i went straight down the hyphenated route, along the winding clay paths of papa simius sapiens **** esse, to see both the western mountains and the eastern seas, yes, straight into the hyphen, watching both the northern infinity (8) and the southern infinity (∞), bypassing scientific equations of the equator by digging to fiji through china.*

i had, and still have two defence mechanism,
a pseudo-impotence within the framework
of the freudian madonna-***** complex
with the everyday girls,
which quickly disappears with prostitutes,
and the fact that, when i was impotent with her
after three attempts and on the fourth wasn’t,
she still didn’t bother to take off the t-shirt i was
wearing when i made love to her,
so all the brass muscle shadow contrasts i was moulding
went to the scrap heap and i returned to the chubby old me
drinking excessively and utilising my lessons in spelling
words using chemical compound complications
of my favoured utilised prospects in the realm of the intellect -
yes, these two defence mechanisms,
because upon engaging with prostitutes in a mirror of pure
functioning objectivity of the ***** and fox
i known a word or two about anti-feminism,
so the t-shirt part during ******* is a shield to prove
the objectivity of the act can progress into the subjectivity of the person,
and because she didn’t take it off, proves my point that
she was nothing more than a *******, or a pole dancer,
which she later became,
even though she was reasonably sane enough to do otherwise.