Posting From Home

I guess its morning again, and she's wandering around in one of her plain work brassieres, ironing things in the living room, and we've looked up our pirate potter, and found his marvelous tankards still being sold, but not the green glaze, only the ebony, and he makes some pirate's excuse, it's all an inside joke, and a particular delight, pirate culture is much more Brechtian than seapunk which seems more sea monkey and pop, but we're still more Eno and Hassel, or 'Marcello' via Elio Petri's L'Assassino, or 'various' / the soundtrack with jazz musics by Piero Piccioni, ah, what contrivances, The Superpowers are the world police \but the chimney sweeps are scheduled between eleven and one, and saying this to her I look up, and see a book over the hallway entrance, five hundred years of British chimney sweeping, and I read her a passage about a condition called 'soot-wart' which is actually a cancer of the scrotum because of friction in the pants, sweat, and constriction during soot sifting resulting in many gelded sweeps, and many deaths until a decline in soot use in the 19th century, but not the violence. Chimney sweeps are often mean, and many turned to crime involving climbing, or hiding out in remote and closed spaces, like anchorites being fed food through a two brick hole for months, then changing their name, and going always dirty, their 'black face' being an elegant disguise, but rough on the scrotum. Hopefully today, these gentlemen will be using a vacuum cleaner, and anyway, the dog, the big fat old spaniel called Pepper was finally able to jump up onto the bed, which we only encourage as a sort of cruel sport to see if our diet is working, the dog it can be said is a vittle junkie, caring more for viewing 'the eater' than involving himself in good natured play or affection. It's food over affection every time, and by the way, dogs are like architecture or art, they impress an idea upon you very directly, but subtly, but really they enunciate nothing, or they are involved in a meta-enunciation, it makes me think of blowing big horns in a cave, or listening to Italian with no subtitles, I pick up a few words, face', or facchia, or they grunt, or sigh, or become excited, but I imagine how the words feel in their mouths, and the certain easy precisions (it's precious!) evinced by long practice of the tongue, and things like corroded buildings, or the shining principle, the latin alphabet is like a shining principle (which) enamorates the english tongue, the western tongue. Today she kisses me as she leaves for work. For two nights in a row, I have marinated and baked tofu, and tossed it in a baby spinach salad as fingers with carrots and radishes, and serrano pepper ya ya ya, and cucumber, si si si, and tomato snakes pour like smoke from underwater chimneys, and the broken windows are replaced by planes of diagonal silver fish or baby conger eels? Why do I write? I'm not popular. I see a color i enjoy. What awaits the world is being a world, born of fire and storm in a void, a complicated snow globe held in the hand of a dirty chimney sweep child whose sooty cancerous scrotum like our sun was once young and supple, but now burns like a cigarette stubbed out bluntly in a rock, and swept away by insane ecstatic singing from a comet of jumbled jewelry, 'offended'.. Carbon Monoxide and raccoon. Crooked antique dealer. Nice kid.