but i like drinking and i like the drinking me;
plus there's ~8 billion of us,
what sort of personal are you trying to get,
considering that everyone else
is attempting to create a personality
without a personal life to be mentioned,
look how you can create a disclosure of a personal
life without the narcissism of a personality
that's nothing more than p.r.;
yes, i'd like a postcard from you,
but in the oddity that's the internet,
an interactive phone book... an interactive phone book,
you never... you never seem to peer intently
at anything but the basic visage surface of
not interacted with.*

i too shed a crocodile tear
when i didn't, and could be boyfriend material,
but my libido wasn't satiated aged 18 to 21...
and when a girl readied herself to shoelace me as boyfriend
material... it was already too late...
by that time i objectified too much,
and was given too much object than subject
because i didn't experience the object enough
and because of that, couldn't find a subject to
relate to: wedding ring, gown, napkins, life insurance...
i just turned my hand, a ******, into a feminine skull
and read kant... oops...
i also found cosmopolitan magazine query material
as she stated to be ahead of girlfriend,
ahead of wife... mother was long gone,
as the title entitles a change of dimension
of the ones who did the pyramid in reverse...
girlfriend comes last for them...
or at least they congregate in old age
when all the males are dead and the females
are left alive...
i wish i didn't start ******* aged 8...
but i also wish i didn't...
there was no pathology inclined when puberty
kicked in...
i'm against 8 billion people and only one answer
that's a spectacle, akimbo by the the Thames river
by Tate modern...
'i'm telling you, get the paranoia drill ready...
i've been shopping in the same Tesco for a month,
a bottle of whiskey and a few beers a night...
today i spotted a change... they changed the generic
everyday value labelling to SCOTS CLUB
at 50 *** (pence) more... the shufflers
wearing gloves murmured: something,
something different... when i'm dead they'll just
say rasputin walked these aisles...
the generic bottling of whiskey disappeared...
but still the generic labelling anti-capitalism cheap
of citric barley with caramel colouring at 17 pence...
well, that's me.'
there's two of them buying excess wine...
i elongate **** after wine, i can't hibernate day-to-day...
hey arab! lookout, you diabetic wannabe,
check your sugar levels before you ask me to
check the percentage of alcohol when i walk...
watch it.
two girls talking, want to include me,
one says her boyfriend texts her with accusation
as if they're married...
the other asks whether the one accusing her boyfriend
of matrimony lax will pay for the bottles of wine...
she says she's phil collins... so she's o.k. next day
in paradise:
celibacy ogling i too add: i'll be playing the tummy
tum drum when the echoes of hunger recede
into feline growls, or hidden burps.