simple...
  the 3Ps...

                   priests,
psychiatrists,
              prostitutes...

i went to one
by mandatory
standards
of going
through
a catholic education
system...

proud moment:
played
a xylophone
   in a nativity
play...
so no,
i clearly wasn't
the dumb
kid who played
Joseph
and ranted
some *******...

back of the bus...

psychiatrist?
oh yeah...
  the usual cocktail
of mind-numbing drugs...
i was "discharged"
from seeing one,
was never admitted
to a mental institution,
told one i read Kant
and, like her,
i too was a fan-girl
of r. d. laing...

ha ha... fan-girl...
you get the idea...

but then the, lucid
moment... a *******...
**** me...
      that's a *******
snowball in and of itself:
effect...

      which made me question...
Jack the Ripper's intentions...
why prostitutes?
what so bad
about prostitutes...
when... clearly...
they can replace
both the priest
    and the psychiatrist?

2 birds, 1 stone...
psychiatry: pandering
to what?
   chemical juice of the brain?
my so called
i.q. soup?
   yeah... thanks...

  priest...
       pandering to what?
the priest's *******
voyeurism?
    confession is about
giving him a hard-on
while i'm strapped
to an oyster digesting
my *****?
thanks...
   but i think i'll keep
the testicles,
as i've rarely noticed:
the pope can keep
his castrato choir
and paedo-fiddly-bits...
as the sheikh
the harem of bored
    lazing akin to female
seals...
   in need of: less *****...
but as insurance...
   a castrated male...

bit off too much
to actually chew, yes?

well...
  that's why i was left
with the third P
  of the PPP of society...
a *******...
  such responsible creatures,
one even told me
that she goes
to the doctor for regular
s.t.d. checks...
no problem with using
a rubber...
hell...
   i'm not circumcised...
   so when i imitate
a circumcised *****...
i also don a c-ring on the tip...

plus side...
   i don't have to feel
guilty about jerking off...
favorite videos?
eh... you know...
the usual...
   a girl doing the same...
on the opposite
side of the screen...
but for me...
no bed, toy, scented
candles...
   when i'm,
and i'm always doing
it on the throne of thrones
it eases up my
**** when i'm slightly
constipated.

the holy trinity,
doing no. 1,
       no. 2 and no. 3...

and not once,
not even once...
  well... once...
when i forgot to trim
my ***** hair
and asked her to just
smooch...
   not a single time
had i ******* issues...
you should have
asked me about
Tamara...

living with three homosexuals,
who wanted to do it
blind drunk under
the bedsheets,
who later had a bath with
me... who later dumped me...
picked up on a random
night out to Shoreditch...

well... yeah...
didn't have an *******...
but seriously...
cocoon ***?
  under the bedsheets?
and all the lights off?
it became too much
of the unbearable lightness
of being scenario
as to whether:
  no... **** with your eyes
open, yes,
  kiss with
         your eyes closed...

so she ****** off to Ibiza,
as she said,
  "looking for love"...
while i ****** off
to a park, and a bench,
   and a decent amount
of beer,
   being approached
by a man who showed
me a mathematical
magic trick,
   and lamented how
he was living with a woman
who was allowing
their son to smoke
dope freely
   and that it was turning
the boy psychotic...
and it was...
the most unusual part
of London, south of ol' Thames...
close to the Oval ground...

and...
tragically...
you're reading this,
   and have realised
                   there's a 4th P.