/   but if i'm crying, writing this... the **** are, you, doing?! not reading jack spicer... are you?

i can pinch the tip of my beard,
twist the hairs
into a reminiscence of a pointed
goatee...
          make a strong point
(cognitively)
          for wanting to shave again...
and then remember
the tender hands of
a bulgarian *******
  fiddling with the assortment
while we tried doing
a siamese twin "thing"
      of being left, upon parting,
intact...
                  except:
and there are plenty to be made...
to counter
his experience...
   watching snow fall at night
under street-lamp,
and the granary of cognition
of birch trees, at night, in winter...
brain melting...
     probably twice as
unfathomable as a chemically
induced
                "buddha" gimmick...
lips and such
  a beef worth of a thigh on
this woman...
                 like eating
chunks of beef:
               singing a vide cor meum!
take it as you will...
a garden in daylight,
      a graveyard in moonlight...
which is which and what
is what?
             you know the greatest
parlay of a man and woman
resides in?
          a man crying while
listening to music...
               beats an ******:
every, single, time...
         why?
                    it's:        pristine!
you can't be a man and tell
me that crying during
a performed piece of music
is not better than a shared ******,
can you?
               that ******?
it's a butterfly reflection
of the world...
          much shorter than
          a mortals' game of a kept
                                           hour...

but with a *******?
          kissing?
      sacred earth:
      send me to the ninth heaven!
it's equivalent to
  a hippocratic ecstasy!
   a tarantula claw
of handling
              the euthenasia "debate"!

touching a mirage of a soul:
       while experiencing a mirror.

  marcel schwob is not part
of the equation...
   for an hour's worth of my body
entwined with hers...
  minus the Turkish pimps...
   i'm guessing she's getting 80 quids'
worth of payment...

but music?
    and a male crying?
          you can't fathom such
a sensation making ****** 2nd....
                
yet memory exfoliates
the subtle gestures of
      the parody of hands
              touching another body...
notably woman's leg sequence
of detailed derivatives
         composed in unison to walk...

i can only trust turkish barbers...
   silly ol' me...
                          but to stomach
half an hour sitting before
a barbershop mirror,
  and not have a turk attire me
to look presentable?
an english essex hairdresser
homosexual:
           "doing" his "magical" part?

sorry: either an ottoman
                does the job -
      or i'll let the wind become a brush
to stroke
        a respectable form of
the ****** hair...

             what an hour:
and straight with no dues into
a **** no *******
                    attitude...
          no date...
       no psychological fakery...
    no balance on who's who
      and what is paying for a meal...
                               pristine:
                             transparency...

oh but prostitutes don't give
aways their lips pressed against
lips so easily...
         it's like this monkish orthodoxy...
transcend that?
   you ****** about 4 *****
in an instance...
       and plucked out a brush-stroke
from the girl's canvas
                          of her face.