compared to the circumcised
i'm a docile creature...
so many circumcised jihadis,
i almost forget there's
a snippet of them missing...
     the bit where you *******
without complaint
         and the part where
third parties, sort of:
       do away with mirroring
scalping...
   so much for Jesus'
                     stomping on
gentile hands prior to
                     marketing the sign
of the cross...
       this little piggy arithmetic
among lepers...
     and a loose tooth smile...
plop...
          the sound made with
gangrene gums into
the porcelain basin of a chinese
toilet, affair...
    my my, the punctuation
dynamism, further explored,
as if: synonym of stuttering...
     why is it though,
rolling sweet tobacco,
   i have the scent of freahly
scratched cucumbers on
my tips and between
fingernail trenches?
        late spring and rolling
tobacco infuriates me with
a perfume of cucumbers...
what's missing is
white vinegar, a pinch of
sugar, salt, pepper,
Charlotte's odour,
           and sour cream...
         2 months in a city worth
60,000 souls...
           reentering the behemoth
of London and what's
"london" within the M25 criterium
and...
         ****! gone...
                  a drop in the water...
fame and the unflinching
status quo of the numbers...
      fame as: a necessary invested
in P.R. motif...
      and the french, generally eat
letters,
    rigid slavic syllables blocked
my learning of the ***** ******...
  bouquet...
    bucket...
        or, rather: boo-kay...
                    french cannibalise
and no ******* omelette will
serve me an alternative op.
      to not, masquarade the said
acronym to a shift...
               and to mind:
americans and their acronym
exclusions...
     stemming from u.s.a.,
        off a missing of...
   elsewhere the "acronyms"
or, more pignant the resorting
to "chance"
                 p.s. ref.
    points, acronymised:
             (cognitive crossword,
imitating free reign search:
  all algorithm is ronin,
bouncy maxim, just shy
of aphorism...)
                   a memorable nostalgia...
shy of joy...
          not antidote... no...
not the antithesis of...
    ah!
                anecdote!
    what was i thinking of prior?
        tailing off into a cul de sac
and harvesting
the impermament scoff
that is time... given the source
of: hardly a subjective
     "deviation" of a timeless
normative...
                mortality...
sacrificial lamb adrift on
the altar of morality...
                 now i know why i write
poetry...
           i can hardly settle
for solving crosswords...
              cucumber perfume
having rolled tobacco?
            imitating alzheimer's
     in telegraphic broken-
            language?
         lost the patience
to paint... took a photograph?
    and so:
    because the fundamental
antithesis of painting,
that is photography,
                is to make foundation,
in verbiose presentation...
    the opportune moment
was itself-revealing,
           somehow,
accommodating a "self"
          make a frozen puncture of...
photography per se, yes...
  but with all the verbiose
attachments to be: excused...
         hardly necessary...
           because what came from
the frustration of
painters, anti-photography...
if not: splashing paint on
a canvas?
   jackson ******* was
a photographer...
                     not a painter...
albeit,
    in a more lower reminder
of form of the observable
spectrum...
          a photograph worth
a painting but worth
more a thought,
   than what the crude eye
would deem digestably
orthodox, with
comparison.