i can't believe me luck bound by today, first the rain the sunshine & the double rainbow, then a thai green curry with honey-glazed chicken (lemongrass? of course, coconut milk? a double of course); but then? my, my, my! an offer at the supermarket, a litre of jack daniels, slashed from 30 quid down to 18 quid, as i spoke to the cashier (we're on friendly terms): she inquired what's with the shy grunt-laughter under your nose? you've seen the deal? i'd be mad not to. i know, i bought a few bottles myself.

and then the *pièce de résistance:
finally! a night with the moon making
orbit in the night sky!

    i've sat through countless moonless
nights, and it's more lonely sometimes
than not being able to talk to someone -
then again: a blank page is always
the most decent of all decent listeners,
better than any psychologist,
           i can tell you that much;

and it's less intrusive on behalf of not
only yourself, but on behalf of others,
to not bother making videos,
i'm starting to find them: more and more
annoying, esp. when the video making
implodes, and rarely manages to
scratch any other surface, other than its
own: cry wolf! and cried they did -
    and the wolf came, and the three little
piglets never managed to build that
third house of bricks.

and as i saw the moon walking back from
the supermarket, i watched
this celestial biscuit with its acne ridden
face from meteor exposure freeze and shrink...
they say you can see the most glorious
sunset in the moon,
  as it freezes, from gingerbread,
    through to autumnal orange,
  through to phoenix orange,
  till the point where it freezes,
     and turn into a colour of the perfect
mawler,
         or at least: the skull white of yorick.

back to the jack, and i don't know why,
why is it, that every single time i open a bottle
of bourbon, my eyes flash freeze
and engage in scenes from a brothel
where the bulgarian midwives work?
the eerie lightning, the intimidating
first "hurdle": a man sitting alone
with about a dozen of them, asking for
water, before choosing one?
  
  brothels & bourbon...
the two perfumes fuse, along with soap,
and body cream, and genital juices,
and sweat...
   i don't know how to say it,
but *** with prostitutes is so, so much more
(different) than on a casual date -
you can't really compare the two -
and, if it was only as legal as marijuana
as is the case in the netherlands...
there would be less schoolboy arguments
floating about...
  pristine & puritanical, are we?

if you've never been, you'll never know -
suddenly the freudian madonna-***** complex
emerges and rages battle with the pop culture
of its masculine counterpart, oedipus...
this is actually the one aspect of freud
i adhere to and champion -
   point being? if i didn't go to a brothel
i'd sink into a plethora of thought and inhibition
thinking that i might have an erectile
dysfunction...
      well, prostitutes said otherwise -
drunk like a skunk, lil' john managed to join
robin fiut (fiut? polish slang term for ****)
in the end...
              why is that?

see, another thing, why do interesting lives,
penned, produce the most obscenely mundane books?
for one: ghost writers...
            but who, in their right frame of mind,
pens a book about an interesting life?
         i never understood the concept of
autobiography, if it isn't an on-going, in the moment,
day by day biopic...
         england is rife with this genre,
and the books sell, probably just as well as
self-help leeches, sorry, "guides",
   but why do people think that having lived
an interesting life, an exciting life,
  that a book will also translate the same
interesting and exciting aspect of one's life?

comparison, well, i couldn't obtain a copy
of don juan's, but i got something nearing that
sort of content: harold norse's
          memoir of a ******* angel...

god, what a drag... i did want to buy one of
his poetry books... but these out-of-print
books, at 100+ quid, second hand?
     i had to pass, and buy the autobiography,
but mein gott, what a drag!
           it was twice as enjoyable reading
kierkegaard's either / or than it was reading
about... harold norse's life...
          even reading joseph kraszewski's
wrath of god was more entertaining...
  and yes, the majority of poles even find
kraszewski's prose "a bit" tedious,
             so that's telling you something.

books written as a post scriptum to an exciting
and an interesting life, are nothing more,
than the last breaths of a race horse after
he falls in the grand national race
having misguided a jump over these insane
height hurdles, breaking three of his legs
and having to be put down;
     it would always be more interesting,
to have a book written about you,
rather than by you...

         i write, because my life is hardly
a bungee jump adrenaline waterfall,
  nor is it sky diving, or diving, or anything for
that matter...
   it's comparative excitement comes
from a deal on a litre of bourbon at the supermarket,
sniffing the opened bottle and those
bulgarian girls...
            - like this one time, so i snoop around
the room while she takes my money and leaves
the room, upon returning, seeing me holding
a *****, and she asks:
     you wanna use it?
     and i reply: no, not really.
                too much contemplating taking
a ****, it would seem:
  that hole is reserved for things coming out,
not things coming in; or at least
                                    in my world.

i'm still going to die with the perfume of bourbon
reminding me of brothels, soap,
  body cream, sweet sweat and even sweeter
titbits of hushed tongues,
        talking of such brief,
                  agreements to exchange affection;

which still bugs me why in america you have
strip-clubs, and why brothels are shunned...
i think strip-clubs are the dumbest idea imaginable,
i've been to one, in athens...
             and i sat there, thinking of that
quote from the devil's advocate -

   look, but don't touch,
   touch, but don't taste.
   taste, but don't swallow.

i mean, come on... strip clubs are hardly
the churches that house the adoration of
women, they're more like a sausage fest
  or docile *****... more like the oedipus houses
of mass castration...
           even i know, having seen a bellydance
in edinburgh once that there's more allure
in a bellydance than in a striptease...
what are these men afraid of, not getting a *****,
or not realising the very apparent
freudian notion of the madonna-*****
complex?
              i think the latter, more and more;

here's to it: to brothels! prostitutes! and bums!

p.s. you'll become less neurotic dating a woman
who has had many ****** partners,
less, as it were: jealous,
  but definitely less neurotic.