it was love, but only a love worth writing about, never actually living through: side by side, child rearing, jokes about in-laws, and all that new age acid jazz, akin to penderecki's take on classical music, with shaving blades against violin strings.*

after watching kramer vs. kramer
i had hollywood on my
morning plate,
  or as i like to call it:
post-midnight shenanigans;
(smug faced): french,
toast...
   oh god, and that molten cheese
and some honey drizzled on
those toasts, soaked in beaten
eggs...
          and that was the only
time i borrowed a recipe from hollywood.
i love being a night owl,
i walk around the house,
two cats dead, out,
two adults out cold, asleep,
and there's me playing
jigsaw with my shadow,
  or, rather, attempting to find it...
did you know that
a green bottle tickles the colour
green in shadow?
ever walked the street at night
drinking a beer?
  i can't believe it myself,
but the shadow of the bottle was
tickling green in my hand...
   and then i thought:
****'s going down,
              the black angels
entrance song for assassin's creed....
****, smoking a cigarette will never
look as cool...
wha wha... whoop!
that's next **** that is...
         all the guitar needs is
rhythm man,
   the guitar needs no solo...
  solo is *******,
    guitar needs rhythm,
  to **** the rhythm of the bass...
and hence the power 3:
rhythm guitar, bass, drums...
                            i hate bands
that hide / abandon bass guitar...
bass requires respect,
  more respect than it already
exceeds in... man:
  there's no band without a prominent
bass...
                       then again
the guitar needs to take to playing
cameo...
             i don't mind jerking off
while taking a ****, taking
the one (****), second (****) &
third (*******) on the same throne:
i'm not going light scented candles
get comfortable making a live
video with a docile ******* dummy
a woman might...
in & out, 1, 2, 3...
                   let's get it over & done with,
i'm keeping count,
point of closure: don't make
me ask if it's worth it.
          - i don't type,
i dig:
   yes, a hyphen is a paragraph
indicator in poetry, technical note,
i might add.
                - have you noticed
how the russians do not use
over sexualised language?
              they don't talk about
*** the american talk about...
they just ****,
there's no jug-boasting fist-*******
  antics in the russian's vocab...
you either ****,
or you talk about *******,
b & w from therein.
           personally i found *******
too memorable to repeat it and grind
it to a mundane experience,
so i stopped, had a decent flint
with a russian gall from st. petersburg
for a few months,
went to a few prostitutes,
and then did a st. augustine's manoeuvre...
a sinner turned into a saint...
        all i can remember when
******* her for 7 hours before i
left st. petersburg was watching myself
doing it to her in the mirror...
           and that mighty O...
**** me that O is mighty -
                   mighty O...
and the ripple of M...
****! that's ancient hindu!
right in her mouth... OM!
     O mouth open... M mouth closed trembling
catching the four remaining syllables to
attach to at least one H of the tetragrammaton...
**** once: but **** good,
   not point making it unmemorable,
chore, marriage ridiculed,
  nothing spectacular about that,
only a lesson in physical exercise...
   memorable *** is better than *** in your
dreams... esp. when she's doing ******* with
you lying down, squeezing, plump
as a pear portrait of a full gaze of chalk made
into a firm but erratic dough that
doesn't neglect a chance of s'queeeeze...
             pincer crab of a hand,
  a tender Siamese oyster twin before me...
               ah, woman, the devangari,
the O -
                    ******* with the woman
lying down rather than kneeling...
   M, the ripple of the vibrating lips...
      the eye of the auspicious one was woken,
what came was:
          the price of ******* -
   and with it *** in the white nights
of st. petersburg, the arctic insomnia nights,
  where we ******, ******, ******,
                     and by next zenith of midnoon
tried to erase the memory
      with a conjuring of a placebo headache.