comes the love, that loves to hate: then comes the hate, and the camembert; just like they do korn's a.d.i.d.a.s. and bryan adam's summer of '69.

headphones elevsate the "idea"
of past girllfriends,
the exes, the *** ss, ss, sassy
*******...
  one?
   i just keep laughing and grinning
till me cheeks hurt like
someone completing the tour de france...
believe me, everyone seems
to hate phil collins -
but that song *sussido?
she's her...
     you really think i was going
to yong-yong twirll a yoyo
   when citing her name?
   all she said:
   you me, & my younger sister...
a desert island...
              **** me she didn't
throw her mum into the mix...
1980s twice over...
                   i couldn't be happier...
the mere idea shakes my bones
to a moondance...
i know phil collins
is some sort of target practice,
some sort of bulls-eyes
to reach toward the indie heights
of mogwai...
        or whatever you want to call:
keeping it just appropriate
lonesome...
                 and that means, what?
candy crush saga with prozzies?
ain't you the classy buck!
    never mind that,
every time the headphones
are equipped i know i'm
at the house where the party is at...
please forgive my phil collins
like...
          you only get ****** trans
music in brothels anyway...
   and that's only the bulgarians
transitioning to romanian babes...
but this one girl...
forget it... she's gone...
mother of three, and all the more
readied to be done aged 80...
i'm actually praying for the end
aged 45...
                come on...
given the 80s: sussudio?
               the only make-up i wear
is yesterday's hangover...
flanked by rugby puffs under the eyes...
so i am,
"technically" seeing doughnuts...
        and yes, the shrunk bladder...
why is it that no more adventure
comes from travelling to the land
of thai... than it is,
having found adventure in the land(s)
prescribed?
         but there are the giggles,
rather than the moans...
and there's her younger sister,
and thank **** not her mother...
that would be thrice as weird...
                  but there's the smile,
a lost, and ever forgetful claim to
a memory...
          lost in the tract of passing time,
and chasing ambitions,
of ******, through to girlfriend,
through to lover, settling in
companion / mother, the retired aged...
how gracious,
   to be fed lost ambitions
as a persistent narrative
  of any if not every lack of
                                         "thought".

those that savour the upkeep of spring
and the eternity of it,
stretching into both spring & autumn,
care to keep their hearts
as patrons of atlantis:
the ice-bergs:
        so little above the water,
                yet so much below, in the depths;

only those born as the sole inheritors
can claim an understanding of solipsistic
endeavours...
               that the kindred of the chinese i am
and by that: worth of a certain zeitgeist:
i am too...
                   how can solipsism be explained
by people who grew with brothers
or sisters?
         how can it be, and then degraded
into a psychiatric embrace?
      who are these freaks, these western
socio-political-pathogens?
                         these diseases?!
i don't like them...
                  i'd only think once
concerning exterminating them from
the temple of thought:
they just stink the ******* place out...
   i don't want them here...
they belong on the crucifix of rhetoric...
they really require their tongues
to be crucified, mutilated,
        chased, and extinguished!