He's waiting for the cider

Hello. After just over twenty years of smoking cigarettes I have given up; about three weeks now. I was having panic attacks with the attendant shortness of breath symptoms and when you recover you really feel disinclined to physically fuck with your breathing. There's nothing like mortal fear to bring some perspective I tells ya. I am however of an afternoon still chonking on that stuff that's really relaxing and good to chonk on. Yes. All very interesting I'm sure.

On to more pressing matters: Reading Kazuo Ishiguro's novel 'The Unconsoled' is like having a spiky acid trip. I do not recommend it.

Furthermore, flying in the face of Establishment astrophysics I must adhere to those proponents of the Electric Universe. When I hear the horses' hooves and see the burning torches I will say my prayers.

I started working for money at eleven years of age. On market stalls, farms and gardens. As a teenager, if at all possible when one is left alone in the field or garden, one gets down and has a wank. Not once was I discovered by bored wife or brazen hussy, not once. Ah well now, noone can say I didn't try.

A relief is it not to ingest and accept the fact that this post is bereft of point, of posit? Donkeys are fucking great. Give an apple to a donkey and you feel like celebrating. If I get settled somewhere I'm going to take care of a donkey and I'll get him roaring drunk on cider and we'll run mad round the field in the moonlight, me yelping like the savage that I am and the donkey snorting and shaking his head in delight, neither of us at that moment beasts of burden. The donkey will be called Raoul, and each of us, as well as everybody we know, will live long and fruitful lives.


The Florida State Department of Employment was a pleasant place. It wasn't as crowded as the Los Angeles office which was always full. It was my turn for a little good luck, not much, but a little. It was true that I didn't have much ambition, but there ought to be a place for people without ambition, I mean a better place than the one usually reserved. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6.30am, by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?

Charles Bukowski 'Factotum'.


Sometimes I like to read 'Fern Hill' by Dylan Thomas. Linger over each line and you'll be having it large. Laters.