To beat the blues, declutter the mind and trim that waistline... there are far more reasons to stay hydrated than to quench the thirst. Here's how to do it...

Hydration is central to the most basic physiological functions of the body such as regulating BP and body temperature, blood circulation and digestion. But having enough water is one thing and keeping the body well hydrated another. Hydration comes not just from sipping water but from a diet high on water. One needs to have a variety of fruits and vegetables that have a naturally high water content to replenish the electrolytes in scorching summer.

EAT YOUR WATER

"The primary way of hydration is drinking plenty of clean water ******, but about 20 per cent of our intake comes from foods, especially fruits, vegetables, drinks and broths. Hydrating food not only corrects the water balance but also replaces essential salts and minerals," adds Manjari Chandra, therapeutic nutritionist. Aqua foods provide volume and weight but not calories. Grapefruit, for example, is about 90 per cent water and half a grapefruit has just 37 calories. High water greens and fruits contain essential vitamins and minerals, bioflavonoids (compounds believed to prevent heart disease) and antioxidants that slow down the aging process. They are also high in fibre, which keeps you feeling full for longer and helps the digestive system run efficiently. They can provide al most all vitamins and minerals and correct nutrient deficiencies.

WEIGHT WATCHERS

If you thought the list of hydrating foods ends with the usual suspects like cucumbers, watermelons and tomatoes, you are wrong. Some offbeat natural hydrators include leeks, spinach, peppers, carrots and celery. In fact, celery comprises mostly water... qualifying as a great snacking option. It can also curb sweet tooth cravings, which will help you stay slim and keep away from acidic sweets. "Eggplants are a fabulous weight loss kitchen staple. This versatile ingredient has low calories and is rich in fibre that boosts satiety. Grape fruit has been hailed as a weightloss superfood globally for its cardio protective, antioxidant and appetite-sup pressing qualities. This high fibre, juicy fruit has the ability to lower blood sugar levels and control a voracious appetite," says Jia Singh, travel, food and wellness writer.

MOOD AND MIND

People usually don't consider water as a mood enhancer. However, studies have proved otherwise. Even mild dehydration can alter a person's mood, energy levels, and ability to think clearly, according to two studies by the University of Connecticut's Human Performance Laboratory. Mild dehydration is defined as an approximately 1.5 per cent loss in normal water volume in the body. It is important to stay properly hydrated at all times, not just during exercise, extreme heat, or exertion. This is because water gives the brain the electrical energy for all t, its functions, including r thought and memory processes. When your brain is functioning on a full reserve of water, you will be able to think faster, be more focused, and experience clarity and creativity.

MUSCLE POWER

We all know the importance of exercising, getting enough protein, calories and rest in order to build muscles.But water consumption is as important for muscle wellness and lubrication of joints. Water composes 75 per cent of our muscle tissue! So, if your body's water content drops by as little as 2 per cent, you will feel fatigued. If it drops by 10 per cent, you may experience health problems, such as arthritis and back pain. When you're well hydrated, water provides nutrients to the muscles and removes waste so that you perform better.

TOP SUMMER HYDRATORS

Strawberries: They rank highest in water content in comparison to all other berries. Berries are powerhouses of antioxidants that are cardio protective, good for your eyes, skin and nails and even help prevent inflammation and chronic illnesses.

Carrots: They are almost 90 per cent water, are rich sources of vitamin A and C and have tons of betacarotene that keep cancer at bay.

Zucchini: Zucchini is a popular summer squash made of 95% water. It is a good source of dietary fibre, vitamin A, C and K, folate, magnesium. It is best to use it fresh and raw in salads because cooking leads to loss of water.

Bell Peppers: Sweet bell peppers are amongst the veg gies with the highest water content. They are also a great source of vitamin C.

Iceberg lettuce: Health experts often rec ommend substituting it with darker greens like spinach or romaine lettuce for higher amounts of fibre and nutrients such as folate and vitamin K. It's a different story, however, when it comes to water content. Crispy ice berg has the highest amount of water amongst the lettuce family.

Spinach: It may not be as hydrating as iceberg lettuce, but spinach is usually a bet ter bet overall. The leafy vegetable is rich in lutein, potassium, fibre, and brain-boosting folate.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

Science can't save you, neither can religion,
at least Popper and Niebuhr, philosophers and poets,
are entertainers, which is why actors and athletes
are paid so much. Thanks for the summaries.
I was teaching Shakespeare's 92nd ridiculous sonnet
to my student who lays blacktop in the off season
Shakespeare bellyaching about dying without her love
a feeling foreign to a modern adolescent sensibility
although many teens are pretty far gone searching
for their mothers or fathers in their dazed lovers' eyes.
Which is why we call it "the wound that never heals."
Or the lesion that's always lengthening. And bleeding.

Muslim fundamentalists and their Christian counterparts
are a mystery to me. Pews and prayer rugs, the airless
indoor environment of religious worship, reading
scriptures, hypnotized by hymns and fainting from staring
at candles through stained glass windows, almost certain
the preacher is faking his certainty about the afterlife.
It's not my problem. A more immediate concern:
receding gums and tooth extractions, swollen joints,
poor lubrication and circulation, wave after wave
of viral infection, the occasional antibiotic-resistant
bacterial attack, usually urinary, and who knows
what internal organs are dividing and conquering
without mercy or cease, i.e. the wound that never heals.

It is wise not to overvalue your continued existence,
good not to be innumerate, unable to compare
a mere 80 years with say 6.0 x 109 or all of time
(to date) times the multiverse. Conversely,
it is interesting all of space and most of history is contained
in your mind (realizing of course it's just a map
of the cosmos not the cosmos itself, or is it?). I'm
unable to wrestle free, tongue in that cavity
and locked in my memories, so separate and disparate
from the biomass in the crosswalks, even my spouse.
Alone, so alone, even your doctor can only devote
limited thought to your situational mortality through
the redress of poetry - also a wound that never heals.

Snow for eternity, that's what this February's been.
All to the good, for someone it's the final February
so enjoy it to the extent you can. By that I mean joy.
Joy at birth. Joy at death. All joy. All times. Anyway,
that was Shakespeare's message: even tragedies are comedies.
May, a Buddhist, chants each morning.
Her husband, Marc, who's Jewish, plays league tennis.
Their son, Aaron, will soon make Eagle scout.
How does that relate to your wound that never heals?
Luck runs out. For D.H. Lawrence in New Mexico
or Ulysses S. Grant in Ohio or Yasujiro Ozu in
Tokyo or Satyajit Ray in Bombay or Rabindranath
Tagore in Bangalore or at the Battle of the Atlantic in the Azores.

The night is a poultice, winter or summer solstice.
My anonymity will not affect the anomie ghettoside
seeing for myself how season by season
vacations and accomplishments accumulate, late in life
and early on, sunrise over mountains or moonrise over Bronx.
Masturbator, prisoner of war. Hospice of the Holy Roman Empire.
Numerous blue notes: the 3 flat, 7 flat, 5 flat,
the 6 flat and the 2 flat too. I don't get
what Wallace Stevens means by imagination.
When groundhog shows up as a totem, there is opportunity
to explore the mystery of death without dying.
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
Now what about that wound that never heals.

The Skeptical Observer column in Scientific American
was somewhat alarming when he accepted a paranormal
explanation for how his wife's grandfather's inoperable
transistor radio played music from its hiding spot
in his sock drawer on, and only on, their wedding day.
Now I'll have to believe my father (or mother!) is watching me
perform private ****** acts with (or without) partners
or that they could even know my thoughts. Or aliens
are attending our committee meetings and making
perfectly reasonable decisions given the available information
and the world is rotating just fine without humans.
These possibilities - angels, ghosts, aliens - are better
than holocaust and genocide. In this way,
and only in this way, does doom become endurable.
The wound that never heals in the end is all you'll feel.

Please forgive my hesitation
at instigation of flirtation.
Did I ensure my elimination?
My romantic assassination?
I'll gladly partake in any placation,
for any chance of indoctrination
to the centralization of your concentration.
An operation of admiration.
A correlation of inflammation.
Your gravitation brings animation,
exclamation and elongation.
My specialization is duration.
Not to hint at a connotation,
but I feel a certain *******
by an obligation to a certain destination
where your presentation gives me restoration.
Petrification?
Total mind evacuation?
Would clarification bring fascination?
Stimulation!
Salivation!
Gratification!
Insinuation of fornication?
A simple salutation to syncopation.
Would a single bright carnation
be enough of a motivation,
for a two way relocation?
Would poetic recitation
be sufficient lubrication
for collaboration?
A consolidation?
Or an exacerbation of isolation?
Please hold no reservation,
I've only got one aspiration.
To achieve a higher elevation;
by means of inhalation,
or a certain recreation
involving a bit of perspiration
along with physical communication.
Does this seem such a bad situation?
Or are you ready for pure elation?

England played today, what a ****-up grandiose style, glass bottle like hail flew down on Marseilles, water-canons, all kinds of crowd dispersers, true grit on the former great, now belittled, nation-state in d' hood reduced to a pitch with 20 idiots running around kicking about Charles' 1st head, and too fidgety skeletons tagged to A.S.B.O.S. tags playing puppets in a rectangle... i stopped watching the match for a cigarette break, the free-kick went in, Saturay, Tesco closing at 10pm, i took to wearing an Australian Open t-shirt, i've never seen so many funerals drinking a beer on my way home - prior it it was all gorilla chanting and Tarzan... i only learned of Tsar Putin dipping his ***** in the **** of Crimea a few minutes later.

your typical Saturday night, next door  neighbour's
trying out an alt. Y.M.C.A. with disco funk,
i guess it spreads easily this day, feel the grooves
or lined Rodin - ape-**** up my *** -
music so loud coming from my neighbour's canopy
i should be asking for canapés - after all Euro 2016
kicked off, scarf-hooligans of Moscow made
Marseilles home-turf , two Brits at the draw
in hospital, faces kicked-in, real bulldogs,
asthmatics at the end of it - conversation turned into a tour
of the Cairngorms or the western outlets...
a lot of Scottish impromptu with **** **** freckles!
gee ginger! aye fucky ***** ****!
Anglo users love interchanging the vowels for emphasis
to differentiate geographic regions -
but this one book review got me -
entitled ***** state by a feminist -
the ugly child abusing father is a punter -
listen, if it were't for prostitutes i'd be a priest
7 years in, acne on my Richie, one ****** in,
kiss on the mouth several times, hell, the guilt trip,
poor boy poor girl, skin cream lubrication,
talk of doctor's appointments, ******* a *****,
i'd get the Scandinavia model if the girls weren't fickle,
the hand is hardly a plastic surgeon of the female
genitalia ***** - bony M... you must be talking
about ******* - ***** M...
Jesus no more the son of god than the patron saint
of prostitutes... the poor guy feels the aches of touch
while the rich boys sushi off a stripper in Billions...
i don't have strong dialectical encouraging to dispute
or discuss - i too am too blame, ask my dermatologist...
so my neighbours threw a party,
on the set-list?
Cheryl Lynn - Got to Be Real; Oliver Cheatham,
Get Down Saturday Night; Edwin Starr - Contact;
and then the one off from One Direction - History -
the DJ suddenly experiences the jitters neurotically
changing songs before they finish - midwestern horror,
Ohio or Iowa hammer masscare, excerpt from
Pink Floyd's anti-fascist anti-educationalist march,
dangly on the Cenotaph -
persona qui umbra-grata (person agreeably welcome
as a shadow) - yep, me and the ex_machina routine...
i know the feminist argument smocking pipe handy
clean for more pages, but ever hear a ******* ******
or laugh with you? if i didn't use up the profession
i'd be the buying type abusive father forever,
who the **** needs **** trips when the moment can please
twos? i'd be up against a Cosmopolitan Magazine Quizzes...
the "perfect boyfriend" types, later coverage in
psychological advice columns... but wait...
all that ******* advice about something being indestructible
in us, about us, beginning with this keen appeal to
atheism already defaults a logic behind the essential
characteristic of the existence pertaining to a psyche -
by destroying god we also resolved to more easily disqualify
the in-destructibility of the soul,
constrained, a study of noumenons, with logic application,
as if with the omni- prefix to the non-essentials of god -
logic destroyed the compatible qualification of soul
ownership, reduced, it gave us the advent of prayer
and the necessity of a god, rather than our selves,
via souls - something without deductive parameters to
cursor and pre- of the experience quickened to
argument with dis- and later -qualificatio;
the кaцaпс fought with Mongols... you think there's
a fair bet for your hooliganism in Marseilles?
well... it all boils down to two identifiers of nationalism:
parade with the royal family near St. James' park
or gut a pig in the south of France...
Wales will not bow this time, given that they're
not getting paid for their national pride dribble,
they'll ******* up... make more adverts with your superstars...
strange that, well, America has idiosyncratic sports,
i never understood the cheese-ball of oval either to the throw -
yes, baseballs makes more sense than cricket,
but you have to understand rugby before you
start crowdsurfing your *** in nappies -
the high expression of nationalism is so Joker-faced
with the Windsor ******, nationalism and a king never match
up to how Mao or ****** would have it...
and the alternative is football hooliganism...
i walked for my whiskey and beer just after the 75th minute,
along the way i met so many funerals, donning my
Australian Open T-Shirt... well, you, know,
a different type of spectator sport - i heard the rabbis
of the oval where deemed cricket tourists when kicking
a penalty through the H architecture -
cricketers are tourists, oval jerker-offs are Wallabies...
Australia in the Eurovision song-contest... oh yeah,
i'm mad... mad about Abba.. Matt in Memphis,
an Eve Cassidy moment, Sia's chandelier cover-up,
the truest form of plagiarism - the cover is better
without all the computing morphings...
oh sure, i could play the dating game...
9 years in and i had two authentic ***** in my day...
one was a black single mum who took me back
to her flat in Stratford, dragged her baby girl from the bed
to the floor, and her baby son, didn't want me to
penetrate her, tucked my **** in between her thighs,
i stopped, was woken by her son in the middle of the night,
took him and laid him on my chest and we fell asleep...
so yeah, prostitution is ALL BAD... coming from a theorist
who hasn't experienced the drudgery of lives "unexpected"
via eventualities akin to Chernobyl... given that the most
paranoid nation scared and scaring others concerning
a nuclear holocaust is the only one to set two off... two!
Pearl Harbour was an army attack on an army base...
what the Americans did was just a very quick Holocaust.

that's a trinity of nouns in that one symbol 0,
that rhombus to a square (omicron) -
zero, nought, oh... and then there's fifteen-love
in tennis, and also nil - so that's more than
a trinity... never mind...

i know why Islam is attacking, a scene from
Hellraiser Hell on Earth, the church scene dialogue:
- my child, what's the matter, what on earth's the matter?
- i have to get back to my apartment, back to the window,
  but they just keep coming, they just keep coming!
- who keeps coming?
- the demons! the demons!
- demons? demons aren't real; they're parables, metaphors.
- then(,) what(,) the(,) ****(,) is(,) that?!

shows you how much people over-read the unearthing
of the Nag Hammadi library in Egypt,
simultaneously with the unearthing of the Isaiah script
after he was cut in half... so i guess this is a competition:
getting crucified (with so many eager Philippine Phillips
eager to address the Olympic record of a day on
the crucifix) - oh wait... didn't the saviour travel to Egypt
in fear of Herod? funny we should find the unorthodox
and therefore more prescriptive writings there...
all hell broke loose in psychiatry in the 1960s...
we had R.D. Laing cite the gospel of St. Thomas...
it's like that Hellraiser narrative... people really took it
seriously... a final testimony of mankind...
the Order of the Templar's Idol: the Bahomet -
that's why Islam is attacking... oh forget the king controlling
the pawns... Iranian women are having none of it...
they're mobilising pawns as we speak, day by day...
every single ******* day... they're mobilising men
against the abomination... supported quiet clearly
by a fear of striking emotion with language...
in Oxford, just recently, there was a ban on denoting
social status of Mr. and Ms., i too would have favoured
the idea of demonic possession, and the joke of the
town is transgender... for whatever feminism does,
it's insulted under the horse's galloping hoof and a
statement by the suffragette: Emily Davison -
she's being insulated... you little ******* are playing
the puppets of Iranian women, that's why you can't see them!
under their niqabs they're playing the boss...
who gives a **** whether they drive their cars!
do i have to be the ******* Greek around here?
ever talk to a woman about homosexuality over a glass of wine?
no, i bet you haven't... prostitution ain't that bad, after all...
but talk to a woman high on ******* about transgender...
see where civilisation ends up at... it won't be chess...
it'll be chess with a blind man, changing the rooks...
you can't be that ******* gullible, but you are, so i'll continue...
these are acts perpetuated by men by argument of women...
they're attacking Christendom (forget western culture,
that's pig ******* deep fried gone and dusted with
Trump as with Ronald Reagan)...
they're attacking because when the library of non-orthodox
Christianity emerged, it was like the Soviet Union
collapsing: a wild west... sure we lost a few good women
to the slavery of the brothel... but in return we learned to
make people obedient in being wrong... can't go
against archaeology... sure... shift the pyramids just a little
to the east and you'll get Auschwitz chimneys puffing...
hell, you might even get the wild idea of the hanging gardens
materialised.
so with that demon story... i'm starting to look at it:
well, thank **** for feminism, but, wait, oh, the insult...
the slap in the face... and then the defence mechanism
of politically correct speech... the transgender movement...
to me that's a perfect safety mechanism for Islam to attack...
this is Christianity 2.0... this is neglecting poetry,
this is the necessary ambiguity of language...
given that people are actually practising trans-gender
ergonomics rather than saying: well, if ambiguity has a case...
i'll just wear a t-shirt... but no! but no! castrate the *******
and send him off to Siberia! you know that Islam
is perpetuating war because of this, Islamic women are
laughing at us... one was noted for the childish example
of tongue-out-of-cheek pointing beneath the veil: hell bound.
the Jews of Europe never made use of political
correctness in the realm of speech - but we don't
have Jews in Europe, America is thriving,
we're stuck with Muslims teaching us German guilt...
i'm not French, nor the mythological Swede kept neutral
even though receiving parts of the Marshall Plan
rejuvenation program of the war torn parts...
the part of me with Mongol just says: well,
Golgotha Pyramid of Baghdad - later known as
the Laughing Cranium Dynamo of Baghdad.
but they really did take the metaphors too literally...
just read the Gospel of Thomas...
it's all there, trans-gender and lubrication -
defending trans-gender rights just insults women,
those in favour of defeating the western cause are obvious...
all that care for feminism gets the cold-salmon fillet slap
across the case... get the **** back into the water!
king in chess a mere cameo extension of pawn -
queen in chess a marooned combination of bishop rook and knight -
or the ****** diversity, mantis and black widow,
the abstract, looking down onto a board...
but in the mammalian realm? the reverse...
oh ****** i'll mobiles... fascism against fascism...
i'm looking up... and what i see i see as what Horace said
to me in the 21st version of the Diverting Comedy -

vivere si recte nescis, decede peritis.
Lusisti satis, edisti satis atque bibisti:
tempus abire tibi est, ne potum lagrius aequo
rideat et pulset lasciva decetius aetas.

                 (you alone bring no bettering of life,
allow others to live, who can beyond your incompetence
to likewise aim at the laurel crown of economic competence
of mortality. you have used enough of allowances:
you ate aplenty, drank aplenty, it's time to go,
so that the hasty youth of what's to be drank, ahead,
for the good per se, not ridicule nor ordained itself better).

well, i'd put Bukowski with Horace as alike...
maybe that's why i chose Horace, above Virgil, Ovid
or Homer... it's the ******* drinking, the honesty of
drunks... as sober men we're nothing more than lost cabarets...
but i am seriously about the above cited Horace...
no matter what feminism does to women right now,
in the economic realm... equal pay and what not...
women are doubly insulted, a frame of mind from
neglecting reading poetry, where poetry could have
incubated words into an internal reality of speaking
about femininity and masculinity, we're talking
real, the Ten Plagues & Transgender... the ****'s that about?
that famous citation found in Spinoza's Theological-Political
Treatise, chapter 14 (faith and philosophy), aphorism
no. 12... god and the trumpets and Mt. Sinai...
concerning? the voice of god gave the Israelite audience no
philosophical or mathematical certainty about
the diabolical "certainty" of the Catholic omni-plus
geometric and quizzical knowing of dates and time differences
between Moscow and the Galapagos islands...
well, never mind that reference... i'm frightened that we're
actually hearing the moaning and groaning from Golgotha
just now... when poetry dies... and people take religiously
indoctrinated language without keen interest in poetry... hell spawns...
at the moment it seems the re-establishment of Israel
is working miracles against the Valley of the Shadow of Death
that Europe represents to the Jew's memory...
and in that Koranic reference, Jesus is the Messiah...
what, with a few of our men attempting metaphysical
acrobatics in the genital region? why not?! added to boot
France tickling the guillotine with its tongue.

I knew they'd be more sightings, it looks like I was right
The day has arrived once again, where things have come to light
Shinning armour is absent, and there is no gallant knight
Oh Annette, there's only Den, and your chastity's not tight

It seems Miss Tidy has returned, she's covered a long span
**** escapades displayed again, written by a big **** fan
***** heifers filled Cow Pies, diving in like Desperate Dan
I wouldn't mind a go myself, because I am a man

Bus stops and phone boxes, seem to be your mainstream media
Your depicted as a ****, and your appetite gets greedier
Every time that you appear, your antics are more seedier
Be careful of your infamy, you'll end up on Wikipedia

What the hell is going on, you've resurfaced once again
There's no accounting for good taste, with ******* different men
I don't know if it's better ***, than your getting from old Den
Oh Annette if you get judged, it'll be a Ten from ***

Bus shelters are the place, to read about your ***
Showing intimate parts of your life, like the local multiplex
Written words like **** and ****, are nothing to perplex
It's obvious what's going on, its hardly that complex

If **** *** is preferable, if it's not just a passing whim
You can lick my exposed ****, and I'll give yours a rim
A tight *** is just as good, as a nice warm ****
Oh Annette untidy your legs, and we'll go out on a limb

**** *** excites me, but there's just one small detail
Is your *** completely free, or is your **** for sale
If you use lubrication, then it never will get stale
Naked flesh I really like, that's probably cos I'm male

If telephone boxes we're obsolete, if bus stops did not exist
Where would Annette's news be then, from the *** obsessed artist
Would he try a public lavatory, would he have a different twist
Oh Annette If writings ceased, *** stories would be missed

George Formby leaned on lampposts, but I'm not sure I'm a strummer
Unless you count a *******, and you are a heavy ******
I'll wait until you come by, for one hell of a good ******
Outside in the night light, so much better in the summer

Could you be a lovely girl, or are you an ugly *****
**** ***** and ***** *****, are just the local lingo
Oh Annette if you want ***, don't wait too long in limbo
I can do it on all fours, as well as legs akimbo

Softer holes are better wet, **** positions don't much matter
Whether it is *******, or laying a bit flatter
Certain parties can be fun, if your naked on a platter
A very happy unbirthday treat, I'd share with the Mad Hatter

Do you bite as well as ****, be rough and rarely gentle
let passion take control of you, cos I'm not temperamental
You seem to be the kind of girl, to be experimental
It makes no difference if your a ****, it isn't accidental

There's nothing wrong with ***** *****, if they are never shut
Open all hours is quite fun, when you're an **** ****
I hope you have "**** Handles", that are looming round your ****
So Annette relight my fire, I don't want my long wick cut

Come on now be daring, because you seem like an old friend
I hope your ****** preferences, are not just a passing trend
So much is known about you, with all that has been penned
If your into *** ***, then give your **** a lend

Just how many blokes you've had, well I don't have a clue
There's Den of course but now and then, you try someone new
It doesn't really bother me, if you've had quite a few
You could be in fetish films, if your backdoor is blue

Perhaps I have misjudged you, and you are a teachers pet
And everything that has been said, is something you regret
But If the rumours are all true, then I would not forget
To stuff my ***** up your ****, and I'd say oh Annette !

On a night like this, of full-moon bliss
Of the midnight winds and collecting mists
I remained, forevermore
Chained, to the floor
A victim of joy’s…goodbye kiss

In a dungeon I lie, hidden from the sky
A shadow untamed with vile red eyes
I waited, I hungered
Without proper slumber
In my mistress’ pit, awaiting time

It was from lust and desire to fuel and empower
For whom she wishes for me to devour
I restrained, she teased
I grew hard, to please
The widowed Countess: my dark sire.

Though my story may seem bleak
But not to those, whom morally weak
A tale, a fable
However which label
Entitles this to civilized freaks

I moved from town to town, home to home
In search of a life wherever I would roam.
At last, I came
To an estate of name
Belonging to a Countess of ancestral Rome

Countess Donatella, eyed my work and demeanor
From afar I could tell, I sensed, I smelled her
Her scent, so tempting
Was she attempting…
To allure my beastly form into something beneath her?

One night she called for me, alone in her quarters
She treated me to delicacies from rich exporters
She asked my name
I said none, I refrained
“Mysterious and Strong.” She said in order.

She walked over, to the silk on the bed
Colored in gold and shimmering red
Curling her finger
To me, and eager
“Remove your clothes” the Countess said

I did as I was told. I abide her command.
She seduced like a mistress of the eternally ******
Caressing my skin
Licking my chin
And instructed me to please her demands.

My strength increased as I ripped apart her dress
“Yes, my dear, rough and brute.” She stressed
My *** throbbing
Her head bobbing
She turned into an animal I could not resist

Through the night our lust ignited
Into a furious intoxication, organs united
A symphonic ******
Winds, rain and thunder
Matching the sweltering copulation benighted

In the glow of after, past the ****** she gathered
Breathing deeply she said, “You are mine. I am master”
For too long, I thought
I was ridden of what I sought
One to counter my thirst for lust, the tiring caster.

For many nights I swooned, I pleasured her in ways
No other human could fathom or reclaim
My art was of the flesh
And her succulent *******
Feasting like the dog of Hell’s fame

But in this time I feared
For my secret was severe
To show, to hide
My inner design
Of nocturnal savagery that is devilishly revered.

It was upon a warm night of *******
That the moon left me horrified and shaking.
I ran from the master
To evade disaster
Of displaying my transformational awakening.

I trampled in the woods and screamed into the night
The beast of the void howled under the moonlight
I ventured, I hungered
Awaken from slumber
A slave to Lycanthrope, a feral disease of might

The Countess’ workers hunted; “A monster!” they deemed
But I killed many before I was to be seen
Ripping, tearing, slashing, eating,
Guts, bones, skin, feeding
My viciousness, my curse, my bane and dream.

After my episode of moral slaughter
The workers found me curled in a fetal posture
I would have been killed
But the Countess, sealed
Me away in the cryptic tomb of her father.

I was left to suffer in the underbelly of my sins.
Shadows and demons moaning like the wind
My master kept me
Protected me
In her care I would no longer win

Now I lay, waiting for the my master to show
So the door above me will open and glow
The white orb
That will mourn
The lives I have taken, eaten and in my intestines flow

The tomb dungeon unlocks, creaking loudly with rust
The master, the beautiful Countess that I must
Please and satisfy
Penetrate, rectify
The punishment that was bestowed by the just.

“So you are known by many names.” She utters
I look up at her with eyes of thirst, my lover
“You are unique.
So much to keep
For myself, my beastly treasure and no other.”

She walks to the shadowed wall and pulls down a lever
And stands in front of me, **** and forever
A pale seductress
Her eyes focus
With mine, for I wait for the power that was severed

“Now I will be pleasure by that of a beast, that of a god.”
She says as she massages my erecting rod
“Now, my dear.”
As I hear.
“Enter me and leave me in pleasurably awe.”

With the chains around my wrists, ankles; my neck and waist
She mounts me in the moonlight space
Our sweat collects
Drips and specs
Glossing her pale skin and my ever changing face.

I stare into the moon as I ******, my moans of pain matching her voice
She yells from the seismic endurance, her dooming choice
To unleash my monster
With blood thirst conquered
No, it is not, it is her, growing with every other screaming voice

Moans of pleasure soon turn to moans of distress
The wolf of the night is coming, no less
My teeth protrude
My mind feuds
With reason and passion, where blood replaces the mess

My fur is black, my claws like steel
My fury is lustful, the deeper I feel
The Countess is in fear
I ignore her tears
And devour her, ravish her, take her skin and peel

Her lovely face is first to go, once flawless now disfigured
I tear her arms from her body, her liver in my teeth lingered
Blood, tears, flowing juices
Guts, gore, nail amuses
The laughing jackals and demons in a Hell for me that’s bigger

There is no more Countess. No more Donatella, nor master
The moon reflected in a red pool of suffering disaster
Of the ******* monster in our wake
Of the true one she had forsake
In the whims of lustful pursuit with death proceeding faster

Through the lubrication of excessive blood and ****** fluids
I slipped and broke from my chains and fled from the ruins
I remained the beast
Through the forest at least
And return to the woods, away from the her influence

I left the Countess estate as I arrived
Homeless wanderer who survived
Another full moon night
And devil’s sight
Of my life forevermore, the way of the morally derived

Where my nightmares are revived …

…Beyond my human disguise.

How horrible the plot
the hem, the haw
of the incessantly violent
torture ****
   How sad the politic
the row, the scorn
the media howl, the noise
the storm
           We are drifting in a sea
         of bobble head puppets
         backstabbing, mass murdering
         mask-faced tyrants
         and we are loosing the battle
         before it's even begun
            So go ahead now
         and trade in your votes
         sell off your rights
         buy a backfiring gun
            Because nothing is worse
         than trying to reverse evolution
         and you can't crawl back
         into the womb of your Mother
         once you've destroyed
         the primordial ooze
         of creation's lubrication
         for a dollar and a cheapened dream's
         inflation

I love that Jewish ****
I know it’s better than whatever ****
That you’ve been gettin’
It’s Israeli and it’s rarely being used *****?
Just look at you *****
You spent an hour in the shower
Feeling useless
Until you had the realization
That the water’s lubrication’s
Even worse than when you use spit

You know, I’m all about the Benjamins
But I’m chilling on the Abrahams

That’s a little too hasidic
For a person who’s obsessively
Collecting all the circumcised
Erections in this city

‘Cause he’s orthodox, get it?

One day as leep by a captivating woke essence in your handscaught in your arms woke getting up after nearly having died ...you gave me your breathing air and calm your back to life, releasing the fear more gregarious, after opening my senses almost incinerated i learned that the stars trembled me to reach it

I started a new life to sharing with you,
sometimes i feel that in your hands sap this life to revive my acuity,
what to unfold my body, she quadrupled making me shiver by quakes your tenderness.

But today on the eighth day of the universe,
divided my feet walking to you for every step of light sonica,
road on it being over your carnal finesse frosted still light beams for aboriginal embracing love with your gutted threat to the end dump body, being today only light story emerged from any pythagorean indigo.

Eight feet by my raving not walk on forgetful slip hugs and achieve that without it on my feet, making you a path of kisses on a piecemeal moan  covering your pleasures in quiet regia union, sealing and my memories to mummifying the most sensitive areas disown make me when you suffer from almost feel much pleasure.

Your feet chafe my eighth willing body as your hands it to me, this is your feet eight  feet, and your finger eleven flute my way to you open your columns wet and trembling, born in the tropics decorative colors flashing your eyes when mine yours take on your innocence as a mother's dismissal, genesis as a maternal layoffs in the grotto shaggy times makes me roof for to paint with my kisses and my mouth full of oils,  full streaking manias those desires that are further under your skin, deep lining up to associate to me ...!

My seven feet is the semi - obese and language lenticular spider mine, unleavened filling the food, its highest sing syllabic, make your paint  blue and moan molecules liquid call themselves, with its concavity make the bio - live surgery last transplanted hallucinate ... vibratory column of my responsibility on your body, cutting all fear, every element of your flesh lying addict to me hanging on my conscience all descontrol physionomy, losing my light steps sonica falling into the abyss of your distances fragrances, falling in ovation interapeutica licking your body my breath, like a sixth sense.

I meditate burning between your legs, dying as i was born of a woman wild servant, fawn as an almost died for a hunter, i prefer my conscience advance day and night to your legs to die of living where one day saw in the recesses; the greatest pleasures with ambitions to break all your secrets, all your defenses to break your falling on my tyranny, allegory huge walk along the invisible to other united take that helped me your surplus usages, enter you and your being, feeling peace penetrate you, not feeling loving preact, or not to have you in the distance but hugging everytime you Drodida to moisten your words to me,  stuttering of desire.

My six feet organizing penetrates you feast on enraged cowbells,wishes with malice and early pregnat, alcamphor extreme longevity and erectile espermiosicotic, with smoothness and irradiating polish your rattling,
spitting cushion on my bones,
like a sapphire on until your clothes,
and as a inseparable attachment unit dispensable.

My bringing night of Saint John in your prayers for imaginary pain coexist
in between taking you doing it my trees by spoil collude copulate,
taking you stormy ray to the phenomenon with the masses elephantine hitting you on your shoulders, your ******* armpits challenge your beasts i want my grind with canines and incisors to create a new universe of shed your joy to laugh about our loving.

The five feet; rub your skin like a shower delicate pituitary
******* kilometers of rivers into criminal triads morbid on your face ...
as well as the sand masturbates the waves,
on the sand and wave nail with my eyes my spells dominating you,
rolling you thousand times to my love trades.

You shall be called Drodida; worship the everlasting orbit of my sight,
when i go for your absence mount your toxin grotesque gasp;
the stalk watered voluminousity  your mouth singing your sweating my
groaning  telling my cries thinking with my worst vanity,
the turn on rotation vanitatory what you just do me with your stalks and not my serous waters in my effervescent mouth in your ******* astral, arrested in any language your thinking lubrication retained me and your touching, what i always touch in you.

The five feet as a tightening necromantic porosity your skin that change shape your temples and declaims pretending aridity lovers bad; lords nomades covered them your area leafy tagled branches covered to neat legends of penalties appealed fables o mytofagic eaters; brotherhoods of the worst disease of not having small Mt. in high with it my staff rooted in resisting demolition and other eroding sorrow, reverie spoil it captive in your infinite journey of ecstasy explosional femic.

The four feet light make a gentle sonica, dry your language lenticular stalk ciliary zone, enter your supra entails, the cave unexplored wider,enter with both arms with herbs pulsating symmetrical cottoned sleeping in your walls and grotto forms  desensitized, insense redeem the pain of window pastoral bishop uniting both peni-***** areas full of gems balsamic, percusionatives full of eyes.

The three feet,
running is my hand movements on your ******* imprisoned,
they are my two hands scratched by scratching the delivery of your birth.
touch my hands that know not touch, when he was born without willing,
but my biohands touch your skin attached to transfer and progressive evil of love for the shores of cry to the center or your body centers clung to my hands over your thoughts rampant, wanting to stay in the fact to see you perisphery merge at twilight of our our sunken eyes friction and wet kisses dormitation delightful of travel and destructive of wickedness;
fulgurative but doubt of living or dying your enjoyment perpetuate.

The second feet,
you are you loving me on my feet vertically like a weak tower,
ash as rain that spread my fire for you.
i take my hands and i took a walk in the seas of ******* bellowing.
you took the scrub the eternal holy and spinal vocabulary of your mouth muted outrage both enjoy your subumbilicales areas.

The first is my feet Drodidaged,
it full landed liquid bathing you, your eyes full of ***** petals and replete, as bastions fallen with their helmets  gnawed your moans, that resound in memory of trees expectant that divert all about us practice,
only your tilt knee …will exalt   the  time for my happiness excessive.

My feet first,
it is my son music turret  ram rope breaking your every arbour grotto, asleep by the dream Drodida you commanded you do to me,
to rock for you and cutting wheel kissing my return to continue all apocalyptic dreams and your most ****** on my ways about it forever astral.
Plane  it me  come the way to sleep with me,
come see how i am able to teach Drodida
ways of sleeping next to me !!


Jose luis  / 0ctober 2003 -  Copyright 15 – all rigths reserved

lunar luminance lights his lucent lordly lair.
leaden legs languish lazily as he lay, laconic--
lexical loquaciousness long lost.
his latent lupine lust lignifies and lengthens,
longing lonesomely for his lovely limber lioness.
with lips of luxurious labial liquer,
and licks lapping like lashing lingual lightning,
liquifying his lavish lover, luscious lyrical lubrication.

Although she didn’t use these exact words,
What it got down to was:
“My **** hurts!”
Your age-appropriate **** buddy
Experiencing a profound lubrication deficit.
Vaginal dryness:
A legitimate topic these days for
Baby-Boom conversation.
“65: the New 30,” the slogan rings.
A Mel Brooks clarion call,
Harvey Corman doing Count Da Money:
"Don't get saucy with me, Bearnaise!"
For all our good friends at
KY, Vaseline & Astroglide--
As recommended by female OB/GYNs,
(Should there be any other kind?)
Sales projections are rosy for
Ottmar’s Coconut Cooch Oil,
Despite the economic downturn,
So, naturally, you commence your
Search for a young, wet—sopping wet—co-ed,
Running the risk of bumping into
Some UC Berkeley ****
Who digs older gentlemen, and
Knows your daughter, Gwendolyn.

lil taffy two tugs would wake up to the dawn,leaping to his laptop searching sites for ****,thanking stephen hawkins, also mr gates,grateful of technology, while taffy masterbates.the boyo bashed his bishop, most of all his life,now pc world was better and cheaper than a wife,lubrication, change of hands, oil and vaseline,lesbians, fat fetishes, and threesomes on his screen,but poor ole taffy passed away, his family in disgrace,trousers round his ankles, a smile upon his face,but two tugs died so happy, while he had a vid on,undertaker done his nutt,,,,he could'nt get the lid on.

I want to make trouble tonight.
To make my song different from normal speech
like the ladies from India.
I need nothing more than a little
Understanding her wordless wails takes time

I want possibilities tonight
So stay away from my popcorn
her last words were "Can I have som-" then
I want to pound down one or two pints of
Social lubrication never tasted so good

What?

Women Stereotypes
10w40
This is so popular, proven to have high performance even if it is synthetic. That does not make any sense realistically. It strokes engines brilliantly. The most expensive even on sale. It does not deter dirt.

3 in 1
The lubricant  can be trusted the fact that it dries quicker, penetrating the stuck locks as well preventing further corrosion.

Exotic Graphite
As exotic as graphite is, it does a good job by providing a long lasting lubrication. It repels water too! It’s cheaper that the rest and it extends life. It makes a proper logic economically. You pay less but get more!

Lubricant Affordability**
3in1 and graphite deter dust and are cheaper than 10W40.

Does that make you more ambivalent?... ;0)

Anticlimax lubricant  ambivalence has reached it’s ******.
Armed downhill by the rusted adjusted shielded knight.
Pasted in exquisite oil, no distaste or aftertaste.
Dunked in abluent..........Dented but affluent!

Rap is truly poetry in motion
With a beat
Hip Hop can move a writer’s pen to pad
Emotions to words
Music, the lubrication to an artist’s ear
It’s motivation
Motivating the writer to be better
Rap is poetry
And Poetry is my life.

architectural mollusks
    are falloping through
                              my brain
                        squeezing past the
                         instincts that
        have kept me down
My instincts,
              once brittle sea stars
                          that splintered
                                    into cracked
                                 peppercorns,
                 are now mixed with
           the breathy liquid
        of squid,
lubrication for
the spiny paths ahead
They blow their ink
between my
inverted vertebrae
      injecting Jello into bone
                           busting through
                        fiber and tissue like
                          fresh-skimmed
                    lavacream
and all my muck
rises to the top
in a neon rawness
that I find beautiful

Soon
my burning crevices
will be cooled
fossils will turn to flesh
and, as sure as knowledge
springs into action
I will make
for the shoreline
like a cephalopod rocket
silky smooth
my fins spun into wings
touching magic
as they glide

You frown, I frown.
What obligates you?
And to I-why?

Do not we dote;
the elongation
of our tumultuous spirit?

Like a waterfall in pursuit of a sea,
Like weary eyes in need of lubrication,
Like a meowing kitten craving for milk.
Suffice is not.

Ere we beseech serenity
-an equilibrium.

O speak,
From your deepest well
-gay or remorse.

For a mirror, I am not.

Brian Molko was already doing the current wannabe-trend of trans-sexuality long before trans-sexuality was a common "thing"... tracing back some ulterior taboo settings... today on my way to work i spotted my first trans-******: wow! obviously he had manly hands... large... he was tall... he had large feet... but slender legs... and a face, with all that necessary make-up of eyeliner... hair? not very long... shoulder length... yes... a deep voice... but then again my godmother has a husky voice from all the smoking and drinking... but i fancied him... the dynamic on the tube was magnifying... three women sat beside him while he was talking to his geeky (maybe, probably) boyfriend, a plump chap with eyeglasses... i couldn't stop thinking: ah... the solidarity of men... when in shortage of supply of women, men will find alternative avenues to compensate for women, men will find women in men... the idea that i might be a transphobe never occurred to me: but it did occur to me that women: for all their supposed glorification of acceptance would never allow men to be attracted to men who are: beyond merely the thespian gay-lord, *******... ally... this... "freak"... i fancied this man... i could omit all the stressed "imperfections"... but such a feminine-feline face... it really suited him... i wanted to kiss him... i was thinking... i'll tend to the "oysters" and all the tender bits and bites of being with him... andd do the butcher's work with a *******... problem solved... this skin-head middle-aged (i'm coming to middle age, or life expectancy, not the lottery of mortality, mind you) sat next to me and was sort of nudging me with a shadow missing in the full-glare of the lights of the tube... you fancy him? insinuations via body-language: yeah... i do... is it wrong? nope! check the women sitting next to him... do you fancy them? nope... me too... of the three or four women sitting next to this trans-****** specimen... none had a lovelier face... mutations just... "happen"... the eureka-oops moments... i could seriously forget about the shared dimensions of large hands twice as big as that of a geisha, same with the feet... i could forget the baritone voice... i really fancied this boy... in a way that gay-lords just make it difficult having mingled with actors too much and not retaining an aura of: suspense and: something in me is frigid, alien... i shouldn't but... hell... i really should! i will! benevolent London that is... he was prettier than all the women i saw that day... like my grandfather once said: there are no ugly women... there are only abandoned... if not abandoned then neglected women... to think that women could ever be neglected: says as much about neglected men... men will find alternative avenues to women when the women self-exfoliate in their "privilege" of: first-come-first-served-and-thus-the-only-served menu... **** that! but what was special about this trans-****** specimen? it reminded me of the time i fancied Brian Molko, still do... in a non-gay sort of way... in a Plato the Plumber there's a blocked toilet of reincarnation afloat... it was actually, sort-of, actually-sort-of-funny watching the women on the same carriage trying to read my reaction... for once a man was more attractive than a woman to me! wow! being accused of trans-phobia... in London? well... only if you can't pull it off! it's like saying: coulrophobia! fear of clowns! with the clowns being without make-up? conflating the Apex Twin gargoyle from Window-Licker?! yeah... scary ****! the grin that's the length of the equator... i couldn't be attracted to a standard homosexual... Thespian leeching or intellectually pleasing akin to a Douglas Murray... or body-building blah blah... but this trans-****** specimen? that's an affront to a woman... all women... a man can have a prettier face to a woman's if... a man deems the exampled woman to be nothing more than akin to a lineage of... never arrived at cosmopolitanism... beetroot countryside proud... all red and irritated... i fancied this one... i was one step away from askig him: can i have your number? again, to reiterate: i didn't mind the deep voice... i didn't mind the size of hands that could match mine or the size of feet that could match mine... i was... infatuated with the magic dust of PIXIES! maybe that's what i learned from going to the brothel... but if you're going to play the trans-****** game... can you please avoid the mishandling of the Hippocratic oath... so little is actually necessary to accomplish a ****-heterosexual confusion-attraction that leaves women feeling inadequate: you, wouldn't even want to begin to believe! i'm now currently thinking of that film: the Odd Couple... Walter Matthau as Oscar Madison and Jack Lemmon as Felix Unger... Felix being the male-feminine counterpart of the feminine-man slob child pampered to: or however this quadratic works... i wouldn't be doing the cleaning and the cooking out of a feminine dignity to avoid doing the hard work of society's demands... no... i'd be perfecting my cooking to match up to the sort of food available upon heading out to a restaurant, i.e. not eating out... i've seen some car-crashes of trans-****** attempts... but this one stuck out for me because i started to think along the lines of: who needs women if men can appear prettier than women?! i'll just close my eyes when hand meets hand... it's a sickly sweet sensation but i could stomach it: if the conversation was kept to a satisfying lubrication: and it wouldn't be even remotely associated to the feminist-gay "commonwealth"... alliance... i don't need homosexuals to tell me XY&Z... i'm actually grooving this trans-****** trend: if spotting the exacting specimen to curtail all the wannabes... if there's an authentic Brian Molko specimen walking around... wow! reimagining being *** starved on the Western Front... a few guys with more artistic inclinations... rather than the rough sea-faring roughage of **** on the spot job done become involved... prettier faces than those of women... i could: no! i would succumb! it's just the terror in the eyes and on the faces of women... hey presto! a stick has two ends! freeze eggs... follow a career... demand a car a mortgage blah blah... my my... what a curiosity this trans-****** worked up to a perfection specimen of disphoria awoke in me... good enough cushioning blanket of sleeping with enough prostitutes... now i really want to sleep with a man... which is not gay... i'm bored of prostitutes... they're like any other woman: you pay them... yet they still complain as if you haven't paid them when not getting a hard-on because of (x) tiredness, (**) distraction, (***) life... per se... whatever... but those female faces... i pretended to be snoozing... they knew i knew... i kept an itch of a blink at this specimen... woman: ANGRY... no... actually... not angry... woman... what the **** is going on? of the times i went to a gay club and didn't pick up a Francis Bacon i wondered: did i drink enough? homosexual lust and all that same-for-same feminine-pro erotica of the jealous stone-rub-stone-offensive... the trans-****** "confusion" is a bright light... if done properly... done... naturally... i'm mesmerised... without... obviously... without... people succumbing to the breaking of the Hippocratic-oath... obviously... i despise the gay-pride movement... at least the authentic trans-sexuality movement is subtle... it's philosophically laden with a curiosity of more lips and less **** stressing fist-*******... this morphing of the pareidolia toward: seeing a female in a man's face... or seeing a man in a woman's face... hardly gender dysphoria... *****-utopia and... just as children look alike, regardless of ***... so do old people... also regardless of ***... but to achieve a heterosexual attraction in the realm of trans-genderism? it can't be forced... it has to happen ha-ha-naturally! i'm laughing at myself... only briefly... i'm more inclined to see the female in a man without seeing the homosexual... because homosexuality is like that quote from... no... not Human Traffic... about being gay and eating *****... how... eating ***** is not for real men... while ******* **** is all All Spice Alles Mensch... whatever... the gays are too proud might as well look out for the shy, proper, proper shy... trans-sexuals without any anti-Hippocratic-Oath mishandling(s)... the women become jittery thus...

i should have come home and reflected on spending
the past several hours on a shift
in Bishop's Park, overlooking Putney Bridge
watching the tide of Thames' recede back into the great
mouth before mingling with the salty waters
of the North Sea...
     all loved-up with the cold the dark and the wind
putting on some Woljiech Kilar soundtrack music
from Dracula - love remembered...
well... i was in the mood for something like that:
i put the track on... nope... can't feel it...
i'm tired, i'm cold i need to put on something to groove
to... we ain't going out like that - Cypress Hill...
tiredness swells the imitation pigeon-strut
in my head... bouncy-Billy will also ask for a chance
to express himself...
    the joke ran with Martin's team (Chelsea)
losing for the first time since 2006 to Fulham...
         the police officers were in a good number...
they even brought their horses...
two stood across from us when the final whistle was
blown... one of them started "laughing": if that's
what horses do, i.e. laugh...
no onomatopoeia here: hey Martin! even the horses
are laughing that Fulham beat Chelsea in the most
local derby of London...
    Craven Cottage is what? a mile at max two from
Stamford Bridge...
          one can only love the ever infuriated Martin...
but still the Thames receding...
   at first glace i might have stretched across
the balustrade and probably touched the surface of
the water... by the end of the shift when the river-bed
started to be exposed i started to wonder:
all that volume and now apparent air where once
there was water...
  no river in the world akin to the Thames...
tide in and tide out... at Westminster it's a river
that rid itself of the kettle and is nonetheless standstill
and boiling - during the day...
while eating a chicken wrap of torsos and tortillas
talking to a Norwegian who came over to watch
the football for the week...
last time he was here in the 1980s... have things changed?
the oyster one-touch travel card...
sure... it has just become a little bit more expensive:
but nothing has changed that much...
but during the night, and if its windy... well: clearly
there's a flow... a tide in or a tide out...
by the time i got to Goodmayes i walked past the brothel:
thank god i have nothing more to prove
thank god i have satiated my base needs and that's that...
what am i looking for? a compliment to a pharma-knock-out
of generic painkillers in the form of a bottle
of whiskey...
    too tired to **** not tired enough to think:
maybe i could fall in love again...
   fall in love... fall in love: but... ugh...
               fall in love and not pamper a woman's needs
with all those basic "tattoos" of courtship...
i might as well ask any future father-in-law:
so... where's my cow, my wedding dowry?
                     where's the pick-me-up to work with?
well if manna from heaven will not drop into my lap...
i hardly think... who the hell needs a car in London?
given the oncoming ULEZ restrictions?
bicycle, underground and the trains, plenty of buses...

today i was sent the most odd message from a coworker
who i am supposed to do a shift at the ice rink
on Sunday...
i was rather surprised - a "box" i never thought i would
unbox (as it were)...
i'll be honest... she's damaged - seriously damaged:
i'm on the "top" of the pile of damaged goods...
a mythological schizoid - ageing - each year turns
out easier as the madness spreads around me:
madness or the crushing mundaneness -
mundaneness or mediocrity -
    in a democracy it's all and the same: in the grey yolk
of bureaucracy -
         pushing letters through keyholes that leave
no door open: unless playing the "system" like
a criminal or a mummy with five different shades
of children from five different fathers...

                       the trouble with Russian girls is that...
they don't like a boy who appreciates music by Placebo...
huge disagreement... her take on Nancy Boy was
rigid and could never be biding: no appreciation of the music
for you... well... that be that...

this girl is hurt... i am hurt: everyone's hurt...
but i still find reasons to find silly happiness in cooking
cleaning, general groundwork labour of changing
the garden - some carpentry: cycling...
keeping up appearances of a well-kept diet
and perfumery of all sorts... at least dressing like
my idol Karl Lagerfeld... like an animal wears its fur...

she even changed her name to Frankie -
Frankie... i.e. is that Franklin, Frank?
no... it's actually Francesca...
the running joke with another girl i work with
runs along the line:
wouldn't that be something, to put on your CV
if you managed to convert her?
convert? or reconvert?
after all she has managed to produce offspring...
god knows why she's not in contact with her daughter...
but it's not like she was always a lesbian...
forced lesbian... it's not something a priori:
it's a posteriori...
after the facts that include: her biological father
beating her biological mum...
her biological mum abandoning her and her siblings
to escape with her dear life...
    how her step-father is like her biological father
but then the problem arises: the mother is unhinged
and now her step-father is facing splitting up with her
mother... of all the siblings she's the only one
keeping contact with her mother...
the other siblings, at least one... is ******* up to
her biological father who was: the greatest intersexual
boxer of the domestic environment to have ever lived
(in her eyes at least, i bet Tina Turner could compensate
such allowances of vanity)...

she used to be a man's woman once...
but now she switched... ******* without all
the Hippocratic misdeeds of the modern, current, narrative,
cutting off ******* and other genitals,
hormonal treatments... it's almost as if Joseph Mengele
died in body but his spirit lived on...
it's like a never-ending Auschwitz or at least
encryptions of mad-scientists for thirst of knowledge
have continued on a side-note of eugenics...
but at least with the closure of the 20th century
there was safe ******* experiments undertaken
by individuals without any authority of government:
the boys would grow their hair long and put
on eyeliner...
    perhaps even use girly perfumes or wear
dresses, nail-polish... hell... even sniff ******* or wear
them... but not with medical authority creating
irreversible ****** changes...
the girls would put on more weight or work out
and pretend to be East Germany's Olympians...
cut their hair short... who came the Pixie girls...
get tattoos wear signets: those bulky rings worth not
a gram of gold but their own worth of bulk...
    and like Francesca get an undercut with a Mohawk...
change their tone of voice... defence defence defence...
and become suddenly less and less agreeable...
still retaining a feminine smile and the odd feminine giggle
that could be unearthed...
or like with her text...
'hey... i want to go ice-skating after our shift...
do you think you'd be up for it?'
sure... although i only ice-skated twice in my life...
a long time ago, 13? i fell every single time...
i looked like someone who escaped from having
suffered from Polio...
i'll still look like someone who suffered from childhood
Polio akin to Israel Vibration's
Wiss", "Apple Gabriel", "Skelly"
      or Ian "Lane" Drury...
                                    instead i sent her a text replying:
sure... but i'll look like a spider equipped with
roller blades... i'll need to bring a casual set of trousers
just in case i fall and rip my work trousers...
'ha ha ha ha(insert crying with laughter emoticons)...'

oh sure... it's not a date... i'm not just going on a date...
we're not going for dinner...
i'm going ice-skating with a lesbian...
a butch-lesbian a hiding woman...
tattoos six-pack and muscle...
no wonder: only hours prior i was admiring
a would-be Brian Molko on the tube...
        
she followed up with a text of yet more defence:
but i'm skint - it will cost £10.50 for an hour
and a bit...
      we'll see i reply... as if she was implying:
if we can't get in for free... would you be willing
to pay?
i didn't reply with agreement to paying for...
then again: i'm not thinking about ***,
or homosexual conversion therapy...
i just don't remember when a girl last asked me to
go on a date with her... after all:
isn't a girl asking a boy to go ice skating with her
sort of asking a boy to go on a date?
she said she was quiet adapted to ice skating:
she owns a pair (of ice skates)... and i'll be the hilarious
polio walker / spider strapped with roller blades
trying to swim in quicksand...
mind you... i'm trying to rid myself of the past two
interactions in the brothel... terrible ***...
that one with the madam where i was limp...
the fate of the Sabine men gripped me...
i won't deny it...
second time... she calls herself my favourite:
she isn't... she's deluded... to the amazement of the other
girls i like to **** in the brothel...
i only extended my per usual 30min stay
by clocking up an extra 30min because i was so close
to climaxing from a *******: knock knock on the door...
time's up... no... not this time...
i'm going to finish... ergo...
but even she has paved her way onto a path of too much
physical augmentation...
if the **** don't come first... then the duck quack lips
reveal themselves first... she's an aging *******
and she has never done anything in terms of work
prior... no laundry no till service...
pregnant aged 14 and in the profession aged 16...
this is the murk and the sully of the gallows
of everyone: once, former, youthful idealism of love...
trotting a horse with broken legs like
waking up into birth by a man sitting in akimbo
for too long... standing up with numbed legs...
moving awkwardly...

obviously i was going to be robbed of Khadra and Mona...
Mona became stupid for getting pregnant
with a customer... hmm... i wonder who...
last time i saw her i teased her without a ******
and this massive fright gripped her face
because i was only teasing and she thought i was
a premature ejaculator... clearly a ****** was subsequently
used and the deposit in it: **** knows...
she should know... i haven't seen her since...

i think i'll text Francesca (Frankie) and tell her...
bring your skates girl... if we can't get in for free i'll
pay for the two of us...
only two shifts prior she was insinuating about
going for a pint: i just replied: i would...
but i had to help my father write the fortnightly
invoice and send it in...
like tomorrow... tomorrow i'll have to help my mother
with the taxes and VAT...
they're getting a new accountant and she lied
about doing her taxes on a spreadsheet...
**** me... i probably used Microsoft Excel twice...
twice, properly... but since i only used it twice...
i'm a bit rusty... so much worth of secondary school
education or the university...
   they taught us the bare minimum of real-world
life-long tools of the onslaught of technology -
   hammer and scythe i can use to count heads...
oh well: there's bound to be some crash-course for dummies
on the internet...

i waited until 9pm for the three of us to sit down to
eat some fajitas...
i overdid it using Kashmiri chilly powder
and three fresh chillies in making the pineapple salsa...
but the hotness neutralised itself with the addition
of the tomato salsa i made... and the guacamole...
the sour cream and obviously cheese, esp. cheddar
neutralises all possible excess spices...
we ate, chatted... one big ******* family,
me, father and mother and my "brother" and "sister"...
well... at least the cats meow and don't bark...
oddly enough: i'm happy... mediocre sort of:
that scene from Hellraiser: Inferno...
were the protagonist - a corrupt police officer -
is forced into a nightmare of having to relive his
eternity in his childhood's bedroom...
living with his parents...
shouldn't the horror be... your parents getting divorced?
i don't know why mine are still together...
they must be freaks... i must be a mutant:
well... born only two weeks after Chernobyl:
no riddles, only clues...
     i keep the conversation going...
i help around the house...
  
                        Frankie dealt me two nuggets of hashish
in the past 4 months... once i was desperate
when the hashish ran out so she gave me the number
of a marijuana dealer: great green all the way from
America... i only used the service once...
maybe that's me being bulletproof...
i'm cutting down on drinking and i will never return
to smoking marijuana to achieve a Buddha-esque glow
meditating while high and hungry...
weighing in at 78kg... it's a bit of a yoyo with me these
days... from 99kg through to 103kg...
but then... i pinch myself: i summon the ***** to pinch
back... hmm! no man-****... so i could try out for
some amateur rugby matches...

a butch lesbian asking a boy for a date to go
ice skating... i feel... truly terrible for all the conventional women...
i would have offered a cinema date...
she beat me to the better sort of entertainment...
she said: let's go ice skating...
i would have retorted: i do own two bicycles...
how about we go cycling in the night...
round and round Raphael's Park...
round and round... and if we're lucky...
and if the winter air aligns itself with some idiot
setting off fireworks... we can get snippets of whiffs
of imitation autumn... as if the leaves of the trees
have fallen in the dry crisp air and someone
set them alight and there's no rot and knee-deep
digging of plush-decay exfoliating a sickness
in the air... how's that?

i'll send her the text... hell... i'll pay for her...
i'm not interested in ***...
she might be a butch-lesbian trying to hide her
femininity... but she still smiles like a woman...

oh sure... i remember the last conventional:
heterosexual date i was on...
we met in a sweaty night-club... if we kissed we kissed:
i don't remember... she gave me her phone-number
i gave her mine... i was in the company of
about 3 girls who i met elsewhere, otherwise:
also randomly...
at least one made something of her life...
she ****** off to Norway - totally off-the-grid...
by now probably breeding huskies for sleighs...

the next time we met... i bought two bottles of wine...
the "date"? a job interview... we talked...
subsequently we went to a pub while i had a pint...
she was feeling claustrophobic...
i was the alcoholic and she became the **** of boredom...
she excused herself: some prior engagement
with her girlfriends... i guess she thought she got away...
i way happy to get away by same mechanisation
of oppositional psychology...
all this talk within the confines of carpe diem that
centred upon: what do you / what's you living
should i think about life insurance - will we live to be 70
years old?
well... that's the cherry on top with Francesca...
you want to go ice-skating? sure...
you want to go cycling with me in the night?
sure... life insurance / what do you for a living?
how much do you earn?
             can we live a little outside a prison within a prison?!

so much for Dawid Bovie's idea of the androgynous man:
if i'm to be surrounded by "butch" lesbian
and prostitutes: that's my lot then...
i'm not going to succumb to the CV-project-veritas
in-vitro infanticide females with CHOICE
like... my spunking into a bucket and calling it:
falling asleep with the sound of rain
trickling trickling on a metallic roof...
in the night when the horrors come and horrors
claim all the little details of frailty
of mortality...

                  for every tear-jerking sympathy for
a Romeo there's the mantis of
   a Judith kissing the decapitated head of
                                                             Holofernes:
**** it... the prostitutes i truly loved ******* are either:
pregnant or on "holiday"...
i passed the brothel only two nights ago...
i spotted a man walking out from the door...
he froze like a doe in the headlights and didn't move
until i turned my head and kept walking...
i was about to blast out with wind and voice:
no shame in having to share women
we will never impregnate!
start thinking like a woman, dear man...
think on ground of evolutionary bias...
for every women there's this boast of:
50% of men reproduced successfully...
while all the whole lot of them the 100% of train-wrecks
and Piccadilly butcher's antics with the flab
have... their greatest success story to ever live...
i could be worse off... than right now...
i could have married an ugly woman:
by definition: if a most feminine man
grows his hair long and applies some slapstick
makeover creases of eyeliner...
i can forgive him his match-for-match size
of hands... height... size of shoe...
but never an ugly woman... UGLY...
that goes beyond mere the physical-glass...
i'm talking: character... there's no prime-ego
LEGO building block... no architect's corner stone...
there's nothing to work with...
just everything to work around...
to avoid...
                    
    if: for ****'s sake... i'm not planning: i'm providing
the revenue... i want to go ice-skating!
she doesn't have any money? i have "too much"...
i don't: but for the worth of life in life that's only
to supposed to span a month's worth of living it...
hell: i have no better idea to pass the time...

at one point i found out that Francesca has some Irish
roots... you're Aye-Reesh?!
              really? never would have conjured up
a sharing of ******* on a leprechaun...
**** it for good luck... like circumcision:
that's apparently Hebrew for: good luck...
with the addition of: ensuring your bride to be
be donning a niqab and all those "other"...
culturally sensitive, exclusive terms of
cultural-dis-appropriation: or whatever the **** is
coming out of H'America...
             once upon a time when that cultural export
was relevant: these days: nothing new to be
found... except the abandoned moon...

well... i sent the text... sure... i'll pay for the ice-skating...
but you have to promise me to go cycling
with me during the warmer months
with me... don't worry about having a bicycle...
you can have my mountain-bicycle
i use for the winter months
while i'll get on my summer month
road-bicycle...
we'll head toward Thurrock...
and elsewhere that's Essex friendly
and far away from London outer-suburbia...
fresh... fresh...
Jean Claude van Dame...
                       Fresh: that's her idea of working out
before the shift... and then going ice-skating...
FooR x Majestic x Dread MC...

                oh well... life in Loon-downs...
or is that: no apples... i'm sure there are no apples...
if she takes the bait...
i.e. i pay for both of us going ice-skating tomorrow...
she better go cycling with me during the
summer months...
she says no to ice-skating tomorrow
i'll become Trojan in my own defense...
if she wants to be all ******* lesbian defensive...
i can be defensive too...
i'll arm myself with enough brothel visits to erase:
first... comes... oh my grandmother disappointed
me... i could have been there for my
grandfather stabbing himself in the leg
while entering the state of AGONIA...

                    i could have been there: she? trying to protect
me against the advent of mortality?
or her... biting my grandfather's alcoholism she
induced by being a terrible woman?
his last pleasures?
crossword puzzles... cycling, fishing,
rekindling with the day-tripper postcard sender
vouch! you're the simulation tourist with
his... grand... chill... no... not -dren...
his... sole and only grand-child... i.e. me...
him buying me the books i read over the summer holidays...

women are so ape so cruel...
i stopped believing in what's idealistic and rare before
me: which i can't replicate...
i'm happy being freed from:
i don't earn the sort of money that the state
demands taxing me... weird? no!
i don't earn enough to be taxed!
weird... i'm sort of pretending to be a jellyfish
afloat... simulating gravity:
gravity is always a simulation in the medium
of water...
                by air contra vacuum:
the mountain breathes in winter a cascade of
frigid snow slides down...
a Michael Schumacher goes skiing...
****** races cars at 200kmh... one loose turn and twist:
cranium like an opening of a watermelon...
jellyfish fighting for life dead-locked style
in a sick-bed while people nearest to him
think about magic-spells: how best to live without
him: how best to milk the cow with *****
instead of milk... hmm hmm hmm...

if she wants to go on a date with me to go ice-skating...
and i'm supposed to be paying for it...
she better be readied to go cycling with me
during the summer months...
if that's not going to happen:
she shouldn't have suggested
going ice-skating in the first place, for ****'s sake...
like: anything by Bricktop in ****** is
Shakespeare to me... perhaps even more...
living with the times...

                                oh well some well: Samuel!
Samuel: you're not Samantha... learn to become
a transvestite first... before we employ the ****
Hippocrates to mutilate you, o.k. darling?
    learn to grow your hair long...
learn to put on make-up... learn to wear dresses...
learn to sniff female underwear...
Samuel! Samuel! you're not Samantha (yet)!
we will not give you up to the Joseph "Hip-replacing-******"
Mengele: shy away from everything American
in the realm of: worth being culturally exported
and influencing foreign cultures: esp.
in the basin of the origins of the English ZZZUNGE...
that's England...
                  
HIPS FOR KNEES!
                    America: beacon, former: beacon of the world
to come... came one Cain for every second cannibal
no Satan was spawned: at least that's Iranian paranoia
covered: converted, shut the doors on Tehran...
bigger whoops happened when...
Garry Glitter became pop once more
with the release of the Joker movie
and that mad dance scene...
on the 132 steps where Shakespeare Avenue
meets Anderson Avenue...

    i will never, ever... visit... anything... remotely...
resembling... or being curated as being:
North America... i've had too much north american
cultural anemia...
             prior to words not being so much politcal
as agent orange doing all the "talking"...
                                  
  tam tam tam dam dam dam... ditto... do no more than
the necessary "evil": just, bass: on the base
on insinuation;
hell... if the afro-cosmopolitan is the new "cool",
the new "groove"...
let's just keep it... marred: in murk: in murky.

There's a poem hidden on my tongue
but I just can't find it,
my mouth is numb.

I've been sipping on winter for way too long,
this city is colder than your bubbler ****;

but I like the way it's one way streets all seem to lead from you to me,
and I like how you take them at full throttle
playing marco polo with the bottom of the bottle-

-As if you don't find it every night;
like the last few drops aren't your lullaby.

And it's an alibi that lulls you out of lucidity,
because your favourite superpower is anonymity.

And you don't mind if I show up when I'm ******* high,
because I'm a ******* child who can't handle life.

I'm the peak of the mountain all covered in white,
I'm the age old dragon,
I'm the youthful sprite

I'm the bowl that you smoke when you come down slowly,
I'm the pipe that you **** when you got no rollies.

I'm your vice, I'm your habit, I'm your bad addiction
I'm your fight, I'm your project, I'm your real life fiction.

I'm the cut on your tongue that you won't let heal,
I'm the poem in your mouth that you cannot feel.

Now I'm the lover of your discontent,
I'm the jar in your cupboard that's labelled 'rent'.

It's the 26th and the jar's still empty,
but we've got a two-six and your pouring hand's heavy.

Using whisky and water as lubrication-
it numbs and smooths through our expectations.

And I don't know when we made the agreement to feed our ***** and starve our feelings,
But my belly feels full like the waxing moon,
and my chest holds as much as a fractured spoon.

*Naked and hungry-
we share your bed
-searching for the words, in each other's heads.

Soft breezes of clean melancholy
Pumped out with constant velocity
Its striking again, and colder she is

He awaits the lubrication
to ease down the ongoing friction
Bearings creaks and pushes off balance
And The fan rotates forever of today

The growing ebbs of falling tides
Now buries deep inside the highest cliff
The soft breeze ***** in with higher velocity,
subsidized adiathermic smiles react
Smells of heated tissue everywhere

And the fan rotates forever
Tiring job of being a healer
when you are damaged from forever
Clasping the final breath
The fan rotates forever of today

with a rusted,dented fender...
i drive off into my life.
seeking the Christ that can pound it out and bring back the light...

bring back the shine to the surface of a machine that has seen better days.

as i'm rolling away,...i do it with faith.

traveling across the earths face...
               my driver seat is in the here and now...
set within the vehicle that pulls me along out into the future.
where it will roll,...i can't be too sure.
my hands are on the wheel...
it's a slippery device that bears the lubrication of perspiration which is my life...

the tires have spun for far too long...
everything in the rear view will soon be gone.

onward...rusted...into the horizon...

The potency froths the glass in ghostly embers.
Rectifying a suppressed kiss.
Liquid's juicy lubrication sweats
as the icy voice asks,
refill my void.

Fingernails cling
like thorns to skin.
Waterlogged and fogged,
my footsteps fall,
sloppy little domino.

Mindful thoughts yank at drunk appendages.
One too many benders, far too many hands.

Awake, the memory kaleidoscopes.
Pieces unmatched.
Strange images fade,
meshed in sheets.
evidence stains.

Hurled, entwined, the eyes go black,

Steel sarcophagus, demons stare back,

A glimpse so foul, of the abyss,

My life, it ends, possibility is missed,

The blood, gooey warm, and slick,

Lubrication of foulest finery and sick,

Glass shattering in mindless trance,

Thrown in the air to land on our back,

Twisted, cruelly formed, we look in oblivion,

Nothing sacred, it fits my life's ruin,

"Take me now Azrael, for I fear you not,"

Death will allow me to find peace and rot,

Worried, fearful, the gore too much,

Too little for my hands to touch,

Scalp displayed, upon landing safe,

I cry out, calming and wait,

The blood drips down upon my hand,

The pale skin turns sanguine, I find it hard to stand,

Entombed in metal, a twisted turn of fate,

She leaps to thought, I caress her cheek,

"Safe, be still, I'm here" I repeat.

I relocate my shoulder, a sickening pop

stomach turning pain, the faint I stop.

I wrench the door, and run around,

I rip hers open and rip casing to the ground,

Too shocked to cry, I gaze upon the wound,

I assess it as severe, although life is imbued,

_

CALL FOR HELP

I scream like the Devil.

My wrath for nothing but fear of loss

Drives my fury for her safety lost,

I hold a bandage to her head, and wait the eternal wait,

Speaking comforting lies, hoping they were true, and damning my own fate,

I hold her close and kiss her cheek,

I wipe the blood from my lips and realize I am weak.

"God, I'd give my life for her to heal"

Maybe it's a nightmare, this cannot be real.

-

In safety's arms, I still cry out,

I'M FINE, SEE TO HER, in doubt,

I leave my bed to wander the halls,

Searching for my name be called,

To be exhaled through the lips of a love,

To find my heart flutter, the wings of a dove,

The sight of her stabbed my eyes,

"Something so precious...", myself I despised.

I fought my way to her, and was almost placed in arrest,

I returned calm, I'm no help in duress,

I stand by her side and kiss her hand,

As my heart died, she smiled, I could stand.

It coasts on the dips and dives
along smooth muscle, contracting
pushing, friction absent
and lubrication self-perpetuating.

She called it a spiral, but
I don't see it that way.

It is funny how the little things --
orange and purple and white petals
strings of words together like beads
white-bordered photographs in sepia
-- are bigger than they should be
and shrinking into the smallest spaces
ubiquitous and permeating
reproducing
on and onward pulling.

How do you determine the area of a feeling
how you wipe it down like auto wax
all the crevices like jelly in the webbing
between your fingers
all the misplaced metaphor and you're assuming
I know what you're talking about
you're assuming I care.

I see them there in the bright lights.
I want to be with them.
I want to be a part of nothing.
I want something to be a part of me.

The circle is the mockingest of shapes
daring the others to find its edges
a noose for the mathematician
relying on impossible for truth discovery
the approximation to determine strength or mass or density.

A curve is inherently incorrect
and creates problems for the navigators
who trust cohesion and consistency
who trust each other in cohesion
and constant and consistent standard creation
who challenge the borders of the world
and braid together the loose ends
cruising on new planes.

I watched the wing fall into the water
into the lake, that's a lake, right?
It feels like it goes on forever.

Loud noise.
Open eyes.
Dart right and right.
Grab. Hold. Release.
Quiet.

In chalk on the floor, I drew one of those shapes.
I crawled inside of it, curled up into it.
I closed my eyes tight and held my knees together.

songs, senses pleasing themselves, beat, of silence, song, of *******, of lubrication, beat, of the time in a shift in conversation, expression, in the birds, who do it instinctually, to people, who do it as sponges, yes.  we are all spongbob, hurting and dancing and blowing bubbles, ready, ready, ready

the proof of the soul is evident with a continuation of the Einstein particle, from theory into practice - the proof is short-lived, the indestructible attache of man lingers on, his the soul, democratically a medium of revision and certainty - improved instruments of investigation, the purity of reasoning later meddling with the senses of other's being given certainty:  σ (total) - ¼ = σ (¾, i.e. remnant and electron cloud symbiosis of partaking in Gemini simultaneous coordination) - the thunder and lightning, a 747 and the delay vacuum cleaner "echo" - on a less grander scale plumber's apprenticeships - perhaps less grand, but therefore all the more necessary, zenith of self-worth, rather than god-worth, audacity on the dance-floor and no prim-cut hopes kneeling in a church for added fancy to desire clemency.

i do believe the Hindu polytheistic theory of reincarnation exists -
but in no way related to the resurrection of σ -
a totality of a person - whatever given characteristics in total,
i mean replicating mannerisms
as a form of adaptability will only make
a clone a clone on paper (in theory),
but the original experienced whatever
environment was to be experienced -
to have a true clone would also mean
replicating the environment,
and that's impossible - in science as in
nature we're susceptible to ungovernable
forces - a tornado uproots a mid-western
house and juggles it about like a boxer -
a tsunami and the sun with its 5,000 starving
Sudanese children - whatever -
but reincarnation does exist in a different
psychological medium, in the id - the shortened
version / unit of ideas - it it it or that that that -
ideas are resurrected or reincarnated (passed on)
all the time - i can understand a Hindu
in only this reality - not in the reality of an
entirety of the individual and the environment
for the individual's individuation -
an idea can be resurrected - there's always
continuity in philosophy, whereas history sees
disconnected events due to it's prime tool as a hope
for averting them (hindsight), philosophy in historical
terms is always a seance of connectivity - lubrication,
evolution, adding to, saving up, discharge, mid-life crisis.
i can't understand the Hindu concept of reincarnation
when it comes to people - each adapted and each
an ongoing process - ideas can be reincarnated -
by egos? *not really.

god isn't inclusive of some father christmas role managed by a being that designates rewards and punishments, at best it's, in literary terms, defined by a complexity of the ego, after all, the original revelatory principle was staged with a pronoun complex: without any definite rational causality likened to the cartesian imperative: thought therefore being (think therefore be); that cartesian imperative is categorised as a pronoun per se which is enable other categorisations of words to be akin (per se): magnetically misunderstood; which leaves many demented, early on or later on, but in modern times would building a gigantic skyscraper with only one room in it to hide a torso's weight of gold and a mummified body keep sanity on tiptoe? god is a complexity of the ego, as far as words can be expressed, we loose the ambiguity expressed by existentialists, who favoured "ego" over god, to feel less responsible than anyone could allow for the surd-language, the language written down and rarely heard from orpheus' lapping tongue showcasing a sudden thirst for song.*

rapture and rhapsody! rapture, and rhapsody!
overcast heavens  with the moon shy,
and shy indeed i, by the time i reached
ezra's canto lxvii (what beauty was built with
these numerals, greater and more eloquent
pillared, so what greater truths did the latin poets speak;
if latin is dead then akin be usage of a, b, c, d, e...
when the usage of these symbols dies then i will fall dead
at the final blow of their dis-usage as if  belshazzar seeing
fluorescent hebrew written on the wall just when the ****
ended)... and god did not dispute the endurance
of the argument  to keep a and z...
because under the romans no odd architecture
was summoned, and the hebrew nation flourished
by many religious sects of pharisee and the
sadducees, for a religious dispute be born
from the bethlehem star, and no slavery, but,
some might say, idle talk, for christ created
the 7-day-working week of constant commerce
by contesting a meagre collection of wheat shafts
as the adequate rebellion, basically capitalism,
and in a hangar of sold goods, live lobsters looking
at ghosts, walking in aisles of ample goods
wasted, bearably sold, with cheap constant music
heard to hush the "ambiance" of refrigerator lungs
wheezing a pseudo-beehive drone...
where once the land held a unity,
now the one of owning land earning a shelter
of factories over-produce and leave us
staring into an oblivion of recycling
and such feasts that will never take place...
hence i given sway away from silence
and invoking ezra's vampiric trill, with the sole
proof of vampires, r, being allowed
the statement: trill r roll a wheel stamp with heel,
and i too will cast a shadow over my shadow
to reveal my soul...
hence come the vampiric trill from only one
consonant, and let the frenzied atom river of
lost mumble in the other hum, the lost om
of the m tremble the mountains to shave and slide
mud and weight of rocks from its sideburns of
eager explorers anticipating a gratifying view:
let then the trilled r, the wheel, keep momentum,
for the activity of sisyphus rolling the boulder up
the hill, let the trilled r keep his faith intact
with the futility of the prescribed endeavour;
and so i will die making avowals,
and you, you will die making vows, in the shade
of the tree yearning for distinct processes
should it be involved, so minutely animate encrusted
is wholly animate things, in order that by its
minute movements, it would clarify wholly inanimate
things beneath its categorisation of animation via tropism;
where then the inanimate if not wholly god
should the orbits of celestial orbs fail,
and geologists fail to investigate mineral gold,
and should water never govern oesophagus lubrication,
or loose animation of boiling, dry residue at 180°C,
and the bone breaking ice of antarctica?
the only inanimate thing in existence is god,
as based on a theory posed by kierkegaard about
the changelessness of god: indeed contradictory
by categorical filtering to say a stone is inanimate,
and we animate (microscopic perspectives),
but the stone is also part of a stone mechanised to orbit
a shuddering sphere of fire that emits light.

i can't remember the last time i was satisfied with
only drinking one cider and 35cl of whiskey,
i honestly can't... then again i plucked two of my
favourite aphrodisiacs that night...
i beat up the whittle 'ichard before
(aphrodisiac no. 1 - exercise, exertion) cycled
to the brothel... then bought myself a bottle
of cider (aphrodisiac no. 2 - no other alcohol
works that sort of magic, no wine, no whiskey,
certainly not beer: cider...
and for that matter a very specific cider...
merry down cider, with a fox playing a violin
on the etiquette... the label... served in a 75cl
portion... 7.5%... medium dry...
so no...  not Thatcher's... or a Hertfordshire Weston's...
it has to be the Merry Down... probably
because of the portion) and did the victory
lap around the park and the brothel around
Goodmayes station...
obviously i bought 35cl of whiskey before walking
in... inside after we ******... hmm...
******* sets me off so quick... i don't know:
seeing a woman on her knees... from behind...
a bit like watching women in churches on
their knees before certain deeds are done...
i think i'm going to go back to a catholic church
one Sunday and draw out fetishes in my head...
kneeling before a cross... maybe Jesus the ******
would have loved to be nailed to some X cross
and then get ****** off by some Magdalene?
maybe he was into sadomasochism...
    who knows... but ******* sets me off on
an easy path of ******...
at least in the ******* it feels more
like exercise as i'm using the upper part of my body
to arch over a woman... from time to time
lowering myself to kiss her when she shows her tongue
licking her lips: i guess that implies: kiss me...
so i do... or lowering my body to brush noses
with her... press my forehead against hers
or just bite her chin...

is it just me or did the band Priest use certain accents
of Lana Del Rey's Summertime Sadness
in their song Phantom Pain? have a listen...
i think they did... never mind...
aphrodisiac no. 3: music... just listening to some
music you'd like to listen to when *******
fills the mind prior to the act with the act:
Trevor Something: into your heart...

work has transformed me, working with people,
dealing with drunk football fans...
i walked into the brothel: three beauties sitting there...
i never thought i had a thing for plump girls
or girls wearing glasses...
but this third one... the blonde... that lied
about being from Romania when in fact i know
from Michaela that she's Poland looked like:
a frightened doe... her eyes almost teary... her lips
moving as if trying to tell me something...
obviously i picked Michaela: she's going back
to Romania for a month to visit her family...
she worked so hard that she managed to have
a 12 room house with 3 bathrooms...
she's thinking about retiring in a year's time...
setting up a restaurant... i told her i make ****
good mint and chocolate chip ice-cream and i love
looking... who knows... i heard that Romania
is beautiful... and she's from Bucharest...
so... easy access to Ottoman heritage... and Dracula...
who knows... life is sometimes a house
of windows that are opportunities...
the same blonde that:

Khadija... Khadira... Khedra blocked me on WhatsApp
just before she ****** off back to Turkey
for a holiday... yeah... Khedra sent me
a photograph of herself with this girl...
now look at her... a frightened doe...
why did she block me? i don't care...
she was there last night... i asked for her...
but she was bringing back £60 for an extra half
an hour with a man she was already busy with...
we said hello: i kissed her cheek as a greeting...
me and my hardly jealous heart...
but Michaela can do i don't think even Khedra
could... after all... with Michaela it was
first time quick... second time longer...
third time quick... 4th time much longer...
first time? i blame it on the fact that she forgot
to pull back the *******... what sort of uncircumcised man
wants to **** without a circumcision imitation?
i know women prefer the aesthetic of a circumcised
man... but at the same time:
in the old ways... a man would be circumcised...
but the woman would have to pay some compensation...
just look at Islam and Judaism...
not the current American raw deal of circumcised
men... that's not how it works...
circumcise a man and his sometimes need to
pleasure himself makes no sense with no *******...

hardly a joke... it's called the acronym FGM (female
genital mutilation, but it's not called MGM male
genital mutilation?! oh right... all those eunuchs
in harems who were walking ******... because: hardly...
Solomon couldn't **** all his harem...
it would probably take him a whole year
to make the rounds and **** all his concubines)...
so unless he didn't have eunuchs to please his concubines
he had the concubines turn to lesbian acts...
even great kings of old didn't mind other men
******* their women... as long as they didn't impregnate
them...
i'm a modern man... i really don't care who she has
been ******* prior...

me? with Khedra... i know why she blocked me...
but it's only on WhatsApp... i still have her number...
i just have to use the conventional routes...
but she must have received advice from fellow prostitutes...
you're sending him pictures of yourself?
you said you'd gladly have a night with him
in a hotel room for free?! are you a ******* or his
girlfriend?!
mind you: Michaela asked me for extra money
for unprotected ***... Khedra simply gave it up without
any extra cost... to be honest... i don't mind either...
****** off: obviously...
****** on? honey... do you have two spare latex suits
we can wear? oh sure... and a tub of butter
we can both jump into and smear each other
and pretend we're snails... ha... ah ha... terrible joke...

but ever since starting work again: i feel more and more
alive... my confidence has shot through
the roof... two prostitutes sitting opposite me
don't really intimidate me...
one tries to be a smart-***... the other is gearing up
because she knows i'll choose her and the third
looks scared...
hmm... i know that Michaela would ask me to pay
extra to perform oral *** on her...
Khedra? she gave it up for free...
i love seeing a woman who shows her hot-shivers
or ******... not ******* are so ******* oratory
as might be portrayed... hot-shivers of ******...
and, to be honest? ****** vaginas are very...
not tasteless... i've had one once... they sort of stink...
there are not enough lubrication juices...
and i mean from multiple men...
it really doesn't bother me...

thank god none of them ever asked for me to perform
****... pop pornographic culture with all that
**** fixation is ill to me... i can understand
if two Russian soldiers on the front feel like
gagging each other's anuses... but with women?

that was Khedra... freebies... i would otherwise have
to pay for with Michaela...
but Khedra is a slim nymphomaniac...
Michaela is a business minded woman...
and being plump: that's an added asset...
Khedra has her eyes open throughout *******
while Michaela has her eyes closed...
hello: a welcome return to the Unbearable Lightness
of Being by Milan Kundera...
i have to see: everything... i gorge with my eyes...
i'm eating: but i'm not eating...

but i know why i only drank one Merry Down cider
and 35cl of whiskey last night, wrote 'Biggie"
and went to bed...
huh! i have a nickname? that's so endearing...
that's so much better than a girl calling you by your name...
English doesn't really have a diminutive
aspect of language: esp. nouns...
in ****** speech you can create diminutive "concepts"
of words: to make them more endearing...
Matthew, i.e. Mateusz can become Mateuszek...
duck, i.e. kaczka can become kaczuszka
dog, i.e. pies can become piesek
woman, i.e. kobieta can become kobietka...
what's the equivalent in English?
it's "diminutive": but it's not an endearing-diminutive...
it's belittling-diminutive, that's the distinction
between the two languages i own...
little women... you can't actually morph the word
woman to imply woman a "tiny", or, "small"
in an endearing way... only in a belittling way...
thank god i know two languages...
fluently: bilingually...
perhaps a third would be useful if i wished
to travel and start a business... most certainly a knowledge
of Spanish would open a world of opportunities...
obviously i'd settle for German... large enough
territory... but? as a personal psychology basis?
being monolingual would be claustrophobia for me...
or equivalent: therefore...

oh man... it would have been such a mistake if
i just settled for my high-school sweetheart, Promis...
when dating her i went to a friend's birthday
party and was presented with a chance to cheat...
she was much younger than me and eager:
i declined her even though she was already all
over me... it wouldn't have worked...
my father: i'm not my father... mentioned only
two women in his life...
one girl who tried to trick him into becoming
a surrogate father... i.e. not raising his own genes...
and... my mother... but i'm not my father:
i think my parents are freaks... seriously...
it's like monogamy and the swan song was all
about them...
my estranged uncle was a serial polygamist...
he tried a monogamy once: FAIL...
she ended up being a journalistic-wannabe
with an abortion as a notch on her belt...
i learned from my maternal grandfather too...
he was married at the age of 18? 19? but cheated
on my grandmother... he mentioned 3 women
in his life... me? i didn't lose count on purpose...
i lost count on the basis of: and how many different
selves of myself have i found along the way?
i can can't at least 5...

but unlike Khedra with her hot-shivers when i was
performing... eating-oysters on her ****...
there was Michaela who said last night:
look! you're making me dance! and she looked
the happiest girl... she was dancing... lying back...
it wasn't a dance: dance... it wasn't a samba...
she was dancing by wriggling happy on her back
after all that missionary ***...
plus?! i now have a nickname: i'm: Biggie...
and... fair enough: i have more beard envy than
***** envy... even though i've been approached
by guys at work with a similar envy... beards...
apparently i have a perfect beard...

i'm Biggie... now... a few years back i was
KAKASHKA for Ilona: little ****...
it could have worked with Ilona: if i wasn't a ******
and she wasn't a Russian...
Russian pride against Polacks was already
stated by Dostoyevsky demeaning us...
even though i'd be the first to celebrate Russian
isolationistic culture upkeep...

i don't think i could love one woman...
that would be selfish... after all... all the most beautiful
women are either prostitutes or...
actresses in the pornographic industry...
strange how beauty works: it works perfect in nature:
nature wants to showcase itself for the greatest
number of people...
that's a bit like beautiful women...
that's why beautiful women in Islam are an
antithesis of nature's parody...
i heard one Pakistani once tried to teach me
the "mystery" of Islam...
if you owned a jewellery shop... and you had this one
massive sapphire in your shop...
would you want to keep it in the front window
so that anyone could look at it...
huh? he continued: no... you'd keep it hidden
in the back...
                       rrrright... huh?!
he actually didn't mention: so people would ask about?
how could anyone know that you have
a massive ******* sapphire in the back
of your jewellery shop?
point being... why have a jewellery shop
if you're going to be so selfish about what's beautiful?!
you're a ******* jewel merchant or some stingy
****?!
then again: the allure surrounding women is the same
in the west as it is in Islam...
make-up and the NIQAB...
in the west make-up does what a NIQAB does in Islam...
it's the same-****: just a different cover...
i look at a woman in a NIQAB: i'm curious...
i watch a woman heavily overdone with make-up...
i can sometimes say:
there's less paint on a masterpiece than there is
chemical junk on her face to hide her imperfections
that: i might find appealing...
sure... with a NIQAB i can only see the eyes...
but with western standards: i see eyes... exfoliating
in feline fakery... and the rest of her is doubly faked-up...

thank god i'm man... i just need to wash myself
on a regular basis... trim my beard... shave my *****
region and my arm-pits... no chance of me shaving
the hair on my pirate chest and my stomach...
apparently Michaela likes flowing her fingers through
my body hair and teasing my *******...
tonight: i need more whiskey...
not because i'm miserable: i'm happy...
that's why i continue to drink and not get drunk:
i'll feel drunkness when i stop writing and relax...
until then my memory is working overload...
and this is only memory from yesterday...

maybe that's why i don't dream so much...
i don't dream because i'm not seeking escapism
some people seek via imagination...
since their memory faculty has either been eroded
by pedagogy... or? as Bukowski once noted:
some people never go mad: what horrible lives
they must least... a recurrent spontaneity of
"amnesia": or simply looking down on people?
not treating them fairly, lovingly?

life's not difficult: other people make life difficult,
their games of hierarchies...
life's not difficult... other people make life difficult...
and? i could never understand men
who associate cats with lonely modern women...
celebrating dogs...
oh **** me! cats are the best: esp. Maine *****...
then again... maybe i have a spezial cat...
why dogs and men why women and cats
why blue and men why pink and woman?!
who said?
   and who didn't say: cats of Ancient Egypt?
the Pharaohs probably owned cats...
what about Muhammad's favourite cat? Muezza?
who the **** said that cats are efaminating creatures?!
these Bonsai tigers are just as much fun
as dogs... if not more! why? you can have time off
from petting them: when they be themselves
and... no leashes! no muzzle! fickle sleeping and feeding
patterns...
but i agree... there's one negative of cats
that i remember was a great positive having petted
Bella... my Alsatian... well... two...

cat's can't pull a sleigh... with you on it as a toddler...
you can't ride a cat as toddler...
but you can a dog... like a Shetland pony...
you can't be a toddler and put your hand inside
the beast's gob and pull out an imaginary tongue...
and... this is my biggest envy of dog owners...
Sundays at my grandparent's house...
chicken broth... basically an entire poached chicken
in a soup of... choice of vegetable to create
a chicken and vegetable stock?
carrots... root parsley, fresh parsley... celeriac...
baby celery... leek... garlic... burned onions...
the usual seasoning... vermicelli pasta...
but that's the biggest difference between cats and dogs...
i don't know why cats stopped drinking milk...
classically they drank milk...
as a child i remember glowing with glee that i owned
an animal that would eat the leftovers of the food i just
finished... dog are special in that way...
some of the soup wasn't finished...
Bella the Alsatian was whimpering after the leftovers...
she got a bowl... a bountiful bowl...
she loved her chicken broth...
   with the vermicelli... with the vegetables...
and added to the mix? the chicken bones...
my grandfather always bemoaned the fact that me
and my father ate our chicken to the point of biting
off the cartilage off the bones... i went further...
i bit off the heads to get to the juicy-dry marrow...

a different season for a different animal:
i loved dogs for the simple pleasure that they would
eat what you couldn't finish for dinner...
but i love cats for the fact that they behave like
ferns... sorry... houseplants...
you can ignore them from time to time...
they only come up to you when they feel like approaching
you...
the rest of the time you can just ignore them...
but when they love you: it's unlike a dog
waiting for you to equip yourself with a leash...
when they love you: or rather: you're ******* more interesting
than any human prior... they rarely scout for more room...
you've already enlarged their perspective on existence...

perhaps i could be your neurotypical man by
any standards: in the Old Testament style
of breaking away from my father and mother
and chose a wife: i tried it with Promis...
i hated the experience... i have to abandon my mother
and father... in order... to marry you... woman...
and... abandon my mother and father...
in order... to give a **** more about: YOUR... mother
and father?! seriously?! that's a raw ******* deal...
i haven't been raised by my mother from the age
of 6 through to 8...
and by my father from the age of 4 through to 8...
collapse of the Soviet Union:
if it wasn't the brain drain (that came later)
it was a labour shortage in the early 90s...
i don't think i'm clingy... sure... if my parents raised
me throughout those LEGO-years...
i'd be out of the house already: or? no... the cost
of living... what? at least i have intellectual comparisons
with me...
times are changing... i was lucky to be out of
the cosmopolitan game of dating ever since i went
mad aged 21... my whole 20s are a fog...
i woke up mid-30s sort of happy to be simply
alive... i'm happy for that "conundrum"...
i missed so much that was required of me to miss...
i can go to the brothel with a clean conscience
of being able to satisfy prostitutes...

at least we know something personal about Muhammad
that's more than however many wives he had...
a man of his times of his region...
i can't be a judge of that...
but at least he had his favourite cat: and we know
his name: Mu'izza...
like i had a favourite cat of mine:
Darshan... who my Sikh neighbour killed
by poising him because: she offered to take care of...
but couldn't be bothered to clean up his ****
or give him food... easier to **** the poor creature:
make him suffer kidney failure...
i was visiting my grandparents
while my mother and father were holidaying
in the Maldives... two days before they were
supposed to come back... i woke up with a stinking
fear... i phoned them up, i need to go back home!
i'm worried about Darshan...
a silver beast of a Maine ****...
dead... "kidney failure"... i was so stricken
with morbid emotions... after he was cremated
i found a Croquet buggy...
took all the pieces off... strapped a belt
to the handle... walked into a World War I
memorial graveyard...
had a hammer and a chisel with me...
started carving off a piece of grave...
put it on the buggy... dragged it home...
picked up the ashes... started digging a shallow
grave in the garden... buried the poor sod...
then placed the hacked off gravestone above him...
i'm still not speaking to my neighbours...
they're scammers anyway...
that's how Sikhs and other Asians get to flaut
their money on rich weddings and Rolls Royce
limousines... sure sure... i hear you...
they own corner shops and get rich by selling 1p
gummy bear gelatin sweets by the million!
like, ****!
oddly enough... i'm sometimes perched on my windowsill
throughout the night till 4am...
4 break-ins... "break-ins"... and some during mid-day...
******* insurance scammers! SCAMMERS!
i saw jack-****!
no one broke in into their home...
that's how Asians get rich: that's how anyone rich
gets rich... they're not playing by the rules...
thank god i'm willing to make sacrifices...
i don't want to get rich: i don't want scammers
or gold-diggers in my life: i want to build up a natural
filter when it comes to resources!

if there won't be enough women in my life:
i can always test my "fertility" with cognitive ambivalence...
i can always think about more things than most
people are not willing to think about...

after all: Muhammad had a favorite cat... Mu'izza...
since Darshan passed away at the hands of a sadistic
*****... i now have Quarus...
i'm not going to be easily relieved of him:
easily divorced from him...
he has more nicknames than the times i actually utter
his name...
what was the name of the donkey that
brought Jesus to Jerusalem on Palm Sunday?!
no one knows because he had no name...
i'd call him Quizy... Quizy... no... don... key...
REGALO TECLA... or? DON TECLA...
but Jesus didn't give a name to the donkey...
psychopathic, if you ask me:
animals you ride, or pet, to be: nameless...

just maybe: there might be some sympathy for me:
it almost feels like i was there...
when Mel Gibson released that movie of
his: the Passion of the Christ... i cried when i first
heard Aramaic being spoken on screen...
i think i cried throughout the entire movie...
i was so moved that... some other guy in the audience
started crying with me...
maybe it was the music all along...
i'm a sucker for a decent music...

but i just couldn't stomach the raw deal of wedding
a woman: a man is to abandon his own mother
and father... esp. one who wasn't raised by his
mother from the age of 6 through to 8
or by his father through the ages of 4 to 8...
who spent his early developmental years
in a house filled with 20 other immigrant
labour-drain men... for about a two years...
the fact that my father was abandoned by his own
parents: through divorce... i was raieed
by a ***** of a grandmother and an alcoholic
grandfather: i loved them...
but she was such a ***** to the point
oh him pushing her through a glass door
and breaking her hand...
i blocked all of that out... maybe by way of blocking
out several personal memories i have been
given access to access certain historical details...
i question them: unflinchingly...
why didn't Jesus' donkey have a name?
while Muhammad had a favourite cat with a name
like Mu'izzi: i know it's Mu'izza... i prefer Mu'izzi...

my Quarus? a clever cat... i bemoan the fact that
he won't eat my scraps... from dinner...
that's the only great aspect of what Bella the Alsatian
and Axl (the Dobberman) used to be capable of...
they'd eat what man leftover...
i'd call cats vegetarians if i could...

i know that the definite article in Hebrew is HA...
i.e. ha-satan: the-Stanley... the Stanislav...
i forgot to remember what the indefinite article
is in Hebrew... oh... right... there isn't one...
to define someone: definitely is to suppose:
laughing at it in English...

the whiskey flows slow and cold...
my heart it growing slower and colder...
i like it, that way...
Biggie... oh **** me... then again: Michaela does stand
about 5ft2 beside of me... while i'm towering
6ft2 above her... no wonder she picked a nickname:
Biggie for me...
the smaller she is: the plumper she is...
the more endearing she becomes...
you just want to cuddle her...
the more tender her forehead feels and tastes like...
she mentioned: i haven't washed my hair...
i tell her while sniffing it:
it doesn't matter... i washed myself prior to seeing
you... you think i'm going to wash myself
after seeing you? i want your scent to fill my bedroom
with your ****** perfume...
i want to dream of orchids! i want to dream
of lavender! i want to dream...
of a desert and your being the oasis in it!

i love women... but some women are too proud...
too stuck up...
they miss out on a lot of fun *** can be...
can't we just have fun without taking to
the serious business of paying gas bills?!
are we simply things before the altar of the eternals?
can't we spontaneously break the rules
for the eternals to be envious of us?
have we, seriously become so shallow:
so boring, that the gods abandoned us due to the fact
that we became imitating immortal:
their own boringness, manifest, that we stopped
being mortals?!

if i a were an immortal deity, and had to overlook
the modern man? i'd die too!
i'd die from boredom!
i'd die from predictability...
i'd die from looking at mortal men and thinking:
we're the luck?! where's the gamble?!
where's the unpredictability?!
where on earth is the stupidity on earth,
that might make these men take enough chances
to later allow them status of sage?!
everything is being to closely manifested in keeping
a "slave" stock of workers...
no one wants to dare... and if they do want to dare:
it's all for the wrong reasons:
no for reasons akin to: i! i am Spartacus!

people say awful things about slavery...
i wonder... what slave was ever homeless?
what slave was ever left without food, without shelter?!
well **** me: if you're not a self-developed
business man... chances are: sure... you're not a slave...
just someone who earn a wage...
but someone who earns a wage is not someone
who's someone's responsibility
to demand the person bestowing said responsibility
to keep the slave: alive, fed, sheltered...
by simply earning a wage does not imply
my status is better than that of a slave...
is it? IS, IT?!
i just earn a wage... i have to provide food and shelter
for myself... as a slave: and not a wage-earner:
i had to have food and shelter provided for me:
for my services...
i didn't care about money because i was already
given what money would otherwise provide:
or rather, in the ancient realm: wouldn't...
since shelter was inherited by the manor
and food too... from owning farmyards...

i don't think slavery was bad... wage-employment
is far worse... esp. those zero-hour contracts...
no one can tell me that's beneficial to anyone...
zero-hour contracts is worse than slavery...
at least as a slave you had intrinsic value...
obviously disposable...
but as a wager... SLAVE CONTRA WAGER...
you have no instrinsic value:
you only have extrinsic value:
you're doubly disposable...

           like the concern for INFLATION:
the end-product is inflated...
but the manufacturing mechanism isn't...
then there's the deflation aspect of
football clubs increasing the payouts of their
football players... but not decreasing
the price of their tickets to attend a match
or their merchandise: t-shirts etc.!
fair enough: pay the players more...
but at least have the decency to cut down the ticket
prices to see a football match...
or the price of the merchandise...
but no... these clubs either keep it at the same price
or inflate the ticket prices...
but if the players are earning more?
why should the people pay more?!
surely they should be paying less!

SLAVERY wasn't a bad thing... not in my eyes...
i think slavery was a good thing...
you had protection... a SLAVE had more protection
against the peril of a "free" society than a WAGER
will ever have...

what are the chances of me retiring at my grandfather
did? getting a proper state pension,
passing it down my wife after my life,
allowing her last 10 years of life to be lived
in a luxury that only old age might hinder?
ZILCH!
of the people that applied for job i'm currently at....
i seem to be the only "slave": i.e. employee...
the rest are self-employees...
i do my job well because i don't have to:
invoice my presence... i get invoices by someone
else...i trust my "handlers"...
i look at dogs, i look at cats...

who was Proximo to Maximus in the fillm
Gladiator? a mere slave-owner?
really? Maximus was merely a WAGER?
Proximo didn't care about Maximus was more than
a WAGER and more a, commodity?
i'd love to feel like a commodity again...
i'd hate to be treated as a WAGER: as an EARNER...
i think slaves, "slaves" had more monetary rights
than people of our current age...
owning slaves came with responsibilities...
a bit like owning pets these days...
you had to be rich enough...
for one...
you had to clothe them... you had to feed them...
you had to put a roof above their heads...
to be considered a nobleman:
you had to treat them fairly...
these days? none of these rules need to apply...

the system of slavery worked on a decentralised
"bias"...
not on this, current, centralised bias of
the universal WAGE concept....
you're worse than a SLAVE... you're a WAGER...
communism tried to figure this out...
it never came close...
well, it did, for a short period of time...
the sort of period of time where:
drinking whiskey tasted like drinking regurgitated
garlic *****!

it's not working now...
not everyone can be some moon-blessed
entrepreneur... some people are truly allowed
the joy of being allocated the status of PAWN...
rather than BISHOP...
there are people that are like that...

if it was working NOW: it would be working WOW...
people exist for others to be looked up to!
you can't scribble some Darwinistic mantra
and expect people to stick to it!
it's either Darwinism or Christianity...
you can't have both!
there's one alternative... but you're not going
to like Islam...
i don't like Islam... i don't like circumcision...
that's why i'm expecting a 2nd schism
in this grand religion... spear-headed
by the Turks with a bunch of uncircumcised men...

i want whiskey to drip from my beard
while i drink it... and rub it into my chin...
and recall the number of tattoos i ought to have
from rekindling my mind to the past....

no one knows the name of the donkey that took
Jesus to Jerusalem as the fifth: "horseman" of
the Apocalypse toward that fateful Palm Sunday...
but... Muhammad's favourite cat's name is known...
the birth of the Korean script is known via
King Sejong... no one can rob me of this historical presence:
nothing is mythological too...
just easily forgotten...

me? i'm just clearing the path... for something...
more... expedient... more... clarifying...
let's share cats.

We can sense it.

Something deplorable
is about to happen--
we can no longer stop the ranks
of housebroken infidels
from migrating into the wild
they have never encountered
beyond photo and film.

It's coming out! The stampede
of hairy-legged pheromones
we could once browbeat
into prepubescent shame
with the speed of a smack
upon the tender noggin!

It takes courage to enjoy
the canned campfire stories
we passed off as ageless doctrine.

How they once recoiled, squirming
like slugs thrown in a salt mine!

Now the writhing is self-inflicted,
the sweat off their brows no longer
cold, damp beads but now welcome
lubrication that slithers down
their lecherous masses of flesh!

Despite our most dogmatic toiling,
the iron shroud has revealed itself
as a featherweight curtain within a few tugs.

Anyone else feel the walls shake to and fro?
Why does the water in that glass ripple so?
Has it arrived already? The end of our reign
as dictators of the prevailing value system?

Fetch thee the community smelling salts!
Too late! The young and vulnerable
have already begun to trample!
Push the powder out of your wigs
to blind yourself from the carnage!

*The Age of Inhibition has screeched
and skidded into its evil twin's Renaissance.
Big time sensuality has straddled the saddle,
too busy racing avenues to declare victory.

It's about who you know in a room
full of strangers. Often times it's
fashioning a blindfold while
squinting to hear whispers.

Some may even consider the use
of a napkin to blot lipstick so a
collar presented at a later time
can be given a delicate touch.

And the manipulative know that
it's easier to **** someone with a kiss
than to completely rely on *******.

And lest we forget the crude that
claim ignorance when referring to
spit slowly sliding down someone's
skull as proper lubrication.

This all proves that ****** fluids
that contribute to a body of work
is priceless, especially Crimson.

To manage this all requires an
everlasting recipe. This is cake
made with blood, sweat, and tears
compared to the uncooked cake
left dormant in a box.

Preheat the oven.
Lower the libido.
More sugar..
A Country Crock...
Serve cold.

ah man... it was just a saturday night,
wet cement
   and street lamps glaring down at me...
it has to be something to do with
password, which i created at 17 "centimetres"...
what's troubling me is the beer i had
on the way... it could very well be dubbed
nameless... bavarian...
but unlike Budweiser... no fermentation of rice...
nothing like budweiser, that ****** albino
of beers...
          no no, nothing crisp either, like you might
drink it on a hot summer's day...
this was different...
     it was extracted from wheat...
ever drink liquidated wheat?
        what, not ever?
    that's why i took the picture which is sitting
in the background...
the beer was so memorable that i kept the actual
bottle...
      who would have thought, that by adding
wheat to the usual medley of barley and hops
you'd get something, worth writing about...
of course, as i spotted the onset of spring
and trees blooming with those little flowers...
  but that beer. ****, on, me...
        it's revolutionary what they do these days,
fermenting wheat, on top of barley and hops...
you almost want to eat grapes rather than drink wine...
want to start a revolution? start brewing beer
incorporating wheat...
   i was actually walking from street-lamp to street-lamp
reading the ****** label...
you sure this isn't belgian?
           either that, or i looked completely stupid...
  it's there though... it's not a budweiser
with that ill aqua-fresh feel of fermenting rice...
it's a co-op (supermarket chain name,
also do funerals, like multi-facet parlours,
or ****) -
what a ****** name for such a good beer though?
wheat beer... bavarian wheat beer:
   made with malted wheat and barley...
   who does that to a masterpiece?
   someone who probably whistles along
to symphony no. 2 in A-minor...
and never bothers with proper titles...
    like.... francis bacon's studies of lucian freud...
i'm guessing they're lazy about naming
their output, simply to they have so much of it,
and it has to look clerical, or let's say:
    surgical, imply that against
the other dictionary that humanity possesses:
an algorhithm...
insert the words: word for surgical, clean...
   ah! there it is, the little ******...
antisepctic...
         just as well... when writing can but does not
reach an elevated status...
   isn't the thing that you take to bed and doze off
using it as a sleeping pill...
    the bit of me that already stated:
i wanna be as rough and toiling as a lumberjack,
as the lumberjack said: writing was never
about creating a *****-magnet,
a bit like a cow, in a field, less bulls to **** me,
yet more bothersome paper-clips like flies to
daunt me... or that's what a tail is for,
to disperse them...
           the devil and a tail and an impotence of
a tail that he uses for a trouser-belt, but doesn't wear
trousers, merely picks it up, that flamboyant additive,
and swings it to a twirl of full circle,
walking away while whistling
and saying: the part where i say: i've eaten the heads
either side of a cooked chicken bone...
heads? those parts that need lubrication,
so the things that are later called gensis: arthritis...
but it was in all earnest, a magical beer,
a revelation... who could have thought that wheat,
that from wheat alone, i'd be walking the night
and actually sniffing the neck of a bottle...
   like an arab in a bakery, sniffing freshly baked baklava...
and that really is, pistaschio galore...
oh right... pistachio... no s... taccos and chow mein...
apologies, i sometimes forget what the "unspoken"
rules of **** schizoi consist of...
write it one way, speak it another way -
sure show... how about a Pinnoccio drinking a capuccino
donning ccinos? again: what i see as necessarily
dyslexic: it's actually pinocchio,
   and it's cappuccino... and it's chinos....
and all that, from the greek χ (chi)...
or whatever χ was doing when the family k c q
came about... i'm thinking q is a mistake given
the already stated optical implants that really do,
deviate from how to base clear-cut memories of:
in case we need to remember.
    i still know that s z and x have a thing going on.
that beer... budweiser tastes nothing like
it might, ever, don a crown to encompass the spectrum...
you're basically drinking this beer
           and you're thinking belgium, but it's
bavarian... and i'm currently in a youtube vlogger's
punctuation mode...
   watch way too much of that **** to end
up writing like i am, right now;
                                          eeek! a teenage girl! run!