Books and Dead Men

My two loves are books and dead men
Especially when they bite.
Incisive, they feed off me
And I them
An orgy of ghosts who visit by night.

Friendly faces long since reduced to dust
live once more in me while I breathe,
A rotten bunch in whom I trust
For none of them give me cause to grieve.

Though energetic exchanges occur just the same
In the nether worlds of my fevered brain
And just for a moment I manage a kiss
With a congenial spectre across the abyss

Rarer still a switch flicks in my head
And my bedroom filled with the long since dead.
When this happens I invite the shade I like best
To be a good incubus and sit on my chest

But displease me and I'm afraid it's goodbye
Before I'm sucked dry, by psychic succubi.
Though summoning the dead is a perilous feat
I prefer it to reading the modern elite.

This is the result of self-reflection
Occurring at once in all directions.
With them looking forward and I looking back
Stabbed through my Omega point
By a spiritual tack,
Remember, remember the wise Rebbe said.
Just not too hard lest you wake the dead!

The Tits Of Death

I saw Death in Tesco and Death had a fantastic rack. Let me explain. There was a Halloween display and the people charged with making store displays/window dressing had probably run out of male mannequins

 and used a female. Don't get me wrong I quite liked it, it had a Jake and Dinos Chapman quality. It just got me wondering who did it? Was it simply a matter of necessity? Could it have been a fashion obsessed gay man? Or a woman with an eating disorder? Either could have been depicting their idealised female body. Or else someone wishing to strike a blow for equality, why should it always be Gentleman Death who comes to call? I give you The Tits Of Death! Sounds like a low-rent Michael Reeves homage from the early 1970's. I did try to get a picture of myself actually groping the tits of death wearing a suitably leery expression, alas I just couldn't get all four of us in shot!

Cave Paintings

The cave of my heart is cold, hard and black,
The being inside just rattles around.
How vast the cave is essentially unknowable,
Though amplified screams echo around.
 They bounce off the walls of the hollow chamber,
A demented wraith of harrowing sound.

The being inside has no lights but one,
A tiny gold flame dances over her head.
By it she sees nothing but shapes and shadows,
All she hears are fragments of what is said.
From the glimpses she catches she paints the walls,
Of the cave with portraits of the shades of her mind.
She knows only iridescent black granite,
The shades only know though they see-
They are blind.
"How cruel an irony" as Socrates said,
When he smashed through the wall of Plato's cave.

"That those who enjoy the gift of vision are fettered,
while the purblind are free to govern the world".

A Monograph: The Strength And Character Of Bodily Functions As Indicators Of General Well Being.

The above title refers to a recently acquired antique medical document by a nineteenth century physician called Dr. Clovis Stanton-Marwood.  He was a pioneer in the field of holistic medicine, advocating stool analysis as a method of assessing the overall health of an organism. This particular publication dates from 1880, while I do not intend to publish the whole thing verbatim I have decided to print the first chapter for the education and amusement of the reader:

 Chapter 1: The Composition Of Excrement
" A sound stool is the outcome of  an agreeable diet. Light, nourishing and well balanced. Too many times have I seen patients writhing in agony, sore afflicted with excessive bowel gas, owing to the costive effects of rich, stodgy foods. Suet pudding is the enemy of a healthy bowel! One patient in particular, a wealthy industrialist from the north, called Mr.H- consumed such an excess of bowel clogging foods, he required surgical intervention.  Mr.H- aged 54, plump leonine countenance, Sanguine-Choleric temperament. Height: 5 feet 7 inches, Weight: 16 stones. Apart from carrying excess weight the patient enjoyed better health than one with such a dysfunctional bowel could reasonably expect.

  He came to visit me at my rooms in Harley Street complaining of a terrible "gripping" sensation, as if  "a red-hot hand had caught hold of my innards and twisted them about". He was taken ill at his club and had to be brought in as an emergency. After conducting a very brief, preliminary assessment of his general condition, I asked him a series of questions about his diet. Beginning with what he had consumed at his club that day. There followed a litany of sins against the bowel. Scrambled eggs topped with cheese, followed by a steak and kidney pudding and quantity of fried potatoes. He concluded his ghastly repast with jam roly-poly and custard. When I asked him how many fresh vegetables he consumed in a week, he told me never, insisting that he was loath to "feast upon the devil's t----s".  As I was about to admonish Mr.H- for despising the humility and medicinal efficacy of plants, he brought forth a great roar and fell to the ground. He was in the grip of a full paroxysm of the bowel. Time, was now of the essence. I called for assistance from his friends who had brought him in. They burst through the door of my consulting rooms and took hold of him, all the while he struggled, as we lifted him onto the bed in my adjoining surgery. Mr.H- screamed as he was straightened out and had to be secured, to the bed on all fours, by wrist and ankle straps. I then cut off his breeches with a pair of scissors. He begged for chloroform, but I refused, assuring him that the inherent risks did not justify its employment. Besides which, I was experienced in these matters and the situation would very quickly be resolved. This inspired confidence in the patient and he relaxed sufficiently for me to examine the area. There was no need to utilise a speculum as the matter had already begun to present itself. A hard impacted mass of faecal matter known medically as a 'spigot'.The etymology of the word is rather interesting, it derives from the Latin Spica meaning ear of grain. Its spiral shape comes from faeces having to slowly tunnel through a tight intestine creating a 'corkscrew' effect. Also from the magma spigot of a volcano, as extraction often precipitates the expulsion of a stream of burning, liquid excrement. There are two types. Firstly the simple or 'crowning' variety where the end protrudes from the anus. The second complex or 'occult' variety is situated further up the large intestine and is far more difficult to treat. fortunately, this was a typical presentation of the former occurrence. There was only one course of action; to perform an extraction. One of the more alarming consequences of a crowning spigot is the immense build up of gas pushing it forward. In order to alleviate the pressure and lubricate the surrounding tissues, I was first going to drill into the spigot, by means of a narrow brace and bit and through said hole introduce Castor oil via a syringe. This on occasion, coupled with anal massage can be enough to free the blockage, however, this was one of the most extreme instances I have ever treated in my 35 years of practice. I knew it required more a more radical solution. I prepared myself for surgery, washing my hands in a solution of carbolic acid and donning my protective goggles. The goggles are an essential when performing this type of operation, I know of a terribly sad incident involving a talented young surgeon, whose career was ended when he was blinded by a high velocity spigot. I made but one concession to my patient, I gave him an inhaler, a modified version of Clover's invention, which allowed him to inhale nitrous oxide throughout. Many physicians favour a combination of compounds such as nitrous oxide, sulphuric ether and chloroform. I however, harbour grave doubts as to the safety of chloroform and so prefer a combination ether and nitrous oxide during minor operations. My methods have not met with universal approval in the medical community, some still question the orthodoxy of my approach. My adoption of stool analysis, coupled with my preference for nitrous oxide has lead to me being referred to colloquially as: "Dr. S---s and giggles". As he began to inhale the gas, the patient relaxed, and chuckled pleasantly to himself. I first drilled the spigot, the deepest, most tightly impacted I have ever encountered. I calculated from the residue on the brace and bit it must be at least 5inches deep. Then inserted my longest needle through the hole I had just made and injected a syringe full of Castor oil through the opening, directly into the bowel. This proved unsuccessful. Not even the most rigorous massage, or the now rapid contractions of the rectum, {precipitated by the patient's now almost convulsive laughter} were enough to dislodge the spigot. I then had recourse to a device of my own invention. The laqueoscope, patent pending. From the Latin laquem meaning 'trap'. it consisted of a narrow steel tube divided in to two segments. Inside the uppermost chamber were two hooked prongs. both made of strong metal wire, though covered with rubber to protect the delicate tissues of the bowel. One must first insert the tube through the hole in the spigot, then twist the uppermost chamber in a clockwise direction away from the bottom one which releases the hooks. These should then grip into the mass. In the base of the bottom chamber one will find a small protruding button. Pressing this inward releases the telescopic handle which extends the exposed gripping area from 6 to 18 inches, thus affording the physician a better purchase. I inserted the device, before extending both the hooks and handle. Once in position, I began to gingerly pull the spigot towards me. It refused to budge, even a fraction of inch and so I was forced to exert greater pressure. Once it had proved itself resistant to all the force I could personally muster, I was forced to call Mr.H-'s friends back in. As in the children's fable, The Enormous Turnip, as I held onto the instrument, so they held onto me. At the count of three we all heaved in unison and flew backwards as the spigot came free. When we three healthy specimens of manhood had gathered ourselves from the floor we turned our attention to the patient. Mr.H- let out a scream through the incessant laughter when the spigot was released. This was followed by the usual stream of acrid diarrhoea. While the spigot was safely impaled on the laqueoscope the liquid ordure had squirted out and befouled a picture of Sir Joseph Lister on my far wall. Upon examination his bowel proved sound, no lasting damage had been sustained. When questioned further regarding his dietary habits it transpired that the spigot crisis was precipitated by his actions of the previous day, specifically his gluttonous consumption of an entire jar of his wife's plum conserve. The liberating effects of fruit combined with the already brewing crisis in his bowel caused the situation to come to a head. The plum conserve was the cause of the gas and diarrhoea, hence the magma flow following the extraction of the spigot. Mr.H- was extremely fortunate to be brought to such an experienced physician. I have known of many instances in which such a crisis has proved fatal. To conclude: Dietary imbalances are frequently the cause of acute dysfunction of the bowel. Such dysfunction may  be avoided by careful, infrequent consumption of such foods as are considered costive. A plant based diet is therefore to be recommended, however, excessive consumption of fruit is to be avoided as this may cause the opposite problem {too fast a digestive transit}. Although I am unaware of anyone perishing from such excesses. I will delineate further on what I consider to be the ideal diet in Chapter 2: The Perils Of Fruit: loose stools in infants, the elderly and invalids. After adopting my dietary principles, Mr.H- now enjoys excellent bowel health, having lost 3 stones and has experienced no recurrence of any of his previous symptoms.

Hot Lazarus

I am affronted. Seldom do such archaic, righteous-sounding words pass my plump, over-active lips. I am more than affronted. I am incandescent. My dead facebook profile has been digitally raped. Not only has what remains of my cyber corpse been dug up, dark arts have been employed in an attempt to resurrect it. That evil trader in virtual body parts Mark Zuckerberg has furnished a ghastly set of people based in New Zealand or thereabouts with the key to my sarcophagus. A league of wicked sorcerers called The Profile Engine. How you might well ask, did I happen upon this horrifying discovery? Being of a paranoid disposition I do at intervals Google myself {about once a week}. Ever since I deleted my facebook account on August 25 2011 I have been secretly anticipating this day. One of the reasons I left was because of a deep rooted mistrust of Zuckerberg and his ilk. Confronted with my half recovered profile I felt simultaneously violated and vindicated. I was as thorough as I could be {spent about 4hrs deleting photos and data} yet they still managed to find 26 of my erstwhile Facebook friends along with numerous links and likes. They ask you to sign in and claim the profile in order to delete it. I will not. I know better. What they have now is a carcass, sure there may be DNA but there is no life about it. What they have is my past life. To initiate further contact or furnish them with any more information would be to give them a window on my present. Which I certainly have no desire to do. What am I worried about then? That those ghoulish Frankenstein motherfuckers are going to run enough volts through my digital doppelganger to give it life. Independent life. That the angry revenant will wander abroad in search of the creator who abandoned it, seeking to destroy my future. That my profile will become sentient a la Daniel Feeld's preserved head {brilliantly characterised by Albert Finney} in Dennis Potter's Cold Lazarus. One imagines a dystopian future when the Internet will be peopled by the shades of our aborted brainchildren. Mark Zuckerberg allows people to digitally fist-fuck your dead eidolon. To ram their clawed {from excessive typing, gaming and wanking} hands straight up your arse, through your liquefying guts, into your mute, dead mouth and engage in a macabre puppet show. So I've fallen prey to the Facebook body snatchers. Read my epitaph: Fuck You!

The Emperor's New Comedy

Last night I exposed myself to an obnoxious poison. While that, for one such as I is not unusual per se, it was the origin of this particular toxin which caused me so much distress. When seeking a distraction from the ennui of existence, I tend opt for strange substances, rare herbs and exotic potions, redolent of moral decay. As I was stone cold sober, due to a dearth of the aforementioned life enhancers and consequently, bored, I decided to watch Noel Fielding's Luxury Comedy on E4. As someone who appreciated The Mighty Boosh, I was hoping for some surrealist humour in a similar vein. What I was exposed to was a pretentious, self-indulgent, vanity project by someone of dubious talent and intellectual capabilities. Mr. Fielding is obviously artistic, though no Caravaggio. In some measure amusing, though no Peter Cook. Why the fuck does some jumped up Primary school art teacher who just happens to possess the courage of his mediocrity, become the object of such approbation, in some cases adoration? One suspects that if he had a face less appealing to 15yr old girls and metrosexual, bi-curious amateur photographers who call themselves Tarquin Sequin {Thomas Smith to their estranged family}, he mightn't be so popular.   What really annoys me is his "I could shit in a newspaper and you'd still eat it up" attitude. During the "Jelly Fox" animation segment there was so much puerile, mindless repetition, I may as well have been watching a fucked up episode of Puddle Lane from 1987. He imagines that by name checking and pastiching established artists such as William Blake, Rene Magritte, Freida Kahlo et al, he can confer genius upon himself. He is sadly deluded, like the owner of a grimoire, imagining that access to a body of esoteric information will automatically transform them into a sorcerer. The Ghost Of A Flea sketch was for me the least stinky pile of shit, although that's probably because as a student of Blake's mythology I could appreciate the allusions. That said, it was pathetically childish and not a redeeming feature, rather a moment of light relief during a mostly unpleasant experience. Comparable to the man torturing you farting, while he bends over to increase the traction on the rack. Rich Fulcher was the Blake proxy William Jessop,
though the best thing he ever did was the short-lived BBC3 offering Snuff Box with
Matt Berry, he seems to degrade himself in this sort of drivel on a regular basis.
 All I can think is the money must be good. Not just for Noel and Rich or the rest of the cast, but for
E4 too. So good, in fact they have commissioned a second series. probably on the back of ratings. It terrifies me to think how many soggy-knickered school girls, gay design students and pseudo-intellectual amateur film makers there are in the world. What will they do to me if they ever catch me walking down the street? Most probably kidnap me and make a short film of me being drowned in vat of glittery fanny-batter. I digress.
  The reason I'm so pissed off is I enjoyed the Boosh. I feel like I've been conned into admiring the naked Emperor's multi-coloured, glittery jumpsuit.

Funeral For A Facebook, Non Je Ne Regrette Rien!

Just over a month has elapsed since I deleted my Facebook account. I am now ready to talk about it. Please don't be alarmed, I shan't bore you with trivial details about how difficult those pernicious technocrats make it to delete your account. No, this is essentially a positive article about the psychological benefits of no longer giving a shit.

It is now a matter of sovereign indifference what most of my erstwhile FB friends are doing. When I created my account just over 3 years ago, it was a different story. I created my account because I felt isolated, plus, in all good conscience: I'm a nosey bitch. I like accruing information for future reference. I don't lay claim to being a FB Sidney Reilly or anything, I'm just a freelance character assassin, semi-retired of course, I now see how unhealthy it was. Besides, Mark Zuckerberg has far more sensitive information about you and intends to put it to far worse uses, than I.

Which brings me to my main point. I feel so much better now I've disentangled myself  from that rather unpleasant outgrowth of the web. I've never made any secret of the fact I have Bipolar disorder. During my periods of intense depression I found myself drawing endless comparisons with my FB friends. Namely the smarter, fitter, more beautiful, better travelled, generally more popular folk. Honestly, it grated on me. it was the fuel my melancholy needed to sustain its weary existence.
One of the most perplexing things for me was the photos. Not just of special occasions, but those people who posted a drunken, gurning record of every night out they'd ever had since joining FB. As I don't have a form of short-term memory loss, I feel it unnecessary to keep a regular photographic log of every activity I engage in or indeed, post a written missive to my waiting faithful, just in case they miss a nugget of solid gold wisdom or forget my existence for more than 5 seconds.
I think Facebook actually began to suck the joy from my existence. The push to quit came from the fact I was suffering from extreme ennui. The realisation that I had failed to give anything my undivided attention for three years and as a consequence, fully engage with many activities in the real world was because of a certain anxiety attached to Facebook. I must, post this, others must know of this occurrence, then will I know validation, when others approve of me, then will I know my existence is worthwhile.
 Which begs the question why are you blogging about this? Why do you need validation from another source? The truth is we are all social animals and require some form of acknowledgement/validation. This is normal, I appreciate feedback and interaction. My problem is with what Facebook as a format turns people, myself included into: Egomaniacal, deluded narcissists with sociopathic tendencies. Now I'm not saying it happens to everyone, some saintly phlegmatic souls are I dare say, immune. Just most people. I admit I've Googled  FACEBOOK IS SHIT and the like. On one blog a man made a brilliant point regarding sociopathy. He delineated how a lot of Talented Mr.Rippley types, actually create a fabricated persona which is the TOTAL OPPOSITE of their real personality. E.g. they have 800 friends, are always posting status updates which are candid to the point of indecency, constantly posting albums full of pictures of their alcohol soaked nights out. this person, must be an open, confident, popular, social butterfly right? WRONG! What you're actually looking at is a deeply insecure, attention seeking, exhibitionist with a possible embryonic drink problem. Hiding, behind the mask they have so elaborately painted. They have 800 friends 'cause they're an absolute whore who both adds and accepts adds, from the world and his dog. They need mementos of nights out to reassure themselves they A: actually happened and B: They didn't disgrace themselves too badly because they were so intoxicated they cannot recall the details of what happened. This is the case with regard to most social events. Now, I'm no plaster saint. I do drink and have been drunk. I did, on occasion upload the odd snap to Facebook. I just grew up and snapped out of it! Sorry to have to say it but FB is a giant virtual playground. It turns intelligent adults into insecure, competitive, children. You may notice I omitted a word from my former statement: MATURE!
 Mature people are those who posses certain truths and act on them. 1. An experience good or bad is significant because of its significance. 2. Other people knowing of these events doesn't mean they care or are well disposed towards you. They are generally leering pervs or jealous bitches. 3. Making a photographic record of every thing you've ever done, is a symptom of insecurity. You're not taking these photos because you're so happy, immersed in the moment, you're taking them because of what they represent: social currency. See I'm popular, I have a girlfriend, new house/dog/car ect...
 On the plus side, I'm a born empiricist, I had to experience this firsthand. I didn't use Facebook for 3 years because everything about it was terrible. I just outgrew it. I realised that for me the cons outweighed the pros.Virtual social networking was, a novel experiment. Unfortunately I suffered unpleasant side effects. Fortunately, they wore off when I opted out.