you start reading an article:
why can't a woman post
a bikini selfie and still
be taken seriously...

     surely there's a: not
woven somewhere into that
question.... yes, no?

so i read the opening....
sure sure, ***** for a scalpel,
and that's going far being
the oedipus complex of
a fear of castration,
and a subsequent
                     castrato choir...

hell: but it's o.k. when it's
f.g.m. (female genital
mutilatoon):
     you have the *******!
what the hell do you want my
**** for?!
   the plastic signature of
a mould?!
    and this isn't a cul de sac
of all arguments?

as a drunk, you get to enjoy
your own company...
  so reading this article
i started a minor sequence
of events,
tilted by head,
   opened my mouth:
       and did the jacuzzi...

oh **** the oral *** metaphor
of prying open an oyster
via a motor-boat,
   i know what  
          a mongolian harmonica
looks like...
   (blurp, vibrating lips,
hardly a whistle,
and a moving index between
                   the cushions)...

   but do you know,
what an english jacuzzi implies?
just that:
tilt your head back and pretend
to drown,
with a mouthful of sharpshooter
whiskey mix...
      
   like using a mouthwash,
same sentiment...

                why all of a sudden:
the ramones':
the KKK took my baby away...
good that you asked...
with a tilted head the torso is almost
ready for a snip-and-carry
of a mark... in hot scissor
                  usage...

can't help but laugh at doing: so,
and then finishing the article,
coming to a sensible conclusion:
   much kudos for the...
                                    vector
thieving my attention.

can't imagine many people have
heard of the english jacuzzi,
drunk's paradise:
   i think i'm drowning,
well, i'm not,
but i'll drink the sea with me
                                          nonetheless.

since i really cannot stomach
the technicalities...
     i'd prefer to romance the "addiction"
that's propped-up by "living"
in England,
   upon suddenly, "miraculously"
disappearing when in Poland...

don't know, must be a:
strength in numbers thematic being
played...
         like i: actually might have
been a bus-driver and
mattered, and didn't mind
        some "cruel" take on fortune...
            
        back in this... quasi-scandinavian
whereabouts...
     the atypical grey of Monday...

and the: reading a feminist article
about frizzy-haired, harrowed,
female scientists...
        real trail-blazers...
                the nerds that get things
done...
            
   and then there's the utter
waste, lost to giggles,
   having thought up the origin
of carbonated water,
    by tilting his head
and gargling, faking drowning;
hey presto!
                 a jacuzzi to boot, too!

takes a much harder man to
laugh....
  than to whimp out and cry;

last time i checked,
i walked out from a car accident,
laughing...

   laughed at my great-grandmother's
funeral when the priest began
his litany in transit...

    as upon hearing it from
the "horse's" mouth:
          'this is only the second time it's
happened to me on the job'...
   can't exactly brag:
            concerning what is evidently
an advent of telling the truth...
              you can see authentic
pain on a woman's face
when she hasn't become prone to
her only politics: lying...
no, not doubting, or denying...
   mingle the two
into a dough: like water and flour...

     i should have felt bad
after the revelation...
                                 but she did that for me
as i kissed her hand...
       even nakedness wasn't close
to resembling armour within
              the stature of her "work"...

that's the only time i made a transaction
that i didn't expect to
         get a truth to boot...
          ***** envy is a fringe-movement,
no?