i don't know, somehow i always end up writing
from a lazied, brazen perspective,
almost nonchalantly, nonetheless: with ease,
and most of the genesis prompts begin after reading
a book review and, being disposed with
a reflexive automation mode of expression,
something always trickles down onto
a blank eye of beelzebub (to see);
this time round? a book about princess margaret.*

and what prompted me? a tale of a british
conductor, summoned to kensington palace,
because poor margaret had trouble
falling to sleep (must have been
that infamous pea under a dozen of mattresses
and twice the dozen amount of
duck feather pillow, poor thing) -
here's to admiring a serial killer's *******
sack... yes, i think there's the horror,
yes i think it's despicable,
   but compared to royalty -
     almost all of them seem like: pretty decent
people;
which brings me to the 3 Ps...
          psychiatrists, priests & prostitutes;
how do i put it?
  no, i'm not into the glorification of women
in the profession, then again,
a bit of english has rubbed off on me -
which, miraculously disappears once in
amsterdam; the cliche being:
you head to amsterdam to smoke week
uninhibited and paranoia-free...
  flip a coin though and you'll find
some men head to amsterdam as the age-old
weary sailor -
   got bored of ****, took to the mush pillow
oyster of a **** instead...
       and you go there and visit these women:
because back in england they're still
double-face lying ******* worth of quakers,
or some other puritanical labyrinth
of what is, and what isn't proper,
as in it's proper that i get all the **** and you
get a handshake with the grim reaper
of ****** affairs;
besides the point... if you had to choose
one of the three stated Ps for a counsellor,
a "therapist", which one would you choose?
a psychiatrist. e-onk! wrong answer.
a priest. e-onk! wrong answer.
    you always head to the *******...
why? you use your entire body,
   you're not strapped into a straight-jacket
of formality and that dreaded distance -
a bit like that rené magritte: who always
painted wearing a suit, with a ***** shoved
up his ***: i think he called it magritte manoeuvre
to ease his spinal rheumatism.
       why would you ever discredit
prostitution as simply *** slavery?
you ever considered the idea that prostitutes
give much more in terms of "therapy" /
"guidance" than a bunch of psychiatrists
& priest put together?
   point being, just like today, me's walking
for a whiskey to the supermarket,
three girls just ahead of me,
    two twins (judging by height,
the ***-pear couplet and hair) -
  and they start to speed up their walk...
they even become self-conscious about it
exclaiming: why are we speeding up,
why are we walking so fast!
darlings, it's not yet 9 p.m.,
   all the freaks and pervs come out after
the watershed hour of 10 p.m.,
   but it dawned on me: 6ft, over 100kg,
bearded,
   lazily strolling along with one hand in
his pocket...
  what's that cliche? oh: men like to chase.
honestly to god, once you've been to a
*******, you see women more and more
two-dimensionally...
          so these three does, these three
bambis are racing along, at times hopping,
at times bewildered, and they enter
a side street to clear my path,
   in a split second i'm thinking:
       one of them if going to turn around and
have a last look...
                                  BINGO!