usually a 19th century poem does the impromptu suggestion for my own verse, the groundbreaking stuff of the 20th century is already done, you could see the frustration over the later poems with the 20th poetry - i guess the 21st has conversationalist overtones, necessary for what came at 20th century's closure - meaning? i could let you imagine that i might have a faulty self-esteem writing, using the internet... but i write like i talk over a pint in a pub, obviously sometimes there's some magic in the conversation, the sort of magic that gets you barred from pubs with the lie of throwing a glass across the room... esp. if the pub caters for the losers in society, i guess a barmaid or -tender can have a moment to shine, feel superior, overhear atypical drunkard talking... god forbid if an oliver reed type of fella walks in with a tongue like a foil or an épée (fencing blades) - while everyone talks as if possessing a kebab-knife.

i.

on note, regarding the *épée and the foil -
as you get older (perhaps as i, exponentially)
you notice little quirks in things -
the Olympics, last night's fencing foil final -
but it's not about that as such,
all the pop culture sports are at the Olympics too,
but when they show you all the other sports
god... these pop sports seem so so bland...
it must be the monetary discrepancy -
football... boring... basketball... boring...
tennis... boring... i'd never thought i'd say this:
i'm in on the fencing, table tennis...
ARCHERY... you never get that much variety
in the four years between, which i count on
the list of travesties - when you get pulverised
by sports without providing a variety
you get the end result: hooliganism, borne
from a narrow mindset, a quasi-religiousness
and that pseudo-patriotism - not enough
variety in society, which also means more
money for the professionals... yeah, like
the Icelandic team at the Euros this year:
quarter finals - managed by a dentist.

ii.

and what do you think the clientele in the afternoon
in a town looks like?
many old people, the majority women,
the odd grandad wheezing on a bench,
the cripples, the weirdos and children from school
on their summer holiday... a complete male
Armageddon - i could always feel awkward
not being the "hard working man", the
"i have two kids and my wife works night shifts",
the "i have to get that mortgage", or the
"i really want that Caribbean cruise" -
all those things... then a funeral entourage
pulls into town with a stiff - the dead's parade
of the town, everyone must know, a reminder,
to fall back in line... it's not quiet the death in
the afternoon of a shot of absinthe in a flute of
champagne like old Ernest used to do it -
it's just a bottle of Heineken for me - i like
these sorts of parades of mourning, my sense
of humour kinda jumps up into the outer
hemisphere - well, i did laugh at my great-grandmother's
funeral, something about the priest talking
mumbo-jumbo - felt all a bit like a penny arcade
of a 99 pence shop - i swear that's where they
really rob you, at funerals, they sort of package
you into a dogmatic consolidation of some heaven -
no room for improvement with that.

iii.

it was bound to come to this...
a complete revelation, happened only once to me,
it usually involves a brothel and my drunk,
giving a ******* an ****** is one thing
(she's actually more ashamed than anything...
because she's enjoying her work for once,
and she did say ow realising it, kiss on the hand
bye girl)
but giving her a kiss on the lips is another...
by my count 2... and this little was got so giddy like
a schoolgirl in the cuddle... (just because i drink
doesn't mean i'm a fiend, told you, SEDATIVE &
UN-INHIBITION tonic, potion, whatever)...
but the revelation is bound to *******...
this one elder ******* didn't do what i usually do,
she didn't pull it back... (my version of circumcision,
***** movies do actually teach you a lot -
given there's only a circumcised variety on show...
what? it's like watching a pig in a slaughterhouse);
so it got me thinking, there she is, a fine specimen
of aged prostitution and she's not pulling the *******
back... so men who have foreskins don't pull it back?
that drool of skin is still keeping the cliche metaphor
sheaved? **** me! i mean, if you pull it back
so it looks like it's circumcised you put pressure
with the skin and, as it happened to me once,
leave after an hour having paid £110 (she wouldn't
have lied an ****** for that much) without
having *******... to another one's dejection -
how many? let me think, from a choice of about nine...
7? i became a familiar face at one point...
and when i was almost £2000 quid overdraft on
a student bank account overdraft limit, you know why -
added to the fact that i was experiencing a
Madonna-***** complex feeling in the general
dating, dating app (never had one) part of society,
that Freudian theory is spot on... and it's
a feminine aspect, nothing masculine about it,
so i'm off the hook... i don't know how women balance
the two... but my **** knows (2 in 1 -
you can't tell me that urinating without *******
is pleasurable, no, you can't)...
                                                       at the brothel, no problem,
in life outside this domain... let's just say...
not enough encouraging actions... too many words...
too much talking... *******, sexting, role-play...
the list is endless... so few words are said where everything
feels like a vanilla liquor and smells like bourbon perfume.