Thursday, April 12, 2012

Stream of consciousness

Bargain Books at some crappy and depressing Shelly Beach mall; I find a pretty blue and white edition of Jack Kerouac's Big Sur. For R49. That's probably not even 5 dollars. And it's brand new.
I like my full stops (Apple's Genius converts it into filmstrips for me, the opposite), Jack hates them: there's only one, right at the end, in his 2-and-a-quarter page chapter one. And that's as far as I have got.
Stream of consciousness.

Sitting at Margate's Mugg & Bean I'm reading it. Not only have the horny holiday makers gone home, in their hordes, but the restaurant is offering a buy-one, get-one-free from its menu's centre spread: where the most expensive meals live.

The penised, horny cock palm trees on the beach are wearing pulsating fairy lights for protection.

I'm going to sleep. Then I'm heading back to Mpumalanga in the morning; my ten days, exactly, are almost over. Thank you.

My words hammer at the mirror of my life, and shatter it. Nevertheless my only release comes from putting them down, the words, and bones and tendons and stretching skin, also fine blonde hairs. The odd freckle.

I are. Full stop intended.

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