(Blackened tissue beside debris of bleachd cocktail
Power pundit in cubicle
A ship in shadow-pieces passing by, unnoticed

smoking water.. now costs getting kickd  out ur xafe
Your blood lies in a high-account and all the stampz areMelting
Crawling in a desert, accusations shave the top off my black land
Did failing the test lead to a power-packed punch in strands
No time for treagedies clogging up the freeway
Twenty watts up the waterfall and your ride is here
Befits a ceremonial decapping
Catch ur vogue latte on the way out
Come aboard by jet and then expect a red carpet, soaked dry from the spoils of erstwehile-smugglers
Let em bleed green notes till the moths all come round the flame
Wait for it… the flame grows hugher… and int it all…………****!

That was easy.
Don’t chuckle out loud when expletives slidie down your back
Like champagne off the shoulder of your ne-xt planet’s ride

Duck in time cos the butters hard and the toast is dry

Four friends over six decades carry grudges heavey enough to pump oil to lakes
And the unexpected happens.. the one they didn’t watch, wwent missing
All eyes on the little one.. no, you didn’t catch them all.

You became immunes to the skills you advert-tarted and sqeueamish set in
you didn’t know casn host violence in a putrid-robe?
One finger pointing out, makes at least three in.. to the pointer
How can one planet swallow so wide a dichotomy in plasticky degrees?
It’s too wide this time to make that jump  – we will ingest what weve been giving all along
And some end up well-funded while others simply dwell..  as frogs in a well.


sun can climb in sometimes, but for half an hour
their fingers are small for the mine, keep small the issue
don’t cry when it rains in expectorata
I think frogs can swim.

when do I ever learn that..  
I am simply a frog in a well
near craxks )*


21feb

Beginnings of pain
And the suffering of one,
Started early for one so young,
Terror in innocent eyes
A* punishment for nothing,
Rained down fists fell hard
Dead I wish you were, ******** forever in my eyes

(An After Dinner Desert Conversation)

He: I love you

She: I love you more

(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal~danced  since our first season)

He: Why? That surely cannot be!
(on certain paths, he is more skeptic, than convert)

She: Because you are
kind and generous,
to street beggars,
my single friends,
(all who want to meet your
non-existent brother)
good and smart,
love dance, the Giants, and art,
go to bad superhero movies,
accommodating me
(as if you wouldn't go secretly),
never let me down,
love my cooking,
kiss my neck like no other,
hand me a tissue just before
I sneeze (how you do that..)

leave space for others
when you car park,
go thru life making
waiters, doormen and ticket takers
smile and laugh-appreciated,
then you tip crazy generous,
money worries put aside

restful sleep for hours,
head on my bumpy hip,
write me crazy love poems,
Veal Chops and a Day at the Ballet,^
never show me your love poems,
(tho one can peek, when you're asleep)
lest I might cook for you every night,
which you would feel guilty about

woman-injured,
you let me
repair the damages,
and I wonder how
she missed the gentle,
what the world so easy sees
when you sneezes poetry
from its crazy atmosphere

always have a plan,
the best of which is when
you announce no plan today,
maybe bed, maybe movie,
maybe movie in bed,
maybe all maybe none,
and that was exactly
what I was thinking,
which you already knew,
but have reservations made for
our special days through 2024

He: This mystery boy,
whom I don't recognize,
can't be me, for I am the
restless and writing type,
in the wee morning hours,
not a planner or plotter,
a slow and steady plodder,
lazy as the day is long,
shaves but once a week,
keeps his inside stuff,
well hid and most discrete,
drives like a madman in the
video game of Manhattan's streets,
delays the pressing troublesome matters,
asking only workman's wages and
what's for dinner tomorrow night?

She: A ****

He: This mystery boy,
never met him, never seen,
his existence, Einstein failed to prove,
maybe he's roaming the hallways,
oblivious to gravity,
(but not hunger pains,)
overhearing poems,
in languages he doesn't speak,
while riding the M31 bus,
for free, on an expired Metrocard,
cause the bus drivers wave him on knowingly,
his poetry writing sanctuary, they drive,
where they will be perchance, immortalized

if **** is your menu upcoming,
set a table for three,
his heart and soul will be in attendance,
his growling stomach sending his
appointed messenger,
tin foiled wrapped communications

surely as sure can be,
this mystery boy,
gonna want an extra slice of
life tarted with you,
in order to prove gastronomically,
The Theory of Relativity Poetically,
*should I ever see him

No escape
you
either love or
we hate.

It's all so nice and clean and bright
they've even tarted up the night
how wonderful it is to be
a part of this
machinery.

I'm going to do my best for them
pay off my debts to faceless men
work my life in penury
a part of this
machinery.

and just before I die
I'll really
really try
to clock off

wouldn't want the miserable ***** to pay me overtime when my time's done
would I?

To many bad days
Enormous wet stains
All because of you, let's
Restart and pretend we never
S**tarted

FROM THE FLAGSTONES 
 
This concrete town with no guts,
no grit where we can only smirk
as galoshered feet slip ‘n’
slide in and out our café where
exhalations of icy conversations
mix with the fog and cigarette smoke.
 
It’s a damp riverbank town
border with riptides
sneak currents
no watchtowers no walls
an escape for the committed
or reckless – the next country
a lucky swim away.
 
You draw down
panelaks, teetering like headstones
(that lost their plots
a regime ago)
pen in flagstones and millstones
flower tubs filled
with butts and dead dogs
tarted up with cans and stencils
subjects of your studies in pencil.
 
Nature’s only concession
(so far as I can see)
is this wedge like a warm slice of pizza -
four fall trees jutting out of the bar
where dogs curl up in corners
and mist pushes in fishermen
selling trout -
 the toxic confetti
swirling around the passing
procession of Saturday weddings
dragging monochrome trains
drawn into this twilight
fugue whisked by an accordian player,
guests laughing back at us
while you’re smirking back at them
cocooned in wine and tuica
almost  lost in your sketch
smudging *** ash for sky
dreamy with relaxed fatigue
of travel and infatuation.
 
Your pad’s our field dressing
that could work for a while
before the gangrene sets back in
so I’d like to amputate this souvenir wedge
for my scraps book.
 
I watch you listening out for the shanty
from the flagstones – about weeds
delicate, green, undamaged,
muscling through the cracks
in the concrete
drawn up to the cut where
we also look effortless and a little green.
 
Tomorrow we head for the border
and only one of us can swim.

all these amy schumers of this world,
really don't want to know
how courteous prostitutes
are to men these days...
we come and we go,
******* like animals -
there are no horrible
jokes about ***,
there are no ***** jokes -
there's only the savannah
of the bear minimum of
worded exchanges -
in the beginning there was
word, and the word was with
god;
and it goes in reverse:
in the beginning there was
an onomatopoeia (satan knocking
on a door to engage with thin
walls and a man's pelvic bones
smacking against
a woman's buttocks) -
   and the mimic was known
as satan...
           only in america does
a strip-bar mean more than a
a brothel: barbarism...
                     can watch: can't touch...
i've met more prostitutes with
enough tact to make
other women seem as proselytes
of otherwise enjoyable
erotica -
               believe me:
there's a no man's land with prostitutes:
there's cold cash exchange either
side -
      you're not having an affair -
    you're not having an emotional
entanglement -
that's for the english children
who'd **** *******,
but then prefer to ******* their
partner's heart into a ****...
      at least prostitutes teach by
abhorring emotional attachment
and the labyrinths of lies...
          plus prostitutes talk less
***** than female comedians...
but they certainly know how to
moan more... never in line
with disrespecting the power of
words...
           always in broken syllables...
and that's how i like it:
   what these muslims are doing
to the anesco temples of
ancient persia,
the europeans have already done
so: talking point-blank-*******
in the bedroom...
                and they wonder:
why are the birth-rates so low?
i ask: what have you been saying
in the bedroom?!
                   to have degrade the human
and to not have elevated the animal?
what do you expect outside of
the bedroom, with hooligan violence
surrounding football?!
****, prostitutes are the antithesis
to the current probing fetish for "dolls"
like some 1950s lexicon ref. -
to a gall tarted up in red sheen gloss
on the lips...
              what's the point of talking
during ***, why invoke god -
make the simple grunt, the simple:
sounds like but not quite like -
with satan as ally -
the death boy will translate with
much tact that goes on behind closed
doors, apparent to him in the open -
talking during *** reduces god
to a pornographer...
  with satan: ah, sire, it sounds as bit
like this: mimic tuck tooth pucker
pouch & peach. meaning? no one knows!
why even allow words into
***, animals barely change their
****** expression during *******!
so why demean these girls,
you'll sooner find that prostitutes
have a higher self-esteem
in the bedroom, than female comedians
have in either bedroom, or on stage.

No more Polyfilla face
Behold the plain and naked
Made up in poor taste
Death mask and masquerade
Poor state of nature
Tarted up and raw

Fight the flaccid face
Tighten up the lines
Stretchmarks are stripes
Jowls hang and flap façade in crisis
Out flicks the knife
Smile for life with one slash

Round up the rings
Count up the crags
Callous with age
Horns on the hands
Petrified hags hard and rock like

Gnarled old bark
Woman tree wither
Roots left in ruins
Ends split and hairdo dead
All through and done for
Overblown and glory gone

i can make two comparisons blindly...
1.
   stroking my beard feeds into the same sort
of relaxation pattern as it would
stroking a woman's thigh or
making finger-tip location: return-to
posits around the more boney aspects
of the body...
the knees... the collar bone...
hands... mein gott...
hands... they're so ****** since they:
i guess... are much smaller...
i can pick up a basketball with one
hand... i peer into this little oasis of
shrapnel bones and think: don't think...

ha... ***** envy... i finally figured out
the trick men play on women
when they send them their whittle richard
"selfies"... obviously they take pictures
of their "endowment" AFTER they masturbated...
not that i've seen any but i imagine:
not imagine... of sure... it sure looks much
bigger with all the excess blood...
it's not like they're sending them
pictures of a pre-******* phallus...
cocky men sending women pictures
of what women send men: all made-up with
make-up...

it's a ******* giggle fest from here on in...
i still get beard envy...
even though i think i've coming across
a sleeping set of genes...
it's a Scandinavian "thing"...
to have brown hair, green eyes...
a brown beard: now that the greys have
arrived at the zenith of what would
be sideburns...
i still retain the colour of my hair from
youth...
schnurrbartblondine...
then again: i don't know how the grammatical
cascade works, sometimes...
not from ancient Latin: i'm pretty sure
French is the opposite...
blondineschnurrbart...
oh... it's a very Scandinavian trait to have
one aspect of your ****** hair... lighter than the rest...
darkened over the years of:
Matrix-England overcast skies...
good luck getting a solar panel in 'ere...
but as i was cycling my not so usual route
through what's yet to become "no-go zones" of
London where Sharia law is primed...
this Asian girl walking with her boyfriend
purposively decided to stand in the cycle lane
and purposively made eye-contact with me...
i think i mentioned her already...
without make-up she still looked as
pretty as a Cinderella... and i'm sure Cinderella
looked pretty before she tarted herself up
for the gala...
in this grand theatre of the urban setting...
everything needs to be nuanced...
everything requires a micro-cosmos...
my Nigerian neighbour is giggling from
behind the wall... sometimes he'll have a drag
out of the window from one before going to sleep...
while i will sit perched for 2 / 3 hours longer
and smoke out a locomotive...
i wake up thinking that i was screaming
in the night... i still dream of nothing but the great
yawn: of either space or time...
the odd dream i get can paralyse me
for about an hour in bed...
how did light enter my brain when the eyes were
closed, and i esp. since i was sleeping?
did i stare at the sun too much?
when i do look at it...
it's just a pulsating ultra-violet orb...
unlike the moon...
sedative in the sky...
i cower to find the night and...
ol' baldy: in western Slavic the moon
is categorically masculine...
in this... curry of etymologies that's English...
the moon is a gender neutral noun...
although: i suspect there are subversive
connotations of it being male...
but then "we" arrive at Luna...
a shortening of Lunar... and we arrive at
a feminine exclusivity..
just like with her antonym... Sun... not son...
sUn... mr. inferno parabola...
or... Helios... most definitely male...
see... i don't get it...
"gender neutral pronouns"...
it's one thing... but nouns... can be
nuanced... they need... sexuality... or is it gender?
to be invoked...
to assert their presence...
i know that gender inclusivity is missing:
currently... in the "post-modernist"
take on this language...
but it exists... you can give a man the name:
Basil... Fawlty: not merely faulty... no?
you can name a man Basil...
you can name a woman Hyacinth...
or Rose...
so? ergo? there are no non-gender neutral
nouns... are there?!
why should pronouns
"suddenly" become... neutered?
is this the BIG CULL...
perhaps it sounds better in german...

   ist dies das groß pflücken?!

you never know: writing to Anglo-Saxons...
they're deaf... they're not deaf...
they have their heads shoved up Anglo-H'american
culture too much...
i might have asked their origins people:
but then they came up with
"too many" definite articles...
das... der... die...        ditto the whole lot of them...
i'm neither, either...
protestant disillusionment... it's rife...
i see it when entering those "no-go" zones
in London: i'm an outsider doubly outsider...
i'm not English...
i stroke my beard: i'm not into novels
beside of Stendhal...
Sienkiewicz...
all the romance... i have a head
riddle with a makeshift of a headache...
i tried to recreate the taste of bourbon fixing myself
with a concoction of Scotch whiskey
with some Southern Comfort:
no can do...
the bourbon ******* used some alias
or something...

Wittgenstein vs. La Rochefoucauld...
of course i'm drinking...
sober people writing tend to...
waffle! i liked Wittgenstein: tautologies...
for the tautology scrutiny:
red... crimson...

"metaphor" / "misnomer": "x"...
just presume that
language took a turn and everyone
arrived at the sane spot:  "smarter"...
no... ugly monkey wants to **** an ungly monkey!
i'm tired of the temporal...
the history through the lense of
Darwinism..
see how it happens...
Darwinism didn't have a hand in Copernican
poker... but... it had a hand in history...
Narcissus the greatest sufferer...

i look into a mirror: do i have to peer
at a monkey?!
hello the orangutan has down's syndrome...
those monkey eyes are so close together...
hell: hello....

i knew this was going to happen,
for three days i was beside myself after having met her
at work, the way she smiles...
she creases her face like someone might
crease a piece of paper...
there's nothing menacing about it...
but she does it in this most splendid of ways...

oh she went out of her way today,
she took out her earrings, she didn't have any
rings on her fingers...
i abhor any metallic additions to the body...
i esp. abhor earrings,
i esp. abhor rings on fingers...
i'm fine with a necklace...
but anything else is a massive turn off...
today i found that beside the hands being
the most ****** part of a woman's body...
closely second... are their ears...
and she's a petite girl... 5ft2...
when we finally said our goodbyes i only had
to wrap one hand around her to bear hug her...
we didn't kiss the cheeks upon meeting
so upon saying a long goodbye
i had to do it twice, before ******* off...

she said: between 5 and 6pm...
she first texted me: is it o.k. that we move it for 6pm?
sure... no problem...
so i ate a brilliant salmon teriyaki
noodles... tarted myself up...
the housework was already done,
i stocked up on whiskey for tomorrow:
Bolton Wanderers are apparently going
to be a rowdy bunch up in Oxford...
put on my butcher boy's cap...
dressed in my per usual attire of...
how did my ex's younger sister put it?
oh... 'Matt... he's always dressed in earthly colours'...
yep... anything brown, green,
i'll be wearing that...

         it's a good thing that i use my mobile
when i have access to the internet indoors...
and when outside? i only turn on mobile data
when i need to call someone,
otherwise i switch it off...
      i'm travelling... whether that's by car,
bicycle or merely walking...

she sent me a text...

   Matt i was fine til about 30mins ago... now i'm
doubled up with a belly ache (crying emoji face)
probably trapped wind (sad emoji face)
might have to put you off for an hr see if it subsides x

there's no hindsight with that...
i arrived five minutes prior to six pm...
bearing... the promised bottle of wine...
some banana loaf i made for her son:
at one point the dog was barking mad about sniffing
it out... she had to tell the dog off...
'no, it's not yours'...
and a bottle of Franziskeiner Weissbier for myself...
i asked to be topped up with a glass
of wine: my throat was getting dry...

she wasn't going to stall me...
oh, you want to know what teenage butterflies feels,
having them in your stomach?
it was silly of my to have felt them for
3 days after meeting you?
you're not getting off so easily...
if you have feelings for me?
you're going to feel them...

and she was all ready to begin with...
scented candles in the house, the house tidied up...
incense in the kitchen...

now i see the bigger picture...
women only love men by the women feel about
themselves around certain man...
i mean... i dated a 6ft girl once... but this one...
this pretty red-haired ****** has me all fired up...
and it now seems... she's reciprocating...
we're still at this nervous stage of out-thinking
each other...

but when she opened the door i could see...
ooh oh... something's up...
she tried to not be nervous...
i gave her my home-made wine in
a wine bottle from South Africa: Arabella...
i just sent her a link to a song
that inspired me: the Arctic Monkeys' song
of the same title...

i came at 6... left eleven minutes past 9pm...
she wanted me to stay longer,
but i said to her: and you know i have work
tomorrow... plus you said you came back
from work and Freddy came back from school
and you really haven't spoken to each other...
plus you just said you're going to run a bath...

my god, how she elevated her beauty without
donning any armour of rings and earrings...

yeah, i know there's a kid in the background...
that's why i brought the banana loaf with me
and i'm not thinking about sleeping with her...
i need to elevate the tension in her...
until she snaps...

          time... precious time...
and as he put a chair in the kitchen for me to sit on...
and as i watched her prepare a meal for her son...
my god... how happy she looked...
she played all the songs that spoke for her...
we exchanged a like for Dua Lipa and Mabel...
what?!
she danced, she laughed, she sang...
she has a beautiful voice...
she delighted me... with her new found happiness...

she danced, she laughed, she sang...
she almost looked like a teenager once more...
i just sat there before another face emerged
when my voice suddenly dropped lower
and became more husky...

come on, what are my options?
she has lost a few children along the way via miscarriage,
she only has this one boy,
i tell her: i'm the only child myself...
her older brother is living with his parents
and he's a bully,
i tell her: i'm rather ashamed of still living with
my parents, but i do all the cooking,
the cleaning and if the garden needs work...

she's super excited about having a hot tub...
i have a hot tub... not one of those inflatable types...

she illuminated her vinyl player today
when i sent her a photo of my rack with books
from the floor to the ceiling and a bunch
of vinyls: oh, you should have told me...
i would have brought a record over...
blah blah...

i don't know how 6pm turned into 9pm...
well... if the dog is barking mad about sniffing that banana
loaf... i hope the two of them will be as mad
about it as the dog...
but it's only fair... if i'm getting butterflies in my stomach
after initially meeting her...
she should feel some of that herself...
see if she likes it...

i didn't... we gently touched hands while she showed
me a book of pictures of old Romford...
i told her: i'll bring a copy of a book: similar
from where i was born... famous in the 20th century
for its metallurgy... all those metal poles
at that Paris stadium? they came from my hometown...

Edinburgh is as dear to my heart as Paris...
believe me... that city has ghosts...

it's such a perfect storm...
     she has her period pains and psychosis...
i've had my psychosis and ejaculations...
you know: mad meets mad...
all her past relationships were with violent
alcoholics... i'm a drinker that makes his own
wine... the only person i was ever violent to
when drinking? me... i put out cigarettes
butts on my knuckles when i say to myself:

ENOUGH, OF THE *******, BUTTERFLIES!
i need a higher experience...
none of all this mushy-mushy *******...
i need a penetrating sensation...
something that goes into the territory of
the nerves...

my god, how she danced, how she laughed, how she sang...
i'm pretty sure her son was like:
who's this guy that's making my mum
feel so good about herself?
she literally ran outside of the house
and started dancing in the garden...
yet all the while trying to stall me... ghost me...

no... i'm not having it... you're getting this wine,
you're getting this banana loaf: whether
you like it, or not...
i'm not going to drink it, i'm not going to eat it...
i really don't care about your past...
sure... you ****** up...
anyone who hasn't ****** up...
is about to **** up...
but, see... it's not like she's even remotely interested
in what i have to say...
she's so high on herself that i fall back...

why am i only child? well... you know... Chernobyl...
women in Poland had to drink iodine... blah blah...
she's not exactly interested in me...
i know that... because she's regained a focus
for being re-interested in herself...
she's found herself, once more,
but the self she found... oddly enough:
she didn't expect to be so young!

she looked like a teenage girl, she behaved like
a teenage girl...
   it's very lovely to see a woman nearing her 40s
behaving like she might be...
oh... i'd say in the range of 8 through to 14 years of age...
let's get real...
i'm not going to be looking for women in their
20s... all geared up for their anti-racist
black fascist ****** escapades...
o.k., darling: you do you...

                n'ah... i'm not having any of that crap...
give me a: cougar...
a puzzle-box of a woman...
let me see if i can fit it... into her life...
i don't do anti-racism...
after all... all the Jimmy Carr jokes wouldn't
be funny...
why would i want Jimmy Carr's jokes
to not be funny...
point blank reference... stand-up comedy:
the monologue approach to jokes
is a very English thing...

in Poland? you have satire... satire staged
within the confines of a... cabaret...
you have cabaret comedy...
which involves multiple actors...
rarely... almost never will you have
monologue stand-up comics...
stand-up comedy is an exclusively English
"thing"...

but the English are not really prone to
enjoy satire... beside... a newspaper comic strip...
that's about how much satire as
the English public entertains...
not to mention... "us", Polacks...
are a very self-deprecating people...
comedy is very self-deprecting...
but the people who enjoy it...
take themselves very seriously...
weird, no?
maybe because the theme of satire is only
allowed for political "concerns" and is never
made omnipresent in an English society...
bad translation...
everyday people can't be satirised in
the satire of everyday situations
for the simple reason that there has to be
a comedy sketch of: someone appearing / thinking
they're smarter than the other person...
therefore? the comedy of one...
rather than the satire of the many..

i.e. the situation is funny... therefore everyone is
in on the joke...
no... in England... this hyper-inflated gut *** of
emotions of non-feeling...
the personal joke is more important than
a shared joke... satire via the cabaret is of
the latter category... the former? eh... solipsism...
autism... whatever you want to call it...
it takes... a whole lot of specifics to get it right...
but stand-up comedy...
from what i've seen...
doesn't translate as well as you go further east...

a bit like THINKING... English people are too
pragmatic to think... in Europe: "thinking" is either
done by the French or the Germans...
pragmatic... egalitarian... unitarian...

ah... now i see why she was bothered about...
why i used G... instead of J when writing down
her name... the daughters of Job...
the other two were Keziah and Keren...
little dove...

and i subsequently sent her an explanation...
blah blah... well...
there's that... now i can return to drinking
and rubbing my hands together
like a fly.

title: workout
body: roundabout dot, dough 2.   502 bypass

i only woke up at 2pm, even though i had snippets
of consciousness by 10am...
11am... i was in and out of sleep: my dream was yesterday,
i slouched home at 3am...
finished the shift at Fulham at the exact timing
of 10:15pm... all my coworkers stood me up...
apparently i didn't follow instructions
but in the back of my mind was the motto:
safety, security, service... if two elder gentlemen
came up to me with concerns over why one
of the gates in the park was closed...
that there might be a stampede when people
were leaving... what was i going to do or rather
not do? not stand by the gates and not direct
people? luckily all went smoothly...
so what if the supervisor had to wait ten minutes
more so that i might return my walky-talky
and my accreditation... people's safety is the priority...
some *******... but your other lesser supervisor
messaged you... no they didn't... only the upper supervisor
did when asking if there were any radios still
not returned to him... i have a witness...
this 19 year old Romanian kid i was working with...
the one who was sitting in a Turkish akimbo
on the bench next to me when we were taking
a break... the one i managed to sort out with a free
cheeseburger that would otherwise set him back
6 squid... anyways... i was getting paid to work until
10:15... so i don't see any issue...
grumpy old men and their: "leave ten minutes early"...
England... a nation of alcoholics and workaholics...
life's too short... i already promised myself this:
the money i earn will go to prostitutes...
i was tired but... i arrived at Goodmayes...
bought myself 35cl of brandy and a bottle of coca cola...
circled the brothel several times trying to relax...
hype myself up... finally walked in...
that's what i promised myself... i'll spend the money
i earn on prostitutes...
                        what else am i going to spend it on?
vinyl? there's only so much vinyl a man can own...
shoes? clothes? drugs?
well... brandy doesn't count...
                  sort of like buying water... for me at least...
10 quid at the entrance... but i asked the madam:
is she here? Khedira, Khadijah?
the Turkish girl? is she here?
    how many girls are there? two?
o.k. - what an impression i made in my work clothes...
long coat... she later touched it: oh, so soft...
almost like a mink...
                  tall, dark brown handsome devil...
she was there... how relieved i was to see her face...
when you're ready? right now...
i took the other girls hand and kissed in...
into the bedroom... mirrors... mirrors...
in her own tongue... which was constantly waggling
like a primitive life-form of its on volition
eagerly seeking light or in this case...
the phallus and my own tongue and lips...
look into the mirror as i **** you off:
the best sort of *****...
  ooh... murderer eyes...
                          güzel adam: her own words...
          we started off with her sitting in my lap...
after i took a shower to clean myself up...
took off her bra and her underwear...
    she was mine... for an hour she was mine...
at 35 i thought it odd that i would be trying
******* for the first time, i snorted a little
and told her: it has no affect on me...
  i prefer marijuana... i used to smoke a while...
what effect did it have on me?
a second became a minute and a minute became
an hour and an hour became a day...
tiredness... a sneaky symptom of a slightly limp
****... but what i wanted... she also wanted...
me standing on the edge of the bed
performing the doggy *** position...
  she didn't even mind me slapping her ***...
she even responded positively... pinching her...
biting her... of course i didn't ******...
but at the same time: she noted my care for hygiene...
she put a ****** on... later noticing my discomfort
she took it off: live dangerously she said...
yeah: unprotected *** with a *******...
seems like i have special privileges with her...
if i can have unprotected *** with her...
it's not like i was going to ******* into her...
oh... but such a body in my arms...
  i could throw pearls to pigs...
            i could sink a thousand ships containing
Mayan gold into the sea...
but this body in my arms...
                  i knelt in between our *******...
kneeling my head was aligned with her collar bone...
petite tender creature...
ol' raven haired Turkic countess...
              and such ****** contortions as i rammed her
changing pace from doggy
to her on her back with her feet on my shoulders...
tongue waggling: eagerly seeking a kiss...
so i ****** her tongue in between slobs of
the oysters and the clams of lips pursuing each other...
today i woke up... dazed... no confused...
just... relaxed... even though i didn't ******,
i told her... that's not important to me...
i like the mere act... the ****** doesn't bother me...
i can but i don't have to... look... i'm tired...
i just wanted to be with you...
i'm not going to wash myself after this hour...
i want to have your scent on my skin...
you married? no... well that's good...
i want to keep you for a while longer...
          then she proved the pinnacle of my success...
can i have your number?
sure... so you call me when you want to come...
and i'll tell you if i'm available...
so what's your actual name? Khedra...
inshallah...
                            at one point she did use that
phrase: already a scheme in her mind...
            güzel adam - inshallah...
                          my thoughts exactly... there might as well
be a third branch of Islam...
not the one associated with the Arabs the Sunnis
or the Persians - the ****'ahs...
but one more... associated with the Turks exclusively...
i'd love to see a third branch of Islam emerge...
it has to splinter further...
if it truly was the one true religion:
there would be no schism... oddly enough the schism
arrived so early... maybe a second schism would
do the religion some good... the Turks could take
charge of this second schism...
really charge it along the lines of
                                  Sufism *** Gnosticism...
at 2am after i left around 1am she sent me her picture...
honestly? she looks better in real life...
much younger... animated...
some people are just not photogenic...
they need to be contort prone...
they are not supposed to be frozen... in a photograph...
being *** starved, intimacy starved...
no wonder i feel so relaxed today...
then again: if i had this sort of intimacy somewhat
permanently, i'd take it for granted...
i like the idea that i have periods of the cold dark...
of inanimate objects growing ears and eyes...
whenever i come across another living creature
and interact with them sexually...
certain chemicals blah blah are produced and i relax...
again... the act itself... how beautiful two bodies look
so entwined in the act... esp. if she tells you:
look in the mirror... look at us...
**** me... unprotected *** with a *******...
*******... just tells you how bad things are
on the dating market in the West...
prostitutes have better barometers when it comes
to STDs than most women in the West...
then again: she is Turkish...
                      Khedra... no... **** dating... i tried that...
Jeminah burned me...
i had stomach cramps i thought was out of love...
no... just a premonition... this is going to go nowhere...
she's going to ******* up...
what, a, *******, waste, of, time: and good wine...
and a banana loaf...
no can do... i'd rather pay up front for intimacy than
weave some ******* courtship past-time of
going on dates, for dinner...
i'd rather cough up £120 upfront and get what i want
than ******* enter some sexless limbo land
of ginger goats and blue sheep... count count...
n'ah ah... fall asleep?
        i'm not even going to bother thinking about
Western women... **** that...
Oriental? nope... Asiatic "proper" i.e. Indian or Pakistani
or Arab? nope...
Turkish... we come from the same womb of
the Caucasian sort... we're steppe people...
formerly known as... why, *******, bother?
i don't need a headache... i want an *** to slap... a neck
to bite...
    oh she burned me... sure... she might have had
hundreds of "customers"... but i hardly think any of them
looked into her eyes with such passion...
i told her: ******* has had no effect on me...
i'm here for you and you alone...
now i have her number... maybe we can get at it
outside the brothel...
well i must be doing something right, right?
all the women at work are school-girls... stunted
psychological growth... they're petty gremlins...
ugly souls... ****-able after a few drinks and if they
tarted themselves a bit more...
but... ugly... bog souls...
                    petty critters... backstabbing ghoulish
soap-opera drama queens...
i had to learn the tactic of veneer...
acting... politeness... superficiality... it's brain-dead-numbing...
but if that's what's supposed to be...
so be it...
as the zeitgeist narrative of the West goes
in terms of ****** dynamics: white women hating
themselves for a past that has endowed them with...
all that interracial *******...
breeding out a neu-Bra-tsil... well...
hmm... i have an idea of my own... i'm not going down
the narrative... chances of me meeting a girl of
my own ethnic synonym: "missing"...
better with prostitutes than with girls who are
merely looking for a meal-ticket...
Heidegger: ponderings XI - aphorism  50...
"westliche demokratien"... written circa 1939...
resounds more true than anything i have yet
to read... reed...
my god... what intimacy can do to a man...
but better i don't get used to it...
when i'm starved of it and i encounter it...
i can throw my entire weight about...
i can go overboard... full: utterly full charm offensive...
mirrors *******... slapping the ***...
biting... pinching... kneeling before the altar
of a woman's body...
doo-doo eyed the next day, relaxed...
not taking anything for granted...
now i have her number...  eski kuzgun saçlar...
old raven hair... tatlı kiraz...
benim aşk...
                                    if that's how it's going to
go... i'm sure of it...
the Turks could branch off from the already
established Islam... they could revise it...
have their own version... become the bridging
positive force... of all the Islamic people...
the Turks i respect the most...

- tesekiur ederim qeanam...
- benim güzel kuzgun-saçlar

      welll... unlike the diacritical markers in French...
the cedilla in French: garçon... thatr's
a "secretive" version of the Greek sigma:
στιγμας...
  the variation between Turkish and Czech
is that the cedilla... is equivalent to the caron...
ergo?

                      Ç = Č ≠ S...

i said
"isn't it funny that walnuts are good for your brain and they look like brains"
and you said "you're ******* r*tarted"