borrowed from: texas chainsaw
massacre:
        just the odd chore outside
the house in full view of
a public in transit turned
into a would be horror flick...
but not really:
i tamed the self-conscious
body with a borrowed mind
and some sponges and
some electric fishy-things
of the oceans -
    
               by god: so much easier
to borrow snippets of life
for life from these
"mediocre" underachievers...
i agree: one might appreciate
focusing on a pillar or two
from the yawning aeons
of literature:
   but oh god: the crushing
ambition to go against
more than a status quo...
      
                       just a life where
i can live with myself:
that's enough...
   just a life where thinking can
relapse into the old truth
of narration for the limbs
to move with... synchronise
themselves with:
   i hardly think about literary
ambition: once a hard-on
now a burn-out...
   thinking of those days:
a litre of whiskey a night...

now a strict diet of circa 500kcal
of whiskey...
and what is a litre in kcal?
    2000 kcal... one can almost be
envious for cocaine models
and champagne socialists...

    anything to let me
live with myself:
                   perhaps a way
to imitate some 20th century
dictator and how they
managed that incredulous feat...
because in my little
world of mediocre and
only being above average
with my 6ft2 posture...
    which is still pretty average...
no lungs to be a olympic swimmer...
no springboard
ambitions for a basketball player...

at best: self-deprecating
humour to sanitize me with
a blameless insanity...
                
   because i can tow long
a funny tickle of a day when
i reach a climax:
cut down on the whiskey
to only compensate cutting
down with three cigarettes -
and... some talking heads on
the headphones...
           is it safe? is it copping out?
burning with a fade...
well: simmering then...
the chemistry of metaphors
when fame is in play...
    it's such a terrible rouse...
unlike a fame of a plumber:
practical fame...
                    implying:
by reputation by the intricacies
of perfecting a trade...
by recommendation:
by excellence...

          nothing's ever excellent
about starting at poetry
afresh...
           it's not like:
         don quixote was a lightbulb
in that if don quixote was:
not-expected -
                         some would
argue... the lightbulb was
intrinsically seeking status of:
awaited-ness...

one "thing" led to another...
and that... the argument follows...
if it wasn't Edison...
then someone else would have
conjured up a lightbulb...
like that first and last eureka!
i guess:
no one went looking for
don quixote...
                or leopold bloom...
or mr. pickwick for that matter...

   poetry and gems...
of note of late?
       well... if it wasn't that i chored
over finnegans wake:
then...
      i would spare myself
with something
like fliegen eintag polyglott
              (oskar pastior)...
which pretty much reminds me
of having cross the european
continent only a month prior...
passing france, belgium,
holland, germany and ending
up somewhere
that teases Ukraine...
       wow! english is spoken
by the english!
not everyone speaks english!
it was obvious that
the french speak french...
less so concerning
the belgians and the dutch...
but that... germans are not
bilingual?! imagine my shock...

well... it's not really a shock...
it was a fake superstition
of tourism: which i never really
held... i just wanted to stand-on-pretend...
notably in germany...
i would think this lie and find
myself awe-struck: not all germans
speak english...
like the 20th century never happened...
i hardly think it was naive:
it was an evil joke for
the entertainment of one -
notably when we were stopped
at the Germany-Poland border
by the guards...
and asked in german and broken
polish (but not english)
whether we were smuggling
guns or drugs...
   or foreign currency...

     aghast... the german border
guards thinking it was necessary
to even search my wallet
to see how much spare change i had...
true story...
   it just so happens after enough
time has passed and someone
might ask: formally or informally...
'so, what have you been up to?'
my atypical reply is always
the same: 'nothing' / 'nothing much'...

perhaps i am writing a book...
but i hardly think i am...
    i am riddling a concept of bed...
i'm getting ready to lick
a stamp with this worded
doodle before i send a postcard
from the life of the believably living
to the filing cabinet of either
the Land of Nod or Nox:
wherever grand-grand-grand-grand-etc.-
father Cain has become
the reformed archetype of -
   returning to keeping buggies and
other parrots... something:
that sort of -esque.