for some reason that completely made sense, i stopped about a kilometre from the end of my run for long enough that it seemed to make sense to have a shower before finishing the run. it wasn’t nice putting my running gear back on.
i used to be in a band when i was in high school. mostly fell out of touch with the guys after we all embarked on our journeys into adulthood. but over the last year, i got into a good routine with my old pal, our former bassist, bouldering most weeks at 7ish am. we were both having transitional years. making plans for the future. navigating new relationships. he has now gone up north to be a rugged mountainman. i miss him and i’m looking forward to visiting in the spring.
i was having a sociable week after getting over the norovirus. bike rides and hillwalks all weekend, then i got into a run of dinner and drinks out that lasted the whole week. january is dark, bleak and cold. but there is meaning and warmth in whiling away the hours on the little things of life with the people you love.
epistemology is the philosophy of knowledge – rather than “what is true” we ask “ what does it mean to say something is true” – a metaquestion. i often check my old diaries, and i often find that important events went by completely unremarked on, or are described in ways that contradict my erstwhile memory.
this is more bike poetry. i remember cycling weakly towards a busy a-road with a parallel path. stopped before the mini-roundabout at the motorway ramp. feasted on sugar and hula hoops. relieved myself in an abondoned doorway. and then on with my journey.
cycling is full of funny little phrases. bonking in cycling is what runners call ‘hitting the wall’. when the legs hollow out into fragile glass pins. it all sounds sort of sexual. i invite you to remember that this is a subculture of lubed up, hairless, dopers dressed in spandex
i think this was just a whatsapp message i sent and then thought ah well that’ll do for poetry today. and then at some point later i thought, ‘maybe i should change the incestuous swearword to something more (and less) family friendly.’ it probably isn’t going to be remembered as one of the all time best lines in the english language. i guess this is all a very elaborate way of telling the world that in early january of 2024, my butt hurt from deadlifts
hamstrung by the ancestors of landlords
beneath the distant barren peaks of a toblerone—
the traumatic trough entrenches resilience.
a slight slide and crunch underfoot on icy steps,
the organism (the leviathan) slips into disequilibrium.
revolted by bolts of thunderous chunder, and a cold sweat
a risky coffee poured into the evacuated gut.
in a feverish daze, i found the courage to ask for help
and was restored—with my problems undiminished
domsing bad, wee butt tender, hungrier than a motherfucker
you let me stop back at your warm, little cove
hollow pegs, bonking, splat on the wall
hula hoops, double drop glucose—i’m back in the winter sun.
a felled tree blocked our path—round we went in the mud
my diary in fact proved a lesson in epistemology
isn’t it always the case that party chat evaporates?
from the overhung underpass on green holds, in one
i had my morning shower mid way round my run was
woke is a post colonial attitude that assuages my white guilt
made in china by terracotta serfs:
we all rely on the good souls who forgive us.
i console myself by thinking humans are but plankton or a moss
coating the globe, turning air from one form to the other
arranging strange loquacious fragments, enjambe—
ment. meant cement, ‘a bag on the heid, revolt and foment
an engaged driver with more issues than the london times
an old flame left my close fire door ajar
on a grey Saturday, and made plans to break plans
in the tempest’s fallout, the provost closed the saunas down
and if you reap the dividends you better keep receipts
(because i do) and i know what’s owed
if your finger’s in the till, be aware the drawer slams closed
in scotland, the scotch pie is simply called “a pie”
love is a feeling, not a decision, surrender to it
every act cast’s a vote for your honour and character
Ya puddin’, ya haggis, yer cheap lousy habits
An address to yer arse and lets make it the last
A southerly wind blew the weather away
and nae cunt’s wearing tartan
the stress of january can lead to bad decisions:
we all rely on the good souls that forgive us
chorus one – january
sweet child, have you tried the toblerone?
it’s very expensive, and different but not nicer
I have a theory that burns is to ayr as ice cube to compton
different, but the same
the love epochal. n.n. benn 