imagine listening to stephen fry talking
about poetry with someone from the univerity
of warwick: i would never imagine
that so much science went into the evolution
and so few instances of free verse butchery,
where the language is raw
rather than medium rare:
          couched in a cushion of the stigmata
of rigour and methadology...
that "once upon a time" with rhymes,
and all the technical words,
glorifying the parallel between the tools
of a carpenter...

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a strange calm can sometimes pervade,
after a few hours,
of experiencing delirium,
   unable to question whether it's
constipation,
     unable to eat,
   having to force yourself to eat,
a decent stab at steak, perfectly fried
to a medium rare blush of pink,
fries,
    an iceberg lettuce,
               shreds of parmesan cheese
and a honey and wholegrain mustard
drizzle...
            and then the dreaded walk,
whiskey, in tow,
   an a very potent cider...
  roughly 9%, two bottles,
         admiring the coming spring
in the night...
               my... pear spring bloom,
at night, under a street lamp?
          the simpler the pleasure,
the increased chances of... being pleasured...
current trends... young men...
laid, not laid...
          at this point, does it even matter?
i once did everything to fit
the narrative, gym,
        IR light sessions for the fact that:
beelzeebub took a **** on my face...
university education,
            working: industrial scale roofing,
permaquic (tar), gas-guns,
    shooting concrete,
                               primer,
                        hights, ladders,
   ****** days, cranes winded-off...
            i could manage...
         but then... as any good man might:
i cracked...
         no *** at hand,
   what was the next best thing?
                      do a j. d. salinger... *******!
buy a vinyl player...
              and once again: *******...
go into the woods at night,
admire the coming of spring
                                       at night...
        itch away at the passing of time...
   forget about past girlfriends,
take some pride in being able to grow
a beard, and fiddle with it
from time to time, perched on a windowsill,
drinking, pretending i'm playing
a violin...
             being able to have,
once upon a time bought a pornographic
magazine...
   oddly enough: much easier said and
done in belgium than in england...
     yeah: that part where someone knows
you're a ******...
         shame, or no shame...
depends on whether you've had
     the matriachal snippet done to you
of the monotheistic disposition...
               hell... jerking off without
******* doesn't make sense...
              a trinity affair:
   on the throne of thrones...
              hardly a case for *****, scented
candles and a video cam affair...
          then there's also the case of
walking into a brothel...
       9 of them looking at whittle poor
you,
     and you ask nonchalantly:
   can one of them make a choice?
   and one of them replies: you can't do that...
reply: oh, aren't you the talkative sparrow,
you'll do.
            an hour shift -
    nothing under the covers,
slightly dimmed lights,
    a shower with her after...
                  the usual...
she on top, you on top,
                       mouths going into
the nether regions of linguistics...
                    sometimes you might chance
her ******,
    while you sometimes "forget" to ******,
and she's all bewildered by
both scenarios...
            isabella... hardly
a *******,   third year psychology exchange
student at edinburgh...
  what a beauty...
                  a frankish version of...
sandra bullock...
   the cheek-bones weren't as saxon...
tender plump features all over the face...
    big on manga cartoons...
          anyway...
                    why would a man age find
it necessary to complain
about getting laid?
                   i don't have a problem with it,
because... i know the **** that comes with it,
which it doesn't, when you pass
the priest and the psychiatrist,
                     and go for the *******.
plus, the *** i wanted to imitate probably
comes around the sort
you see in 1970s italian films...
                   this... "this" modern crap?
n'ah...
                i had to convince myself,
and found myself able, to do a sly one
over a Bronzino...
                    simple... the focus was around
the mouths of cupid & venus...
    given... the rest of the painting...
is what comes from that...
   madness, old age...
                    an image so elusive...
all that's missing is the ******* apple of eden...
no...
           i'm just exhausted by
this viagara of cultural responsibility
    associated with getting laid...
            tinder? shoom! went way past me...
   never used it...
                              i went for the:
bi-****** thai sitting alone on a bench,
drinking beer,
talked to,
     taken back home,
played some jazz records,
                ****** in the garden,
walked back home
               as any man should, the end.
  she really was what i'd call a thai
suprise... sports bra, short hair?
     i honestly didn't know what i was
going to find when i put my hand,
where hands go, in those kind of situations;
lucky for...
                 i was walking a tight-rope
for a while...
    no ******* clue...
       it was day when i met her,
it came to the night when i ******...
    it was the mariana trench
     depth dark....                throughout;
i keep forgetting to brag,
         maybe because...
                         i... just... don't give a ****?