69 contra...
a ******* crab...
side what copernican?
the tide-spotters
of the Thames,
the ugliest river in Europe...
grey murk just as, lovely,
as the matrix anti
solar energy pale Siberian
tea skies...
  which is why, apparently,
only pregnant Siberian
women drink tea with milk...
Thames... tide coming
in, tide coming out...
watered down bog of mud...
just enough for a party
at Camden and a Clash song...
moves in, moves out,
wriggles like a ******* jellyfish
on asteroid steroids...
pumps the mommy's worth,
came the needle,
the bloated chinese protein
fake's worth of muscle...
sooner an anorexic,
   and the eye of the needle
while we watched the deflating
forearm muscle,
     thet was supposed to be
the waist,
     and the helium,
always with these the ******* helium...
and squeezed testicles
wishing for a reminder
prior to the castrated meat hurdle
at the slaughterhouse....
   the most lucid memory
of my childhood,
   when the slaughterhouse
was still in the urban vicinity...
watching a cow being
towed into the slaughterhouse,
premeditating the end
she could scent in her nostrils...
once upon a time a prized milking
golden goose...
               now: recycling...
but still of use,
not contaminated by animal
testosterone,
notably in lamb meat...
    but that agonising moaning...
see... and that's authentic...
           a true lamb of God
would not have had his little...
ahem... Gethsemane moment
of crisis...
           like that cow, being towed
into the slaughterhouse...
      he was no more a son of God,
than he was the dumb silent
lamb of God...
                    the grandchildren
of the current Sheikhs will burp
for the current extravagance...
just as the Saudis turned their backs
on the Syrians...
                      i too await a worthy
hand, to spell out his name...
Saladin... ah, the romance...
ah the disillusionment with the modern,
ah, ah, ah...
      laila shukri...
               the cow towed into
the slaughterhouse...
     the razor sharp cutting shrill...
a memory, intact, worth over 20+ years...
          and no...
last time I met a vegan...
    she was a struggling anorexic...
           point in question...
why counter the adaptive genetic consistency  
of being lactose tolerant?
sure, there's not water in the desert,
which is why, you don't need
to drink alcohol...
                     start forging for
berries in an icy tundra,
and you'll soon find out that
only modern people, deem alcohol
as a recreational "drunk"...
god forbid that drinking woman,
who turned the ritual bound to Bacchus,
into a cry-into-pillow.