/   but if i'm crying, writing this... the **** are, you, doing?! not reading jack spicer... are you?

i can pinch the tip of my beard,
twist the hairs
into a reminiscence of a pointed
goatee...
          make a strong point
(cognitively)
          for wanting to shave again...
and then remember
the tender hands of
a bulgarian *******
  fiddling with the assortment
while we tried doing
a siamese twin "thing"
      of being left, upon parting,
intact...
                  except:
and there are plenty to be made...
to counter
his experience...
   watching snow fall at night
under street-lamp,
and the granary of cognition
of birch trees, at night, in winter...
brain melting...
     probably twice as
unfathomable as a chemically
induced
                "buddha" gimmick...
lips and such
  a beef worth of a thigh on
this woman...
                 like eating
chunks of beef:
               singing a vide cor meum!
take it as you will...
a garden in daylight,
      a graveyard in moonlight...
which is which and what
is what?
             you know the greatest
parlay of a man and woman
resides in?
          a man crying while
listening to music...
               beats an ******:
every, single, time...
         why?
                    it's:        pristine!
you can't be a man and tell
me that crying during
a performed piece of music
is not better than a shared ******,
can you?
               that ******?
it's a butterfly reflection
of the world...
          much shorter than
          a mortals' game of a kept
                                           hour...

but with a *******?
          kissing?
      sacred earth:
      send me to the ninth heaven!
it's equivalent to
  a hippocratic ecstasy!
   a tarantula claw
of handling
              the euthenasia "debate"!

touching a mirage of a soul:
       while experiencing a mirror.

  marcel schwob is not part
of the equation...
   for an hour's worth of my body
entwined with hers...
  minus the Turkish pimps...
   i'm guessing she's getting 80 quids'
worth of payment...

but music?
    and a male crying?
          you can't fathom such
a sensation making ****** 2nd....
                
yet memory exfoliates
the subtle gestures of
      the parody of hands
              touching another body...
notably woman's leg sequence
of detailed derivatives
         composed in unison to walk...

i can only trust turkish barbers...
   silly ol' me...
                          but to stomach
half an hour sitting before
a barbershop mirror,
  and not have a turk attire me
to look presentable?
an english essex hairdresser
homosexual:
           "doing" his "magical" part?

sorry: either an ottoman
                does the job -
      or i'll let the wind become a brush
to stroke
        a respectable form of
the ****** hair...

             what an hour:
and straight with no dues into
a **** no *******
                    attitude...
          no date...
       no psychological fakery...
    no balance on who's who
      and what is paying for a meal...
                               pristine:
                             transparency...

oh but prostitutes don't give
aways their lips pressed against
lips so easily...
         it's like this monkish orthodoxy...
transcend that?
   you ****** about 4 *****
in an instance...
       and plucked out a brush-stroke
from the girl's canvas
                          of her face.

can I see the moon again
or
should I see the stars today

I just want to take them home
with me

and put one on the ceiling

I'm too greedy
taking your love for granted

I use you to feel better
about myself

can I have the moon
and put it outside
for me

I just want the sky for me

not for anyone else

You’re not a poet because you know those ‘fancy’ words
You’re a poet because every word you write comes straight from your heart

You’re not a poet because people admire your work
You’re a poet because you write for your own contentment and not for people's consent

You’re not a poet because you feel alone
You’re a poet because pen and paper are your biggest companions

You’re not a poet because you understand emotions better
You’re a poet because you let them flow freely

You are not a poet because you’ve failed in love
You’re a poet because you’ve been in love deeper than anyone else

You’re not a poet because you are strong
You’re a poet because you don’t hide your weaknesses

You’re not a poet because you can heal hearts
You’re a poet because you know what it means to be broken

that girl will turn you into poetry
she will write about the way your starry eyes shine so brightly
when talking of the things you're passionate about
she will write about falling in love with a mind more potent than
any drug and laugh like wind-chimes
she will write about the way your voice sounds at 3am, the way your
eyes crinkle when you smile, and the way you look at her when you say "i love you"
that girl will turn you into poetry
she will catch every little thing you do
every tilt of your head, every fidget with the sheets, every nervous laugh, and every shy smile
she'll analyze the meaning behind them and put them on paper because she's fallen in love with the things you didn't even realize you were doing
that girl will turn you into poetry
she will memories the feel of your hand in hers, the shape of your mouth, and the sound of your heart thumping as she lies on your chest
that girl will love you like a poet
so be gentle, for many poets die of a broken heart

My death will be liberating.

And I do not say that in the sense
that I am going to find a cliff
and take a good jump off.

No.

I am just trying to find a
clever way to tell you

that I do not know what is going
to happen next.

You see,

there is a
fine line
between
dreaming and
mortality

and

I am finding out for myself
that being in love
does not always
involve

being awake.

And for my sake
I fall in love with daydreams,
nightmares,
hazy realities
and

the hung-over idea

of not being enough.

It is all out of my hands.
                 It is all out of time.

And the only thing I have left to do,
now,


is decide.