Final one, *7

It's not really a story I guess. You'll see (if you read it).

Starry Eyes, Silent Night

6 of 7

"it's christmastime in the mountains
everything is white
tonight"

I've been working at the airport bar
It's like Christmas in a submarine
Wings and brandy on a winter's night
I guess you wouldn't call it a scene


Oh what a strange time of year it is. Ecery day is a strange time of the year. Every day comes but once a year. They come but once a lifetime. However, we exist in minutes-hours-n'days as much as the universe exists in metres-n'yards-n'miles. That is, not to say we don't to a certain extent. Memphis in June. April in Paris. The suns will change. London is sometimes a hell of a town, someplaces a hell of a time. The lights go out in New Orleans, the city gets less red.

4 + 5 of 7

I gave myself the day off yesterday. It was an early Christmas present. I've not been being too strict on myself. That's a present too. Too many presents. They're pasts now. I'd not intended to do that but the season was getting on top of me. Rather than rest in it we tend to get put under by it. At least that's what happens with certain people I know. The pressure to make something the best ever. There's nothing wrong with making it just something not bad. What do you reckon Paul McCartney means by making a sad song better? Remember that scene in Midnight Cowboy when Joe Buck gets all spruced up and he ask Ratso what he thinks, the response being 'not bad.. not bad'. That is what I think human beings should aspire to. That is the only response needed. When you reach the gates and ask Peter if you have led a good life and he responds 'not bad, not bad'. Wouldn't that be a bit of a relief. Anyhow, there is time for that yet. Human beings neither live in the opresent or the past or the future. Scrooge could tell you that. Dunno where we exist but not there. I bought my mother a soft toy this year. It is a donkey. It cost 79p, I'm not cheap but I do hate money. I got off the bus earlier than I expected to when I saw it in the shop window, I was already thinking of what I was going to do when I got home before it pulled me back into the present. It'll be a good present for her when she gets it in the near future.

Snow by David Berman

3 o' 7

So all the best presents you've ever received probably mean diddley squat to you outside of signification, right. I don't think anyone is born materialistic, right. What would that kid want with gold? When a child's given this huge present what becomes clear is that the huge present holds little interest especially when it came in a huge box. We can not live in the present but if we want to we can live in a box. And for a while we do. We hide in it. Hiding's nice. Like a good painkiller. It's nice to give someone somewhere to hide. I know of a few people who have done wonderful things while hiding. I have read a marvellous book written by someone who was hiding. It is not shying away from existence, it is a taking hold of it. At least trying to. It's always night and we are in a perpetually cold universe but the earth lets us all hide in the sun for a while from time to time. God bless it for that. We've all got face the light of day sometimes.


A Junky's Christmas by William Burroughs

2 0f 7

‎2 of 7:
Remember when you were a child on the beach and you said you were as happy as a sand boy and you probably were? Dylan Thomas talks about that in one of his nostalgic pieces. He looks back on childhood fondly, if not magically. At Christmas there is a lot of missing that goes. You know, people missing people. Though perhaps not necessarily missing other people. Ever thought how you were kinda better as a kid, kinder perhaps. Before they filled you with the problems they had and added some fresh ones just for you. And I miss, and I miss, and I miss your precious heart you might say. Maybe not. Plenty of folks have lousy childhoods. Seems that a worthwhile life would be to make the world a wonderful place for children. It is a wonderful place here and there and now and again. It could be a matter of pointing out things already here, you could show them a blue door knocker a midst a mist of black ones perhaps. It only takes a moment. There was this kid the other day who was ever so slightly excited by a malleable mountain made up by autumn leaves (this other day was in Autumn) equal in proportion to one of the big ones somewhere in this world, his mother was looking at her Blackberry, not a blackberry of course. Wouldn't be bad being worthwhile, to be OK while you're here, I wrote a play about it:

Walden. Wouldn't be bad being worthwhile.
David. Oh yeah, that'd be good. Yeah.
Walden. But just for a while. I can't be bothered building the Taj Mahal.
David. Oh yeah, I know. Yeah.

Just think of that child I was talking of yesterday who was born in a manger, that's a pretty wonderful thing. Look at all those animals etc. And didn't he get the chance to do a pretty good ramble, eh. Poor kid, he was only about 30 when they bumped him off. Just a baby.

A Child's Christmas in Wales

Christmas project 3: week of Christmas 1 of 7

For Christmas week 1 0f 7:

For Christmas week I've decided to put up some real good stuff focused on the season. This is Paul Auster's 'Auggie Wren's Christmas', it was commissioned by the New York Times for their Christmas edition 1990. Here's a sentence from it, "If you don't take the time to look, you'll never manage to see anything". Literature needs good readers as much as it needs good writers. It was the first piece of overt fiction commissioned for the Newspaper. Of course there had been plenty of covert fiction commissioned for the Newspaper before. I was going to write an essay accompanying but I'm slightly pushed for time. Give or take it was to be about the role of stories at Christmas, it would have been essentially about how season is formed around a story about a boy being born in a manger. I would have said how it is one of the greatest stories of all time. I would have said it is probably only second to the story of alchemy, how we turned paper and digital symbols into the worth of most things, for example a horse. That's the gist. As I said I don't have time to write it. Time is money and talk is cheap. That's a bit sad, eh; everything is worth money and money is worth nothing. What the Dickens is that all about!? Humbug in't it.

Auggie Wren's Christmas Story

Christmas Project #1

getting into the season, it's easier said than done; getting out of bed, smiling and being happy, however seeing a robin bobbing along would probably help. it comes in for a fleeting song then goes on. crows have the intelligence and vocal capacity to indulge in birdsong, however they do not. fair enough. you know what Fat Waller said at the end of a reveric gig? he said, 'Quick! Someone shoot me whilst I'm still happy'. That's one way of doing it I guess;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SV7y_rk4_co

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SV7y_rk4_co

Crosses and Crucifix of East London project #1

Introduction

Firstly: this introduction was composed in a period of moments between the night before and the morning after when my mind was an organ full of ideas and brightness and wonder. It played like the one on Highway 61 Revisited. As I play it out now on the keyboard in front of me that same mind is an organ of soft grey matter, if you dropped it it would smash on the carpet. It would probably stain. There were more ideas then but they have been forgotten. We musn't cry over spilt milk, however, even though there are many valid reasons for doing so. What a mess it makes.

*

The camera used to take these photographs was purchased in an emporium on Stoke Newington High St. from a woman wearing a burkha. She seemed nice enough. The idea was to fill it full of shots of crosses from around East London. There is a crucifix too which shall one day be recorded and uploaded. The photographs of crosses and a crucifix that were taken on this camera purchased from a Muslim woman were taken by me, one of those God is dead* kinda guys. That's Hackney for you, a bit of something for everyone and of everyone.

There were 27 exposures on the camera, the number of crosses that have sucessfully been developed into a legible representation of them upon glossed paper is 1. It would seem that my holiness is not that strong- and the camera was £2.99. As they say, blessed are the meek. Too right too, lest we forget. Luckily enough, it is a good place to start, it is a gate. Alchemy and photography are magical arts, they move in mysterious ways. I will have to try and get a legible likeness of my favourite cross on glossy paper again, another time.

You should have seen the young school children when they saw the camera. 'What's that?', they asked, they had never seen anything like it before. 'A disposable camera', I told them, 'you take your pictures and then you throw it away'. They were ever so slightly amazed at this relic of a bygone era, it was as if I were holding The Flying Scotsman. It's easy to travel back in time. Burn a newspaper and you will notice that the fire burns backwards. You can travel forward too. Put on 'Highway 61 Revisited' and you'll go forward 10 years. That's an album which is nearly 50 years old. I used to live with a somewhat Canadian guy who has travelled in time all the way from the upper echelons of Victoria's England to present day mild East End squalor. He gets a lot of stick for having done so. That's probably a testament to his character, the more stick the merrier.

Speaking of the future, and of the past; this project was intended to be put together as a quaint little material thing called a book. However, here it is on this vast and powerful thing called the internet. Inefficiency and quaintness have gone out of the window, what remains is efficient and unquaint. Steamtrains and abacuses. They may have been more reliable but they were less efficient. Reliability gave way. Consider that a lament. Consider that the human condition. Consider that bullshit. It goes many ways.

I once wrote a story about a photographer. It goes,

Most people cannot take photo said the foreign photographer as he passed me his portfolio, most people do not have eyes. I looked at his face. He had no eyes.

My eyes are brown and the camera was grey. Here they are..

*

*

Acompannying Poem

Let us pray

Oh Children

Let us not

and say We did

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

* He's in heaven now

only the truly tender

Its gotten into my head of late

You were as tender as the ocean

You were as ferocious as the ocean

Any man loves the ocean

Otherwise it couldn't drown us so

All of us jumping ship

Either known or unknown

significant and insignificant alike

I once saw a telivision programme in which a blind man walked further & further into the whelming tides

He was doing it intentionally

Naturally

(Rona, the tv can be marvelous

These snobs don't know what they are missing

That look of a lack of signal*

, for instance

It's like the last broadcast from my soul

Hope you watch it sometime)

Yours sincerely,

lost at sea,

me

*no more words, no more images

only Blue Light

what prevails

She liked sand

He liked the dusk

So they moved to Sandusky

And lived there til they died

it doesn't mean I'm getting bored

I met her in a Japanese car park

She was carrying a brand new carpet

And was a newly wed

tales from the funeral

Ellie. She was dead sordid.

Angie. She wasn't sordid.

Ellie. Yeah she was. That magician sordid her dead.

Angie. That wasn't a magician, it was Garfunkel.

Ellie. He was dead sordid.

London to York: a play

Scene: A roguishly handsome man in his early thirties holds the head of his panting horse as she lays dying.

Dick. You and me Bess, we we were as thick as thieves.

He holds her until she dies, which lasts a significant amount of time, and then carries on his way by foot.

Bawdy

broads board boats on
east coast shore for Irish shore
to eventually arrive in Innismore
the land from where they got there hair
from their ma's ma and her ma and more

fish fish other fish deep beneath
fresher than fresh fish
unseen atop the sea

they are bound to pay the piper
for their papa

Nil By Mouth

ravenous, she nicks a couple of sweets from her neighbouring patient's bedside table. "Death by marshmallow" she says to her nephew, over the telephone. he laughs.

Larry Grayson

and furthermore
I shall love you more
when you shut that door!

letter to Rona, today of all days

Rona,
I received your Chrysanthemums
They died yesterday
They're in heaven today

I'm still stuck in Bedlam
All the kids have ear-hole sized speakers in their ears
Martians
You stick something into your ears and your fucked
Everyone knows that

Anyway,
One day I shall be released
and We can have a lot of fun in the planetarium
again
Like we used to do
Remember that, huh?

Love ad naseam
To Suzy Q too
Rowdy Roddy Piper

open A Play For The Garage invite

''es a rambling man say the locals. He rambled til the butchers shot him down they say. Old Maude reckons he hunts the plains looking for revenge round here. It was in this town where they gunned him down, head to the wall'... Oh dear... 'Jack, behind the bar, he says his last words were, you mark my words I'll lust your blood, I'll lust your pretty little blood under the harvest moon, you will all be spilled. And tonight, tonight was the night of the harvest moon and he would have his harvest of blood and lust fulfilled.'

https://docs.google.com/docume​nt/d/1Kue1E5YqcImAn3lInnSwNieI​dcrJyjiFZzpmbobuwNQ/edit?hl=en​_US




*****
see here;
http://bullgoosesamuel.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/introduction-this-is-play-i-wrote-while.html

Letter to Rona, July, 2011

Dear Rona
It's me
I feel quite alone
The world's imploding
or Avalanching
or Something
Maybe

I've been reading Nancy Mitford
She reminds me of you
Sane men can fall in love the same woman
as an insane man can
Apparently
So they say here
Maybe it's easier to be decent in print
than life

Wake up little Suzy
And pass on my love
And if she now accepts kisses from girls and women
Give her a kiss
From me

Love as always
and always,
Zorro

fiddles

Fine fiddle Fiona
It's the nicest tune
In town

Fine fiddle Fiona
You're not welcome there anymore
Dear

Marx Poem

But what about Engels?
What about him?

up the ladder, through the window, the raining night sky

the funny pages

He hated the newspapers. The broadsheets even more so than the loathsome tabloids. However, he was obsessed with the newsagent. Something about his eyes and voice and stature drew him to him. So everyday he would go in to his shop to buy one of the day's publications. It did not matter which to him and which one he bought differed from day to day according to his want. His want changing according to which title he wished him to say out when he put the publication on his counter; The Sun, The Guardian, The Telegraph, and so on. This went on until one day he read in the obituary section that he had died. He had seen him that morning in the shop when he bought the paper he was now reading but there he was dead. There in black and white. He never went in to his shop again. It was the last newspaper he ever bought. He was awfully young.

the best of both systems

Another heart warming story from the dole que/ care system..

birds flying. written after midnight

I was walking with two friends and I saw all these starlings flyin' together, made me feel good, like some things do for a while. Eventually they'll fly away from each other, never to fly together again, taken away by other winds, through no other intention beyond wind.

Fashion

Dear Mr Vuitton,
We do not know each other but I was hoping that you could help me with a question that I have been pondering of late: How is it that some ghosts wear clothes? Are these clothes the ghosts of clothes? I know clothes dye, but do they die?
Hope all is well on the other side,
Your pal,
Samuel Kastin.

extract, including song, from an abandoned play

A country lane. 3 boys sit by and on a wooden fence. 2 whistle. 1 sings;

Marvin (along with the guys' whistling tune). Oh what a day for daydream
What a day for a daydream, oh boy
You can dance by barbed wire
You could fall down and broken your button nose
A trickle of love songs will drip down onto your blouse
Before your heart's break by kisses from all the sad clowns
Oh, it's the loneliest Saturday night.

The circus is in town.

Peeking

The sun is shining and it is HOT.

Shot of man's eyes looking at something directly in front of him. They are pained, tears well up to the point of running down his face. A woman is talking to him, pleading as the camera zooms out into a shot of his whole face and the top of his shoulders..

Molly. Stop peeking please. Come on, don't just sit staring Fats, just give me a bit of privacy for once and respect my wishes.

From the shot we can now see that there is a trail of smoke rising above the man's left shoulder. He is in a restrained agony.

Molly. I don't peek with you, do I. Stop being a funny guy Fats, don't be scum.

He puts his right hand above his right eye, dropping something when it is covering his eye.

Cut to: Shot of magnifying glass smashing on the floor.

Cut back: Man holding his right hand over his right eye.

Molly. That's better... Hey! Don't be sneaky! The other 'and 'nd all.

He puts his left hand above his left eye. There has been a hole burned into it, so that it goes all the way through his hand. He looks through the hole in his hand. There is a gasp.

Molly. You bastard. You always have to peek!

We hear the sound of a door slamming as she presumably leaves.

Fats. (to us) You should see her when she cries.

We continue this shot with his hands over the eyes for a while.

Cut to: Man's POV, through the hole in his hand. The television is on, to the left of the shot where the camera would have originally been located, it shows a Man covering his eyes with his hands.

Blackbird

Sarah. So, yeah, he's just had a child with that black bird.

Hope. A blackbird?

Sarah. It's funny 'ent it.

Hope. A blackbird, really. Are you being serious?

Sarah. Yeah, last week.

Hope. Well I'll be. Miracles never cease.

Sarah. I know. I didn't know they were his type either.

Tautological Poems 1 & 2

1

when ya drink ya drink

when ya eat ya eat

2

when ya piss ya piss
when ya shit ya shit

Chris's letter to Santa

life(1)

my lif's a misprint
my life's a four letter word suffixed into five

----------
(1) my life's a footnote to everything else, like the weather in Winter or Spring

Curriculum Vitae

What more do they want?

as Ginsberg said to America, I say to Britain, 'I'm sick of your insane demands'

the grass is a nice place to lay and think

Talking about an ultra scan pic, human being fetuses in the womb look like waves, I say, human beings are like waves. The picture is waves, she says, low frequency sound waves, you're boring me again. Ach, I used to think of myself as interesting, thought that that observation was interesting. Delusions of grandeur. Just look at my ouevre, it's all I, I, I. I can't help it. No, all I can sometimes hope is to hope that somewhere somebody doesn't really mind it too much.

poem #73

Broodin'
Moodin'
Stood in dogshit

a kitten from Great Britain

2 hours ago · ·

• • 

    Joey Joe sittin on bluey grey linen
    the colour of the ocean

    about an hour ago ·
  • 

    Joey Joe Dallas on telly in Hull
    
    

a glimpse into the future

"What a load of bollocks" says the guy when he is told the rigmarole he will have to go through to get his buspass. "What a load of bollocks" says the lass as she passes the jobcentre. There wasn't so much as a second's gap between them both individually saying it. Pretty soon these words, in that order, will be the only words to be spoken. I'd be willing to bet on it at William Hill.

two pages from the red notebook

a poem for the tenth anniversary of the fall of the twin towers etcetera, a realisation and the opening stage directions to a play.

friendship

Giving an interview a few years before his death Luis Buñuel is asked about whether he now speaks to Salvidor Dali again, a man with whom he famously fell out, slapping him to the ground, down to a New York pavement, in reaction to Dali slandering him, costing him his job at MoMA, the Museum of Modern Art, some forty years prior. To this question Buñuel replies that they have not recovered their affinity. However, nonetheless, he would very much like to think that they may get together once more one day before he dies and share a glass of champagne. When this is relayed to Senor Dali he responds by saying, with all simplicity, sincerity and innocence, that he too would very much like that but unfortunately he no longer drinks. This, Senor Buñuel, as you can garner from reading his autobiography, found quite amusing, indicative of his old friend.

Pretty story, huh.

Venus

She's locked out in the hallway, being punished

for knocking the toilet paper in to the toilet bowl

like a child

Which can be a real distress on a Tuesday

when you don't get paid until Friday

Why don't you put the toilet seat lid down

I ask

That's a good idea, ma says

before thinking, You know what'll happen then,

she'll tear it into snow

That cat can be a real bastard

it would be easy to drown her in the sink

perhaps at Christmastime

But it is Christmastime

and they get on most ' the time

The Origins of Genius

He had dropped out of school by that time, and spent most of his time staying at home. His girlfriend lived in the house, and his grandmother lived in the house, and his aunt and his uncle lived across the street. And his father had had a heart attack; his father drove a Helms bread truck, part of the time Don was helping out by taking over the bread truck route, driving up to Mojave. The rest of the time he would just sit at home and listen to rhythm and blues records, and scream at his mother to get him a Pepsi.

Frank Zappa on Don Vilet- Captain Beefheart.

My head is full of bad news and ideas.

She likes that television program Shaun The Sheep. Me too. It's good show.

Helicopters hover in my window outside. This all seems very unnatural. Possibly a waste of money too.

But is there such thing as a waste of money? What is it that we are really wasting when we are supposedly wasting money? I've wasted plenty of things but never money.

it's all he keeps saying, when will it end? when will it end? until one day he doesn't.

we're not sure why
but tomorrow's another day.