you know what you have to
do to ease the strained
muscle of conjuring a smiling face?
open your mouth,
and then **** two middle
fingers into where your cheecks
"used to be"...
       so you can tow along
telling the bottom and the top jaws
apart....
      like... nice?!
                  a ******* says
you're nice... they there were
no genitals involved...
     she says you're good if you're
wearing a ****** and she
gives you a hand-job rather than
a blow-job...
                plenty of transparency
there, isn't there?
           and i do end up smiling
plenty into the night...
         then i have to ease my face
into a "smile" with an open face...
and then ease up
on the excess of muscle within
the confines of a contortion...
   open the gape up,
       and then stick two middle fingers
to investigate
the flesh from the lower &
upper tier of teeth...
                 lower spectrum of
criminality...
                             the girls want
to sell their smoothies...
                      the girls get to sell their
smoothies...
           unless you're a
******* with one leg:
                better latch onto a pair
of walking sticka...
                  ****...
and the canvas of private
             and an open, white, pixel
cursor to keep mundane middle
up to date?
            why oh why didn't
i use a ***** with a ******* for a
"reminder"?
           maybe too much teutonic
monk knight in me,
also having visited the public houses
of ordensburg marienburg...
     just the other night
i walked past a woman entertaining
teasing a rottweiler on a leach...
managed to pet the rottweiler on
the head
     and not even manage to speak
of a bark back...
        i wonder what happened
to the woman...
        haven't seen the rottweiler since...
******* **** bullhead beast
of pure thumping rot in a bark...
jaw like a crocodile...
                          exquisite beast...
it's like you want to lock teeth
with it, wrestle with it...
     do so much more than just
attach a leash to it!
                 grr...
                it's like an existential
contraception you're
comfortable with, with a rottweiler,
that women, will simply not
allow...
                       give me the tartare
exemplum of being...
    and give your romeo
rose-petals to the current zeitgeist
of women...
           i need raw and i need
wrath...
              esp. the kind plagued
by domestication:
requiring my cranium to mind
the cage...
     and for the caged being
to mind the freelance budding
                                       potential...        
escapist subservience
        of unnecessarily borrowing from
the wild?
    while incubated
    in domestication,
   while retaining a leash
on something
             quasi-wild-and-quasi-domestic?
let me paint you a vision
of future poetry, ******* inspired:
partly coherent: partly barrage...
              verbum qua aqua...
                  suppose you concern
yourself with keeping it under your
sway for too long?
                 for men who have never
certified an hour with prostitutes...
     it's pure: surds...
              the more you speak,
the more the ******* becomes corny...
cliché...
           the less your speak?
            ever visit essex
and stay up all night to listen to
foxes making economic arguments
to continue?
                    wolves?
                          just half the story...
such *** should always be
unconditional about not invoking
         god (words) into the pristine
                        satanic act of: the carnal...
now that the talking has taken place...
the synagogue of satan has
become...
                  deprived with god:
                                              the "******"...
why talk about an act
that's inherently...
                                 immobile in being
              inherited?
      no wonder my allaiance with milton...
that 2nd, blind, homer...
    talk during *** wakes
  the satanic spawn to give answers for...
to excuse: god, the ******...
                unless it's an onomatopoeia...
does the screwdriver and a *****,
a hammer and a nail: require... instructions?
that are verbal, and pure,
                            optical, intuitive?
then my celibacy is akin
   to the celibacy of the teutonic knights
     residing in the marienburg castle:
with a public house keeping:
   less the exotic birds of a victorian english
zoo...
   and more the nymphomaniacs...
                 as...                "slaves"...
no wonder i never dated english women...
i'm happy eating alone
like a feral creature...
         but to eat and lie about wanting
to see true, living sushi
of a **** oyster?
               pontius pilate comes to mind.