what's with this english avocado on toasted bread recipe ****? can i have a poached egg in a sock to go with that? i kinda like ******* it out through the cotton gridlock of squared fabric.*

as i tell most people these days
with my silence...
i can understand a mathematical
expression of it (language),
e.g. go and buy me a kilogram
of potatoes, here's five quid...
sure, that i can understand,
anything outside this realm?
**** knows, i don't...
undecipherable & idiosyncratic,
it needs *** anyway to become
realistic, an embodiment,
no point ogling a *******
over cute rhymes;
it might as well be a postcard
from the Martian version of Hawaii;
just a thought i had, finishing
a meal after 20 hours of fasting
ending it on a little nibble of an apple;
now doesn't a return to Eden look oh so tasty?
obviously the apple was like an after-mint,
strange meats and all prior...
now my stomach feels like a Houdini trick;
and there she was, life with life inside...
suddenly the stark naked night as the second
womb that my life was to become, a life in death;
the moon her ego, her womb the sea,
not the sea of travels and safe voyages,
but a sea of mythology, of mermaids
clawing at drowning sailors;
they really took it out on her, poor gwyneth,
playing the part of sylvia plath;
it's like she was supposed to play the role
but not write a life / diet manual,
or like she wasn't supposed to play the role
and write a life / diet manual;
anyway, wish she won an oscar for that
rather than that premature role in shakespeare
in stockings and a strap-on.