two days of constipation
and i'm like...

      never have i made
so much pornographic sounds
in my life:
attempting
to ease out a ****...

like any good german would:
i stand up
peer into the "wishing well"
of the toilet -
yes, trousers pulled down,
socks and slippers intact
on my feet...

          and i was immediately
reminded...
   you know that german
toilets have this...
      curve,
  where a **** is sort of presented
on a plate for inspection,
before it is lost: out of sight
in the english variety...
of: da boamb iz zee dropped...
shelf...

i would never think
of ****** jesus
to be an ukranian band...
i was thinking: hell...
american mid-west...
gran torino -esque...
because everything that
clint eastwood says
is cool,
    like the lego batman...
and i will not look
up the name of the voice-actor
and i will not side
with michael buffer...

       anthony hopkins...
or... alan rickman...
**** me... jeremy irons...
or j. e. jones...

anyway, back on the topic of
               scheiß...
and last time i checked
the worth of a book
was best appreciated
on the toilet: by many a man...
might as well fathom
the toilet in written form...

michael palin!
that's the guy... who did a pseudo
martin portillo
       when touring the danube...
so yeah: no trains...
but german toilets...
very much of what
Poland's culture also gives
is... the shelf...
so you can inspect your
****...

ah: but this isn't
a tabloid newspaper,
after all...
      why wouldn't i compensate
for the intricacies
of homosexual poetics
with an ode to:
the pleasures of taking
a ****...

rightly so: i can't imagine
a pleasure from anything
going into that hole -
due to all the pleasure
of something coming out of it...

2 days worth of constipation...
and i'm "thinking"
like a peter griffin:
i did eat something...
so something must come out...

no good...
3rd day in and nothing is
coming out,
and i'm getting worried...
headaches....
hot sweats...
       so i had to resort
to asking my mother for
some laxatives...
oh... she's a listed
pharmacy library...

   bad back,
          surgery,
and i just listen
to what being pregnant
did to her...
   how i am to blame
for her bad back...

but i get the laxatives...
30ml of a sickly sweet
liquid...
  and i play the waiting
game...
2 hours later...
blitzkireg!

     but **** me,
i never expected what
came after...
namely 3 hours worth
of an orchestra
from a stamped on
trumpet's worth of my ***...

it's felt like:
inflating the *******
hindenburg
or... competing with a dairy farm!

whatever people get off
on...
   i love simple pleasures...
redneck blatancy...
that ****'s just pure:
                               necessary;

sure, i could think of
"low-eve"
   and all that... posturing
designed for psychopaths...
  i'm one brick short
from finishing off the labyrinth
of thought
where my ego is
the minotaur...
  i.e. closing myself in...

i did lie...
   yes... i only wanted to read
a marquis de sade
        novel, in physical
copy, on the London tube...
when doing some roofing
  for a housing project
   at... Colindale...
so i'd be inspected by
a group of teenage girls
giggling at the cover
with a ****...
                 hoping some smart
*** would say
to the girls...
   juliette is not exactly
*****...
   (******?
         his best work)...
   wanted...
   whatever the hell that means...
how i managed
to get an *******
from reading the words...

what is still most memorable
comes from
the biography of the man...
books to be read
with one hand -
    with regards to
the private library of his uncle...

but i'll take my pleasures
elsewhere...
   who would have thought...
but there's a first time for
everything...
   came zee scheiße
  (scheiß, i.e. missing e implies
****, not ****,
started watching das boot...
those germans...
they talk so quickly!)
  but i didn't expect for
the orchestra of farts...
    constipated...
yes... but also very much bloated...
almost 3 days of
dis-ease (i once said that,
beer, old man in tow:
yes, the negation of ease...
astounded wide-eyed
            old man in tow)...

by now i just figured:
does it even matter?
            i can't do an honest
album review...
too many adjectives...
film reviews?
   i prefer to stash that
**** in secret...
           book reviews?
       does that even matter,
should it?
          i spent a decent
month on Sienkiewicz's
3 volume potop...
yes, and i have seen
the film...
            not that i'm
a slow reader...
   but...
        review it?
     how about...
   it's a cognitive tattoo
imprinted on me...
          like certain dates...
1986...
or cities: Chernobyl, disaster,
effects were seen
in Poland...
   strips of:
         radioactive winds
that passed...
level:
    10 metres of burnt
autumnal looking trees
in summer...
   10 metres of summer
         trees: green as envy...

whatever this is...
is what it is...
    as much a case of clenching
fists and attempting
to bark into a punching-bag...
as bashing
finger-tips into
a keyboard...

     because...
   i can never exhaust the reel
of the persistent,
constant blank
waiting at the tip
of the just below
when i figured:

   poetry?
       sure...
                i sometimes end up
myopic
      when having to strain
myself for a literary
paragraph...

                i'll do it...
    but i hate to invest in reading
to also make my feel
as if i have coincided with
doing something meaningful...

poetry: airy-fairy... whatever...
serious literature
and the cluster-****
of the paragraph.