.jordan peterson is right, it's unrealistic to watch *******, and even begin to "think" that i might **** these women... correct... absolutely... i get the ones who drink beer, are Thai bisexual, which i find on park benches, invite home, play some Miles Davies, and later **** in the garden... it's unrealistic, for sure... but then... watching modern *******? so... these women are exhibitionist, masochists and nymphomaniacs, bound into one?! no wonder Italian ******* from the 1970s seems more tasteful, compared to all the gagging *******, and impromptu ****... jordan peterson is right, i'll never **** these women... but... there's not obvious reason why i'd want to, either. once upon a time, when ***, was like fine art... and you weren't forced to choke via *******... and **** wasn't exactly an option; but more like a hand-job.

you know that moment when a song,
   that turns you into a human
body drum kit of tapping
along to the beat...
when there's actually a bass guitar
signature reference...
and at some point in
the subtle intermission...
you stop grooving...
slap your thigh...
   grunt out: oomph!
puff! blah la la. oomph!
get your moccasins on...
and... look at the up-side of things...
you won't be *******
with your socks-on during
the one-night stand...
  or for that matter: cocooned
under the bedsheets...
there's nothing worse
than ******* with your socks on...
well... there's *******
under the bed-sheets...
        - p.s. why do people think
the 1980s were a ****** decade
for music?!
     the 1970s were *******...
with all their disco...
                  plus you had the counter
with all the e.m.o. ******* of
Joy Division and the Cure
and what became grunge...
    Phil Collins?! go bro!
w'ooh w'ooh!
            wallaby!
you want bad music?
listen to some krzysztof penderecki...
because i know what these people
are doing... pop music is,
supposed to be infectious...
you can pass on some jazz...
sure... but pop music:
why beat yourself over liking
something you can't exactly control...
no jacket required?
seminal album... no song in particular...
let's face...
genesis is... what genesis is:
not exactly pink floyd of king crimson...
the solo artifacts
of P. Gabriel (Solsbury Hill)...
         P. Collins (take your pick)...
sure... selling England by the pound...
of the women i loved,
i loved to what could best
describe itself as an antithesis
of cinematic romance...
and... for it's worth:
      i returned to myself satisfied...
subsequently,
between Ms. Amber and Mother Death...
the women around me
went around minding their own
business...
     and i went around minding
my own...
                and the sun glowed,
rose in the morning,
and set itself beneath the sea
come the evening...
          and the moon played
peekaboo...
                    and all of what was required
was ingested...
with all the excesses
scattered for others to pick up
and make additions to their lots
of the mortal whole,
otherwise called life,
otherwise called breath and soul...
            mutter tod:
                i am on my way;
fear not, i have no Sylvia Plath tugging
along...
       i never dared to live the kind
of life associated with Ted Hughes...
   just prostitutes, prostitutes, prostitutes
to the best of my accomplished
fathom that constituted memory...
    a love by an hourly rate...
                   and we laughed,
and we cried...
  and we kissed for said hour,
after having forgotten to trim my *****
hair to allow *******.