even if you had the ***** to sit across a mini harem of bulgarian women and ask for a cup of water...

well that wouldn't exactly match up
to shoving a flute up your ***
  and calling it barbie.

            but you the most "guilty" humour
comes out of there anyway -
                                how close is the meaning
of **** and farce?
                  
            next time on the crapper you might
ponder ancient kings,
            one of my favourites is either
philip augustus, or ginger fred
                                      (i.e. barbarossa)...

or even gods, a fascinating event:
        loki - born out perpetual melancholy,
yet insightful on the matter:
                            perpetually having a slight
at this perpetual melancholy
   by having to "appear":
   crafting something from nothing,
                and my, my: that smile;
pretty boy doesn't cut it
                                       within the framework
of a: circus of arrest.

unlike the body, the most beautiful mark
of using language comes as if a: discomfort,
or at least a deformity...

            but then again i have images
in my head that cannot be translated to paper...
like hypnotising a fox
   to spot a woman pass it on
a leash of a few inches apart...
      or picking up a dead one off
the street, weighing it, then weighing
a maine ****,
    then dumping it in a field
to spare a sanitary worker a sunday gratis...

   a mature fox? circa 10kg...
              god, this lack of colour is debilitating...
beards: and the persistent fetish
to shave...
                unlike those bulgarian girls...
you could ask them:
   ****** like a stag
           didn't utter a single word -
      upon ****** laughed on one instance -

if ever anyone asked: how can you decipher
someone's age by their use of language?
   i guess it would be more
   mezmo describing toying with "being"
by the ease with which constipation
   was banished from the: sitter on
  the throne of thrones...

                            cuddling in cobwebs...

              a ******* accent here and there...
  
   finally: a release...

                                       and hasn't anyone
ever told you that a single poem can become,
almost like an art gallery?
        no colour versus: plenty of images...
        similar to blinking,
     or when photography really does want
to escape the eye's function
        and return the gaze to embody a canvas,
and escape blinking, blinking sensation
of self-;
                      i muddle: you figure out
         the stiff linear in un-poached spaghetti...

it's just that in the non-english speaking world,
the events of our time
   are not pitted against darwinism:
        i can very well understand that the english
are gifted naturalists,
           just like one russian living
in switzerland was a gifted

   but historiologically speaking...
         i'm in an iron maiden cul de sac equivalent
of crafting it in terms of spoken content...
           i wonder when people will become
bored of darwinism and
    not state the "****** obvious"...
                  
     or as we say in modern parlance:
in the came of con- subcon- and uncon-:
            me, here, going chimp crazy...
              i can imagine harambe wouldn't
have done anything more than dragging
the child from the water...
                 last time i checked, as a child
i stumbled into a bear encosure in
   the danzig zoo, mingled with a baby
bear who ate a button off my cardigan
     with mama bear watching in the distance.

****... now i know why i stopped watching
movies:
     memory is the best sort of cinema...
     obviously edinburgh's cameo cinemahouse
is worth visiting...
    esp. on my bias:
       renowned as:
                  the first cinema i ever walked out of
during a screening of a movie
   that i'm seriously trying to conjure a name for.