Morning Aches; Nightly Whops —The Life Of A Writer To The Cycles Of The Day — Morning Papers XII

Through The Drafts — Misspelt Ventures — Failed Papers; the Aches are high and the Whops even higher, but therein I find my Virtue

THE LAST PAPER:

I was chasing my person through my drafts, through my clothes and things, coming across a myriad of personable relations —

A tinting of chords by my electric piano bells over as I tumble over my histories —

I tell my betrothed, my fingers are knackered boss, from all this peddling of the ideas by the word; by all the splendid fruits, and the fondness of imagination before love becomes intermittent within the mind — like a fresh batch of divinely malt cereal!

Quite the morning’s digest, and perhaps the first one ever of these to contain anything to do with most mornings — but I manage by in the kooky lands of queerness, that be my rite!

The intention that ever was behind these papers was me to bookmark certain escapades and moments in time I can refer back unto — my curation as you will it, as I dare and do so myself!

Some Good eating as one bunches up the floral arrangements and I tuck my waistcoat past my hip. The morning, at whatever hour in its expanse you find or wake up in, is such a time of sagacity and lurching bewilderment — have you ever stood aside, and watched the geese gently glide around, before storming upon the water’s now broken surface, and hearing their gallant decries of nature — of their nature? Have you ever

Have you ever also found yourself so cramped up in the aches and pangs of pains that would stripe aluminum from its foil basis? — Yes, ’tis the morning; in the morning where coupled lovers find a hearty rest; where nestling birds leave the roost, depart from huddled bequeaths of twilight’s hiatus; Where the thrashing farmer begins to start the gears of a beautiful 1951 Ferguson TE20, and grind away the weary attrition of besetting their selves upon the graveled roads of a farm westward of Idaho? Or have you ever had the feeling of this grounding recoil, like a giant electric magnet keeping you beset within the snuggling folds of a warmly-made bed?

Or the repute of your daily communion dragging the weighty breast down into the sump of indolence? All of this — this evening’s loathing for the day-to-day, right in the heart of the morning resides so much from dearly typing, and typing, one must do so, and away she shall glide! To clear one’s mind and to concentrate upon the intentional is the bitter crux that must be refound, seemingly, every new morn.

To have away from yourself merrily is the beacon of my way — To tussle the sheet back, soaking yourself in the fundament of the previous night’s workings — aye, that is a blessing to be courted, and dare even, to be counted as one piece of solvency in distraction’s cross-brow storm!

To pin down a certain form or a feeling to gravitate the newly dreamt mind — away from its pangs of idyllic fortunes and winsome loves formed in the dreaming world, it must be caught back down, into a slender form, known as the conscious form tempered — or if you prefer, the beastly beast that shatters the ground with its morning temper, and bash away at the poor old typewriter from West Germany — ah, now there is our language!

To concrete what it is — the endurance of remaining faulty seems to prattle on away from you; That is our hope for now — That be our fragrant mess in the meanwhile.

I have never dreamt of anything sweeter than a morning to swing back into the jiving of things — To come around my console, settle down beneath the bronze lights, And behold what I must do!

Nor have I ever dreamt of anything tidier to the congested breast, Then to dance merrily in the lines that were being conjured up a morn, or a fortnight ago — that pleasures, even in the most frightful of substances, is where it is! — So that man tells me in that phrase!

This funny old thing that when you speak from experience, it just ushers itself out of you, without the burden of fright — when you speak from the books, from the words of others, it remains caged and instills within you the stark image of your boundaries, And the limits of your reading knowledge.

We shall part solely now —

As I do this awesome roar — I remain the sole detail amongst the crowd of overseers at the performance of Shostakovich’s — Symphony No 11 in G minor, Op 103 — Søndergård — Beholding divine!

Ta-ta Now!; Many Happy Returns, she fondly says — As she oft infuses the pattern of the third person,

Upon herself now!

Seeking backwardly,

I must remark this piece has been surprising me, as much is the surprise being of the innate purpose of the evergoing Sightseer’s line.

So there is my little note of surprise, And here also my token of Gramercy to you all — And to that dirty devil of Edvard Munch A big sigh into heaven for ya mate!

COME ALONG WITH THE DOCTOR’S NEWSLETTER

THE MORNING PAPERS:

Marches Of Gold; Our Publication:

Come To Medium:

As ever, Dear Reader.