it's amazing that i once had the idealistic fancy of loving, rather than owning a woman... not that i realise there is no point if let's say chance of loving a woman, because only owning a woman is guaranteed... i find it much easier, owning a dog, or a cat, or enough ****** hair to put off enough women guarding a bikini line.

for some strange and ****** odd reason,
i love punching myself in the face,
reason being: i can't remember the last
time i punched a paddy silly
in the kidney region, as i did,
back in high school -
name? a kieran o'mahoney;
kissed that paddy's kidneys
with my knuckles right a proper
readied poach of the frigit fist:
he ought to know, he was dangling
off a south park fence by his
underwear, screaming like
a homer simpson: who invented
the ****** carousel!
       he had to lift the ****** off
his impaler commune of vlad's
choke joke with citation needed:
never seen an irishman on one
of these,
   i can't but laugh in oink.
             i miss those days, i remember
chasing this slavish blonde *******
while kicking him in the **** with his
big brother having to intervene...
but i kept punching as if it was a screening
of *fight club or
the viking raids, but never rapes...
       i actually fall asleep thinking
of ******* an english girl without ******
her...
     i never get to **** her,
so she's oh so pristine...
            she prefers the elder gents it
would seem...
so i keep punching myself
for mere amusement -
        and while i turn my tired
knuckles into plum from ivory beneath
a pink membrane of agitated skin,
   i think somewhat of what begins
with shamrock, and ends up a purple
thistle...
                 then i think of georgie
and wales...
        and then i think of nothing
much to be added...
       the closest i came to a princess
margaret was an australian lass...
      i thankfully stopped wishing for
an english lay...
   i just found those pakistani gangs
****** english girls,
  that tad bit more: entertaining:
phew! jealousy just flew out da window!
after all, she was the one with
the "surprise" -
    i was expected to be salvaged
as the perfection of fatherhood -
       with an un-awaited pregnancy -
next time make sure to remind me
to put on three pairs of condoms,
and a rubber glove, and a wellington boot...
just to make sure...
      i'd sooner **** a monkey
by this sort of "bargaining" tactic
than a women in her prime,
or better still:
       bargain with a grandma's worth
of debate about the post-office...
how i wish i'd been able to love women,
but how impossible
  loving women was made impossible,
by women themselves,
   i once craved to love the opposite -
how i once craved to love women,
then came the reality of the opposite
suggestion:
     matt, become a farmer,
cows and pigs and dogs, mice and cats,
and figs will love you more,
than that "thing" you so desire -
sooner a tongue in an oyster shell
will feel more pleasure,
than that **** of yours, in an imitation
of a mollusk;
              oops: matt, please,
give it to the arab...
                   he's already been pussified -
there's no way you can harm
that camel-jockey;
and that is, a very sad realisation formulated
to verse,
          i once had juliet on the tip
of my tongue...
        now my tongue is but a vaginal
flap of juliet's genitals,
and my ideal is as close in romance,
as me, romancing my mother,
which means: so your orangutan cousin,
twice removed, is looking for a partner?
i might as well punch myself in the face
once more, grow a plum on *******
knuckle... and reimagine
not being gay, while at the same time
talking to plato: ah, the woman, that ideal
dream...
  that comes, and suddenly goes -
like an insurance policy;
well, it was worth the dream,
     dreams are nice...
   at least they continue to be re-lived as
the perpetually unlived, unreal; ideal;
which actually allows observing real women
all the more disgusting,
which makes all women akin to one's
own mother...
     and that's in a non-oedipal sense of
constipated intellectualism -
from a **** i came, unto observing
the **** i go.