lanzarote iv.

fly a magic carpet ride

on the greenback camel trail

and bury my radar

deep at wounded knee

boquerones on the lounger,

bocadillo by the sea

agree to be fleeced

for an airport charter

nintendo cheesecake

or deep fried mars bar

waitress seems genuinely surprised

by everything we say

or oder

last day jog 12k

no joint issues

hoppipolla yoga

i love eating cheese sandwiches on holiday. with a little tin of beer. then a little cake. or ten. bikes rides, lounging in the sun, loads of carbs. feeling very tempted to abondon writing for the day and book a holiday.

lanzarote iii.

lizard pulse pathos

and egrets on the gravel cut

fling a ring around the thing

regret declined burrata

fact checked on carbon i rediscover

archaeomagnetic dating,

did you know the poles

will switch

and north will

become south.

prohibito biciclette

celestial waves

lapping rusty mounds

baps boobing

a breasty boundary

round emphysema

cowboy country

before i went on the bike holiday i’d had a period of poor health that culminated in a trip to the hospital and a spinal tap. i was on medication for migranes, but it made me sluggish and slowed my heart rate down, so i started the last climb of the day a bit ahead of my pals in case i struggled. i was fine, but i got lost and had to reroute my way back and i went over some very sketchy ‘gravel’ roads. quite stressful. being lost in the desert alone is not what i hope for.

lanzarote ii.

el grifo abandonado,

aquapark de los muertos

pizza tres quesos,

no blue,

snide salad.

poolside morning yoga

and think about the future

fall asleep in my clothes

fresh from the waffle shop boys

sick in the toilet at midnight

maybe thanks

to the waffle shop boys

i eat a lot of cake on cycing holidays. on this occassion, i think the late night waffle after dinner was a refined carbohydrate too far.

lanzarote i.

exhausted by the tyranny of choice,

unable to sleep

four alarmed hours,

panic

then mile-high boredom.

bad pizza is still kinda good,

parched stroll less soo

cacti burrito,

a visage

of the village

in the mirage…

reinforcements parachuting in

petulant torrents of surf,

energía de la patata grande

pumice piss,

curtain of cliffs

and scattered sand

past the chain-gang (squared)

by fag ash straits

of jagged lava,

literal poetry in motion

i’m not much of a photo person. i’m not sure why, as i have total aphantasia which means i cannot see anything in my mind. i can’t just look once at the view and recall it forevermore.

maybe i should. but this disability has meant my internal world has always been dark and wordy. so when i’m on holiday, i like to record the holiday in poetry. this short series describes my cycling holiday with friends in lanzarote last year.

the knot is twisted back

i wish i knew what i wanted. for dinner.

monday morning and the knot is twisted back in my gut

the thirteenth rodeo, the second non-event

month-end creeps up, the knot does too

patch anxious rum for philosophy on the radio

make a random avizandam on a tandem with the phantom fan

cross the eyes and splot the teas

cracker please

i was having an anxious time, hating my job, going through the process of getting formally diagnosed with autism. but what i really want to talk about today is packing.

i am packing my bags today for the third time in like two weeks and honestly man i hate it. its exhausting. so much stress. why do i need so many artefacts? why must i live in a historical epoch of such complication?

but on the plus side i will get to go on holiday tomorrow so that’s good. although, by the time this has been published… i will be back from the holiday. so that’s sad. but it will be a sunday at least so that’s good.

sorry if you work sundays. and i realise today isn’t sunday. i will get back from the holiday on sunday. i am having trouble comprehending the linearity of time right now.

the 13th month

the bell chimed, it’s time

to introduce the thirteenth month

rationalise the calendar with months of 28 days

plus an extra day, a global holiday

for all workers

during which the bourgeois financiers

shall man the (beer) pumps

and another one the same each leap year

and the extra month should be a holiday too

slide it in between july and august

call it hedonia, for a long free summer.

we all work too much. why can’t we rest more. i’m sure that if we just cut out all the pointless jobs that are just done to make money, and just did the stuff people need and love like cooking and nursing and entertaining and building good places to live in and growing stuff etc, then we could probably all have a pretty nice life where nobody wants for nothing. but some rich guys want to own everything, so we have what we have.

were there lots of you? well that’s a posse

were there lots of you? well that’s a posse
honestly i’m just trying to live the most wasted, safe life
antediluvian nipponese amble celebrants and another two bunnies

i’m so unsure about the bunnies and their place on the superstition/beauty in number/deistic force spectrum.

on the way to our holiday in italy the other month, my girlfriend forgot her passport. that’s bad luck. but it was good luck that we had time to circle back in the taxi and collect it. and i suppose it was good luck we could afford to do that.

then arriving at the airport, there were two bunnies frolocking. oh no! i thought. two bunnies having been established to be a bad omen, i think. but luckily we saw the third bunny nearby. crisis averted. and we had a lovely holiday with our friends and their little meat ball. i’ll explain the meatball next week.

giletdonism – variation on the occasion of a cycling holiday

exhausted by the tyranny of choice, unable to sleep
four alarmed hours, panic, mile-high boredom
bad pizza is still good (pizza)
parched stroll less so
cacti burrito, visage of a village in the mirage,
reinforcements parachuting in
petulant torrents of surf, energía de la patata grande
pumice piss, a curtain of cliffs
scattered sand past the chain-gang (squared)
by fag ash straits of jagged lava, literal poetry in motion
el grifo, aquapark abandonado de los muertos
pizza tres quesos, no blue, snide salad
fall asleep in my clothes fresh from the waffle shop boys
sick in the loo at midnight, gracias, los waffle shop boys

wrap up warm for the gilet years
two big lumps then an evening of beers
it’s like 10 thousand spoons when all you need is bus fare to partick
ah well, i suppose we’ll get there in the end

lizard pulse pathos and egrets on the gravel cut
a ring around the thing regrets declined burrata
fact checked carbon turned up archaeomagnetic dating
prohibito biciclette, celestial waves lapping, rusty mounds
baps boobing a breasty boundary around the emphysema cowboy country
take a magic carpet ride on the greenback camel trail
and bury my radar at wounded knee
boquerone bocadillo on the lounger, agree to be fleeced for a taxi
nintendo cheesecake or deep fried mars bar
waitress genuinely surprised by everything we order
tiramisu, creamy goo,
live laugh love like death from above
trigger habit, sunny meditation
they sent a bus to pick us up! (call back to the pilot episode)
a man pigeon marshalls a hall of endless queues
lost laptop tizzy dash
fined for excess baggage (bang to rights)

hold on tight for the gilet years
keep it strong and stable on two round wheels
unique to the animal kingdom is the migratory mamil
i guess we’ll know when if we get there in the end

n.n. benn, february 2025

i’m skylarking back with the new month’s tunes / and there is an elder geezer in louis vuitton shoes

i was listening to skylarking by xtc on the plane. having a wee drink. enjoying the inflight entertainment. there were actually quite a few old lads wearing designer sneakers and sort of tracksuits. i always think very expensive trainers look gash. similar to the ones you would get in asda or walmart but with a big louis vuitton logo on them that makes them look like fakes. real or fake, quite embarrassing to be seen in imho. anyway this chap was having cash flow issues.

what’s the most you would pay for trainers?

to be continued.

memento mori and more is yet to come. / i’ll be home soon, waiting for you

even the rich and powerful will die. trump will die. starmer will die. kardashion will die. i will die and you will die. except i am a fictional character so maybe i won’t die. or maybe i will in some stories, but not in others. what if we all are characters in novels, who only live when our book is off the shelf?

my girlfriend managed to time her visit to her sister’s such that she was not in town when i got home from the bike holiday. i think she was holding me to a long tease. absence makes the something something. i was missing her.