i’m exhausted. in lanzarote. up at 5am. was meant to be up at 4. anyway, here now, dehydrated. unpacked. about to build up the bike. then a shower and an early night i think.
this line builds on the if from the opening line, which itself was a reference to kipling, and is intended as a mashed reference to the greek god hercules, the philosopy of rousseau (man is born free, everywhere else he is in chains) and descartes (cogito sum, i think therefore i am). i guess the idea is that the societal structure we live under necessarily limits the scope of our imaginations, and nothing can overcome that.
i remember an old school friend, a.r., describing our music teacher, mr h., as a ‘solar powered sex machine’ when we were about 14. thanks, a.r., i am still laughing. maybe that makes me very immature. mr h. thought ratm were pro capitalism ?! wasn’t a regular smoker but got through 40 on a night out.
this is a spectacularly bad screen grab. but i’m running with it as i have a busy day. going on a bike holiday tomorrow. exhausted. need to pack.
if all bald men are solar powered sex machines and if hercules in chains is free to believe in himself should i drink aegean water when i hear my siren call? hmm? a doubtful interjection. beginning my each phrase yet ah is how i start my whatsapps—it’s a bit more generous. an unexpected trip with treasured brethren of which diane was not infomed cold, wet, gravel, ice… and light new hoops. pant leg micturition is a viable system jerk foul, jerk fish, take the pineapple express to morrisons partick, hover on a ba’ sac, re-up on buddha and kippers the king came with the bangers, we stayed for the ballads my airpod uneared into a drain so i chanced an upgrade cursed inadequate chuck-sticking, can’t hold cash either story and sensation is all there is, between the end and the beginning singsong paraphernalia and assorted phrases for sale ahm a wan can wee dram ama-drama cry baby ubuntu, our humanity, sister, brother, heal me please and i will heel to you:
we all rely on the good souls who forgive us.
don’t text yer ex, drunk dialist splitting violence hullo its jie p. (eftir ra pope) wi’ thi shy pee multi-pizza two score and a spare bon-anniversaire spotting louder nearly home, millhouse coming up everything you trust me again, you always could, that love is unconditional and universal, and specific, and ebbs and flows throughout the systems, internal and external, that are of us. you notice another of my bizarre intolerances—at last we have a term for it. a nearly new horizon lost, for which i missed legs day at the gym a stressful jealous night by my [] smartphone another shoe that never drops, no leg too short to scorch the earth are we a puzzle, a riddle to be solved, or are we pupils flawed and inconsistent and driven by unchosen passions, forced to plump for either irony or idiocy since the dawn of the h bomb?
suffering rotating chair formalism of a gently absurd nature as impenetrable references abound the conference room (apologies: all mine) …so i fly out of town covid mask memories per explosive phlegmy cough leotard geriatric i am triggered resolutely by a king of the morons tailwind and a tornado of dust braking and hard-pedalling and fighting the headwind (for one bequeathes the other, and the scary shunts from across the shoulders) oil slick sneaker sandstorm set back, sliders for the subsequence grill on the hill was a thrill when even the slider nearly blew away santa lucia, bocadillo con queso, cortardo y cerveza it’s great to be back sunbathing stoned on the balcony avec joan of arc in lossless quality thinking maybe capitalism is not so bad: ah well, we all rely on the good souls who forgive us
skelly wean, have you tried the toblerone? it’s very expensive, and different but not nicer I have a theory that every generation knows completely different stuff different, but the same
i suppose i still had burns on my mind from the burns night celebrations. i had been at a friend’s for a haggis supper. i had hoped i might get a chance to recite some poetry, but it didn’t seem to be the vibe.
i like that there are some elemental homophones going on in the line. burns, like fire; air, like wind; and wll ice is water. and burns are also water. i don’t think the good people of compton celebrate cube suppers yet though. maybe in two hundred years?
january is the worst month of the year. 2025 is only getting better now. stanza 2 ‘witness (1 dope)’ is live on youtube/insta/the blog from tomorrow and is already up on apple music, spotify, etc
so ostensibly this line is about post-brexit toblerone. prices have indeed risen and qualify has dipped. whether it is toblerone widing its valleys, or cadbury changing its recipe.
but its also about brexit. and about late stage, hyper unequal, billionaires and paupers style capitalism. we privatise, financialise, put the price up and reduce the quality. the trick might have worked in 1979. but that was a very long time ago.
we are at the first chorus. i decided i wanted to write a poem about brexit called ‘toblerone’ ages ago. in 2016. the brexit referendum result came out on my birthday. i was genuinely devastated. a vote for shear stupidity.
anyway. i had the spinal tap yesterday. went to the doctor with a sore neck and this is what they do to me. I am done with western medicine. it turns out i just needed a neck massage and some rest. so i quit my job. one of the best feelings you can get under capitalism.
so i wanted to quit my job today, but instead i find myself at hospital waiting to undergo a lumbar puncture to check for signs of brain disaster. which reminds me of the last time I quit a job, ten years ago, and i had a broken hip. i rushed back to the office as it felt a bit weird to give my notice via email from hospital. isn’t the universe mystical?
anyway, i was given the decision to make re the lumbar puncture. and i am a fearty. so tempted to draw a line under the affair. but i shouldn’t make another bad january decision just because i’m stressed and scared of a bit of needle.
sadly i don’t have my diary with me to check what was going on last year. i never wear tartan though. or wear a kilt. i think its an autistic thing. pathologized pattern aversion.
i’m posting today from the hospital after a serious of scary headaches over the weekend. waiting for a ct scan. the last time i had one, i got shingles. i also went over my knee at the bouldering yesterday afternoon. its an all you can eat buffet of niggles.
weather in the west of scotland is not the most predictable. i type this two days after a powerful wind blasted across the island, taking roofs from houses and depositing them in the sea, and after returning from a very slow and cold run through sleet, ice and mud.
but last weekend it was mild. and next weekend i’m going cycling on the warmer windy island of lanzarote. last year’s cycling holiday was to gran canaria, where we endured winds about as strong as the ones that brought carnage here this week. like cycling through violent treacle. let’s hope for better luck this time.
there is an awkward symmetry to today’s date (25.1.25), which happens to be the 266th anniversary of rabbie burns’ birth. he is scotland’s national poet but his work is internationally famous, particularly ‘auld lang syne’, as traditionally slurred on hogmanay.
i hate the national anthem, ‘flower of scotland’. it’s a nationalist dirge, bleating on about medieval battles and nursed grudges. all the more outrageous when so many burns options are available. i would love to hear 50,000 scots sing ‘a man’s a man for all that’ before the soccer meet at hampden park.
burns was also a pistol carrying excise man – a tax collector. so he really is my spirit poet. i don’t think i’ll be having haggis tonight but i shall be sure to raise a dram to our nation’s greatest scoundrel.
*toblerone is now available on spotify / apple music etc. new music and videos will be released on the 1st of every month, with the poems dissected in the blog/insta over the rest of the month in daily posts*
the love epochal. n.n. benn 