on another thought:
   maybe women shouldn't walk
alone in the night,
   in the labyrinth of
    outer-urban streets
              where foxes roam...
esp. if she has the audacity
or rather, the impoliteness
of sharing a footpath
with a man drinking a beer
and not making eye contact,
while she says: under her breath -
GET THE **** AWAY FROM ME...
me, beer, forward
    is the only logic...
       i felt so ******* heavy,
but i just had to laugh out-loud...
      a few steps later
and there she was, once more,
a little dot on a canvas of
cold murk...
             sure, she was smaller
than me,
         but she must have
imitated a sprinting geisha...
      legs almost tied together,
or perhaps: imitation of a centipede...
whatever it was after her:
    cobra wings in self defence...
the logic still stands:
me, beer, ******* FORWARD...
i'm guessing the beard
and some bad experienced:
i showered,
   oiled the ****** hair,
had an amnesia-reversal moment
walking with one beer:
****... forgot to buy ice...
      no point going back
to the shop for merely ice,
so i took another beer...
            but here's this little penny
hushing offence under her breath,
later hearing the reply of: ha ha ha...
scuttling away, a sprinting geisha
in the outer-urban labyrinth...
i wasn't even going to note this,
      but it's worthwhile to mention
who these women are,
             walking alone in the night,
treating the night as if it's
a ******* niqab...
        certain western women think
think they're entitled to treat
the night as the islamic attire...
       but at some point comes the saying:
the road is for cars,
  pavement is for walking,
        i'm having a beer,
what's the problem?
               if we can't walk past
each other...
                   the ******* doing out
so late?
     me? getting whiskey and ice...
how i have become accustomed
     experiencing these lilliputians...
i don't even know how you're going
to cram reverse-psychology dynamics
into them: whatever the hell that means...
but women walking alone
            in these labyrinths?
                      coin flip:
                     witches or prostitutes?
and as some might think:
    i'm more in love with the sound
of my footsteps,
        than my voice...
                  the croaking crow beat
me to that sort of love affair.