on the tier of £110 an hour with a fence
of £10 fee of entry for the brothel,
at £110 an hour you don't get *******
actresses; you get reality / basics,
one ******, ONE, with a bulgarian *****
after she echoed ow for millennia,
after the chubby puerto rican one
took to being aloud with ******* screams
with the window open
in amsterdam looking at the wind
gazelle like for a face of a lover remoulded,
asking her small afro pageboy to get more beer for me
and ******* into a tarnished bowl -
no ***** actresses on the £110 tier of enslaved bodies
like catacombs of ancient egyptian everyday
i wish to absolve history of study;
i learned the etymology of the ethnic categorisation
word of SLAV my own way, and i wish it upon
no other creature.*

supermarket oddity,
here goes,
an audacious thief returns to the same
place twice, but the villagers mind
the second time - the first time a rural
populace becomes an urbanity
that borderlines a natural circumstance of
anonymity;
i went in,
on the menu five bavaria beers
and a 70cl of whiskey,
i usually keep the receipt in my wallet
or in my pocket,
i went in, german army shirt and hood,
black trousers
and green matching shoes,
to the self check out automaton of
pre-recorded voices
i almost felt i was on the serpent
that said 'mind the gap' between the echoing
twirls of iron between liverpool st. and bank
on the central line;
i gave the a.s.b.o.s. tagged bottle of whiskey
for the person minding self-service,
took the crossword basket back to the stack,
came back;
i remember the 5 pence charge on utilising
elongated plastic bags...
hence my backpack...
but the receipt i also remember dating of late
the 12th of january last...
i don't remember buying the five beers i
drank while walking in the wind chill of minus
five degrees, or the whiskey...
i'm just bewildered in a cartesian sense of
that sense of coupling thought with doubt
rather than denial,
but the odd thing is that i felt like i felt stealing
queens of the stone age album from w. h. smith
and then returning it...
but the odd thing is, is that that i stole it in full
view, the sigma fifteen pounds and thirty pence
under supervised eye, paranoiac in me created
a rebellious worker for a corporation,
a real tight blue collar worker, and honest,
above all honest; but the reply to my goodnight
sounded odd; and that's hardly an artist's fascination
with the orbit of mars: it just takes a supermarket;
i glorify such days, where no philosophy is invested in,
but simply an ingenious act of theft -
where the thief is doubtful of the theft, rather
than idiotically denying it.

p.s. you heard of natural selection, beauty in the eye
of the beholder, cloning true on paper with identical
genes, but untrue in fact because of historical events
that would never provide a clone's re logic of the disparity
of events sculpting a different identical you,
so too with this weird, this weird emergence of
natural memorisation, fed schooled memorisation
of pythagoras, typhus and python,
but memory comes back, modelled upon the
unconscious / automation, it's its own self,
selective memorisation, where the child despised once
more speaks, and even though conscious of thought,
certain memories come back, to orientate thought
of one's self in a different darkening: or should
there be one akin to narcissus, as he who fell in love
with his shadow, and instead of a metamorphosis
into spring's fluctuating bloom, instead into abstract
of geometry?