my godmother was a doctor,
and a drunk,
         she actually witnessed
a drunk fall from a 7 storey,
               ****-limp-numb like
a sack o' potatoes
       and walk away, muttering
the word: kurva...
               i guess there are heftier
concerns for scoring luck...
in that i am also competent:
lucky for me i didn't attempt
to extend, breed a d.n.a.
                          claustrophobia,
and the almost immediate
                 concession for (a) pathos...
maybe this whole human being
with a capacity to do no ill
    is concentrated in how
the romanian women might remember
me...
          two compliments
worth the servitude
                  and, the other bits
in between came from prostitutes...
         along the lines of: dobry (good)
an miły (nice) came from those
infernal gloryhole mouths...
      i can't even begin to fathom
    a philosophy book that strips away
the narrative and entertains
   a dialectic,
        ****, Kant tried it with his
thesis / antithesis section of the critique,
but that's about it...
             not that i mind,
i like the "un"-fathomable quest for shadow,
the cold, and obscurity...
    and to think:
         tomorrow will be just another
day in a life of an other...
             perhaps i'm too much
of a ****** of life,
                   perhaps so much so
that i'm not exactly                      pro vita,
           competence with
a quill, on the whim, a chance to spot
a sputnik,
        and some bull-******* in between...
but at least i missed: the game,
in that i've had the pleasure
to experience an hour's worth of
pure, unadulterated formality...
          most of the time it felt like donning
a tuxedo, drinking a martini,
            albeit standing stark naked...
bypassing the games,
         the supposed: clinging by
                              faking pregnancy...
or not... or whatever the hell goes on
in that Freudian hell-hole of a cranium...
       short, and, sweet...
         i'm acutely aware of the individualist
perspective,
           but only slightly,
   in that:
                 is there an Atlas-impetus to
        listen to an individualistic argument?
i don't mind being the:
   ****** off into a tissue flushed down
the toilet aspect of humanity...
                   an unconscious bias against
women beyond the fornication
sphere...
                  if that ***** of a nurse at
the hospital didn't attempt to almost choke
me to death, enlarging my heart
and giving me a hospital stipend on
the receiving end of: "looked after"...

   well then...

               water under
the bridge...
                    which is plenty of water...
   bored to death listening to
my grandfather talk about his grandfather
with a desire to: actually meet him...

  i've become tired of dying...
               the fact that i wrote something
shows little depth to sustain
a predicament...
    that's always:
          the life that dies before the actual
death: memory...

         it's almost abhorrent,
this, "natural" selection of memory -
           and yet:
   so much of the faculty is wasted
upon learning arithmetic....
     education as an erosion of memory...

i don't hate women,
     just haven't the chance to know one
that stayed around
    longer than the current cats clinging
to me...
       a woman is a concept akin
                       to: growing a third arm...

enough love stored to know
that there's little allegiance behind it;
sure, plenty of potential,
        just like my sober hours make
a lot of sense...
                just enough to spot
the social contraints of acting without
a theatre...

             mind you,
it's almost funny that i forgot my genitals
after i threw one hundred and ten
quid into her lap...
      
     plain ******* doughnut:
               no secret fetish,
                      apart from -
                                    the other, warmth;

a one-dimensionality of a blink,
  with regards to no elaborate sexualisation
   of the matter...
                  something, almost...
  thrilling;
                 still, a persisting thought,
           the thought that's an ought i
without an immediate outlet of an
                 auto-suggestive reciprocation.