All Circles Are Flat

The funny thing about time – well, not in the humour-implied sense of that adjective; if that ever existed, the drollery, if not the irony, drained out of it soon before long ago – is that it has no beginning. It cannot be used as a measure of itself. When did time start? Certainly not with a bang; nor will it end with an entropic whimper. It is a movement together with a rest.

Rounding Down

A circle – slights tangentially to infinity - a square: smoothed edges at the hard right 90 – angles buffeted by roughage of intellectual refinery. A square peg circles the round poke hole. Around about. Swings. Pots. Kettles. Fire. Pan fried freight.

On the hand of the other

There's not long to go. Too. Go. On. Gone. One. Once. E. RR. On. Timing. Out. Countdown. Direction down and righting. Wise clocked hands spread, eagles fly up and failing, fall, follow-up and rising. Gain. In. Seconds. Lost. Out. Tock. Ticked and clocked-wised and rising again, against gains, directional grains gravity falls drowning out. Hours. Our. Direction down. On. Sound. Minutes. Ding. On. Gone. Seconded. Bong. Hit. Hat. Tit. Tat.Bing. Bong. Boss. Is. Offish. This is the new. S. Hit.

Oh! Lonesome Dew

Where's ancient times? One-too. Once. Did these those feet. A feat. The foot stood. Under stand. Whence recently green. Mountainous molehills. Lamb chopped. But pasteurised glands. Will not countenance countermand. Dine. On clouding pills. Grist shines on open tills. Pass the pepper-mills. Tied bows to outrageous arrows. Fool's gold. Standard. Unfortunately. Pyromaniacs' desires. Heart's limousine fires. Mental seizures. Scissor hand closed. Saturn's bland. Green. Leprous. Lands. In blood-strawberry doughnut jam.

Communication is in danger of breaking down at any moment Kripke

The fact I'm talking to you – and before we slide down the hasty-up, and I hope you and I and we part and meet on the recognition that you are not merely my-I-self adoption, then please continue at our own paces – suggests the tube I'm looking to you at doesn't end in our upside down mirror. I don't know that to be true; may be to you, we don't I-therefore think. I know it's a possibility: solipsism, and I guess it depends on your point of view, is worse when we are our all-own in that alone. Unknowable.

Less is the pity.

Or more?

Knowable measure.

Break/down. Break/through.

The slash is commonly not nominated.

The direction is always sometimes never absolutely relative.

An uncertain Heisenberg knows the direction of her thoughts and also but not his position. Or is there an other way a round circling it?

If you think about this thought is it the same on reflection or can it be both the same and different or different and the same again when they meet at their divergence?

Is there only one surface and no depth to the width at its lowest height intersecting breath.

Aware is not just air.

Obviously there's an aware which is beyond unto itself consistently thin.

Hard to take in.

No atmosphere.

Jazz unlearned is a discipline?

Plug the spark too late before the dark

I've started some way we will.

As(s) -.

- End.

Up?

Finished!

??

Interrogation

You a believer in the unexplained Marlowe?

I've often had experiences I couldn't explain … or recall, for legal purposes.

So you fancy yourself a comedian?

If by that you mean behind my mile-wide smile I'm bleeding tears internally, well, yeah, my tap leaks? What of it?

So murder's okay with you?

I'll ask the next passing Samaritan when he walks on by with his cheek turned windward.

How about you thinking about doing the right thing?

I think about about it all the time and what good it does when expedience trumps the king.

Who's the king Marlowe?

I forget but once we idealised the judgement thing.

Idealised?

We - some of us - realised that certain self-confessed players don't like playing and preferred to rig the game.

Words of Advice to the Stars (Part 2)

On the Red-Carpet 

Women: overweight is really only acceptable if you represent a minority suffixed by [blank]-American and have some actual acting or singing talent or are a British actress over forty who's done Shakespeare or a Ken Loach, kitchen-sink melodrama set somewhere in the wife-beating North of England or anywhere in the narco-states of Scotland or Wales. Even if you can't see the camera: hand-on-hip, tilted in side-thinning-profile with leading foot forward at all times. Whore shoes – high-rise stilettos – and as much side-boob as possible (without revealing the tell-tale enhancement surgery scars). Only go frontal cleavage reveal if your chest doesn't look like the asymmetric ribbed caging of a tiny monkey cage which has had its bars bent on one side where if fell off a rickshaw and got run over by a school bus. Opening-fingered, tiny-flex baby-wave every time you see a camera flash.


Men: you should try to achieve the debonair look Donald Trump imagines he sees when looking in the mirror (though obviously not the tangerine dream, omnidirectional thinning-hair sculpted actuality). If you lean to the Obama-hugging left (which is most of you), just imagine Robert Redford examining old photos of himself instead.