sometimes reality is the most infuriating thing
to some people,
               and sometimes its bites,
unexpected, as if: it didn't have an allowance
to exist in the first place...
         oh no, not some mediocre:
ahem, hollywood fiction therapy sessions
that turn into: less a fiction, and, more a fantasy.
me? some people paint,
                      i cook indian cuisine...
take for example the following two recipes:
thai massaman curry...
              the perfect antithesis to thai green,
and yes, i went to the local turk to ask if he
had some lemongrass shoots...
     fortunately for me, i still had some stashed
in my fridge...
          or the chicken pathia...
            who would have thought that indians
use vinegar mingled with sugar,
  well, on top of the plum tomatoes,
   i'm not surprised that you'd need to add
cinnamon to the couldron...
                   you know: to balace the sweet
from the acid...
                              i love when married
men talk about prostitution, and ***,
   you know, those beef men all jacked-up,
boot-strapped, well: wearing boots without
any shoelaces...
                         somehow, if you managed
to see the atypical example of what 110 quid
will get you...
                from the elder prostitutes...
                    sure... you can spot acting
                        like you might spot
                               a dove among crows...
see... mmm... problem is when a *******
expresses a certain, piquant pain...
              no, no sadomasochism type *******...
expressed with the words:
      ouw... that's only the second time
it's ever happened to me while working...
   see the difference between acting,
           and, well... it must be a moral conundrum!
the pleasure of the act is there,
   but not by the way it has been achieved...
razors tearing through flesh...
        a kiss on the hand, and a hapless naked
body bewildered as to whether sit on
                the bed naked, or get dressed...
or how you can jump out mid-*******
because the bulgarian is so **** ****,
jump into a bath in the same room that
the bed occupies, and spray ice-cold water
onto yourself, while she's still in bed,
         ******* herself, watching you
react to her body in such a way as to not
    employ: *******, ******-clippers or *****...
that must have been acting too...
          two or three memories will suffice,
and this **** can go on like
   fast & furious 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7... 8?!
                        hard to be bored when
certain memories are engraved onto your
forehead like the hebrew's name of their
god are, but instead: a loop of what
  i'd like to return to, if eternity, were but
an hour... in that brothel soaked with an air
of jack daniel's perfumery...
don't ask me how they did it,
   but bourbon, unlike whiskey is riddled
with brothels, rather than some highland
                                        distillery...
so when the public discourse goes steaming
ahead into absurdity, there's me,
sitting in a dark corner, brooding over Dalí
               ******* Bacon: or rather...
                         adding lacklustre to the latter;
because bragging is one thing,
       and spotting a terrible actor is another...
nothing pains a ******* more
      than experiencing authentic pleasure
  from what she deems both pleasure,
       but also a chore...
                                    as of now:
          i have already washed my hands clean of
engaging in this popular mainstream narrative...
*** in vitro is probably an adequate picture
to visualise...
                         mind you:
   harder to steal a kiss from a *******
than it is from a ******...
                               since there's
   the lex labium:
                                  of those who ever
used nettles to cure an itch,
                       but hey...
             a wife is a wife,
                     and a child asking to be kissed
goodnight... must certainly be the least
of your troubles as i kissed both the lips
          of a skull, and the lips of a flower...
but of course! that's the problem!
                    as with the past,
          and the children tucked in neatly for
the postcard smooch into the land of nod...
          my... behind closed doors,
anything can happen!
                                           but as i said:
some people paint...
             no army as great as that of russia or
america, has this sort of arsenal of spices
as i have in my possession...
                         it's a ****** hard lesson
to utilise fenugreek seeds...
                       i guess i'd have to begin with
the leaves first.