/                          metallurgy heritage...

yeah...

  that part...

  after being displaced from

a city renowned for its

metallurgical expertise?

   i guess that's "me",

drinking whiskey

   after being overprived
by the sri lankans...

     feeding a theory of
easing the joint of a scissor
"handibook"...

  how?

   applying a cigarette lighter
to the joint...
    doing much more than
a WD40 pary of oil might...

fire: to metal...
   is what a kennel does to a dog...

only last night i wish
i folded my pratice belt into
a liquorice sized twirl into my pocket,
and while katie talked to me,
showing off her tattoos,
and that ******
with the tog started mouthing her
her off with filth!

that moment,
as i did go blind with her...
if i was your atypical man...

the belt, out from the trouser pocket...
snap, whip,
   at the unfolding...
   then wrapped around
my hand like a boxing glove...
and then the thought:
   i should've become a bus driver
type of scenario...

    maybe that's why katie
kissed my clenched arm after i kissed her,
and later her forehead...

i was this || away from violence...
i was ready: if i had the belt in
pocket against the ****** shouting
filth!:

   first the dog...
                             then you!

had i belt on me lodged in
my pocket like a liquirice snack...

     snap! of leather against
the cement...

   and then a hebrew tefillin
wrap for a boxing glove...

         whoever that **** of a *******
was...
   he has to thank katie for
me to attempting a discussion
with him...

        i wish i had my leather belt
in my pocket at the time...

   i'd be like:

   excuse me katie...

     i have to provide transcendetal
                dentistry
              to some "lucky" *******.

i want to fight to the point
of giving myself a plum beneath
the eye-socket!

   lo! behold!
                    "proto-" picasso!

but i really want to buck-silly
against a male's piece of
buttocks...
    
               like a homosexual
might bypass it,
                              doing ****:

albeit...
  with a face.

sorry katie...
                     i wish i had my belt
at me at the time we talked...

  snap, curl, snip...
  and the "fake" boxing glove...

                 apart from fighting him
and him calling 999...

        i was dying to wrestle with the dog
on the leash,

   at least attempting to convert
                                              allegiance:

the pain aspect was always
subsidiary: given
   the over-arch of a conversation with you...

art gallery contra
         tattoos on your body?
                               the latter;
it's just so... "queasy"-edible!

            i so wish i had my belt coiled
into liquorice imitation piece
in my trouser pocket at the time...

         you knot that part of you
when your knuckles feel itchy?!
and there's an adequate face
to punch?!
             and then there's a poem
having missed the utopia of scenario
you later explain?!

    **** me... almost like a perfect
sunset!

   seriously though...
    cigarette lighter,
                 rusty scissors...
   heating up the joint?
                         who needs WD40?

katie... i'm sorry i didn't have my belt
with me, and didn't bunch that
"tom king" out.

               but you, and your body,
are a tate modern.