.one of the "things" i've learned... from exploring the freudian madonna-***** complex of modern woman... when it comes to prostitutes? no erectile "dysfunction"... oddly enough... it's like... two couldrons of polar-opposite subjects met, settled for the primordial object-object relation, and left, each other, to pursue their prior to the interaction: intentions... it's almost fascinating, how the madonna-***** complex would play out in my head, every time i chanced upon casual ***... without a clarity of a transaction... which: is self-evident when going to (either): priest, psychiatrists, or *******. how many examples of casual ***? what, you want me to recount the number of times an emancipated woman, wanted to do it under the bed-sheets... cocoon-style? do it with a *******... **** me: the whole affair feels breezy... you both take a shower prior, there's this whole aesthetic about ***, it's not something clumsy akin to extract from tinder... hence my choice in bypass... freedom... b'ah... the clarity of transation, i'm sometimes allowed to forget my genitals, and smooch for an hour... and when i hear of the modern "game" tactics... clueless... i have absolutely no idea what freedom implies these days, without a clarity of transaction... there's bound to be a transaction moment at some point... thinking about going to a butcher 'elps... i'm raw meat, she's raw meat... there's no chance to experience ******* theatre of subjects, prickly points of interest... labyrinth start-up builders of relationships...  i couldn't imagine myself the theatre of a pick-up artists... i'd hate to pry upon unsuspecting subject matters... point (a) i would be unable to do so, and (b) i couldn't begin to fathom the fogginess surrounding a delayed format of transaction... (c) i'm a terrible liar... at least with a ******* i can be honest... how frequently (d) once every 3 years will do me just fine... one nadir... 5 hours... i was encouraged to do two at the same time, i declined... how did i get the money? i lied about a death in the family... managed to convince the bank manager to extend my over-draft limit... 5 hours... no sildenafil... no three-some... three prostitutes? it was just one of those nights... but... like hell if i'd wish to replicate that sort of freedom among the Loki-harem... of the emancipated women of today's western society... unless forgetting your genitals, smooching for an hour, and hearing the words: you're nice... is somehow gesticulating ***-slaves? sign me up... i once had a wild thought... of applying for the position of bodyguard in a brothel... i know where absolute freedom leads to, as a man, the sinking of VASA... roulette helter skelter down to the bottom of an emptied bottle of ms. amber... while listening to something by GHOST - not ever, no since Abba - i guess a woman's experiencing of exercising the most fanatical variation of freedom... will not be, akin to this "manly" affair of, culminating nonchalence.

while some of us, didn't get a chance
to experience the sort of canvas
of life, whereby multiple
mistakes could be encountered...
and be subsequently
   made...
  i guess: lucky "us"...
regrets? perhaps some,
sepsis like
         stigmatas?
   not really:
like Kafka said,
   hardly a concern
for missing something,
when you've never
had a chance to either
have, or architect
    a sense of loss around...
today i tried explaining
the curiosity of hand-writting
to my mother...
while filling out her
disability form...
     she was caught,
when she found herself
unable to read some of her
hand-writing...
   i can't remember the last time
i used one hand to write,
i've managed to place
my hands to an ideal before
the altar of the keyboard...
why is it then...
that we learn
the french alphabet sequence...
i.e.

   a b c d e f g h i j k l
m n o p q r s t u v w x y z

when...
the keyboard says:

q w e r t y u i o p
    a s d f g h j k l
   z x c v b n m                 eh?

fancy some chiromancy
with a gypsy, ******?!

in the past 10 years?
1 date... sloppy seconds
from a nightclub,
we spent 2 hours in a park
drinking wine,
we moved to a pub,
she lied about meeting friends
for food,
            i stayed,
finished a pint...
    what? she couldn't keep up
with me...
   i drink: that's basic...
but even me drunk,
and her somewhat sober,
would not have
    become convenient
on subjects matters of
a shared interest...

don't know,
i forgot about how i was supposed
to feel when i followed up
on a meaningful transaction
in a brothel...
           feeling is not exactly
a privy concern for me,
as a man:
i'm supposed to be both
the object, and the natural
proclaimation of
the source of objectivity,
of categories, of boundaries...
i'm not a woman,
not a subject,
   and all of what subjectivity
i'm supposed to entertain...
no, that's gone too...

but animals like me...
i find it hard to force the she,
cat, from my bed when i've finally
drank my last of ms. amber,
and it pains me...
i remember one relationship,
****** me up....
i tended to fall asleep
embracing her...
spoon? is that what you call
cuddling behind her back?
always on the left side...
   i never wanted to let go...
but then i realized that
the entire left flank of my body
was numb...
   and then i'd flick myself
to the other side,
   and she would do
the antithesis...

      love's most gracious moments
are solely confined
to the cinema of memory.

two proofs of solipsism...
as a non-thought experiment...
(a) handwriting...
people are so defensive about
their handwriting,
   it's as if i'm expected
to be able to read their scribbles,
their chicken etchings...
it's enough that i can read
my own... but theirs'?
**** me... near impossible...
notably with the pulverising
norm of script, writing done by two hands...
what the hell are people expecting?
(b) farting...
   that's not even funny...
how many people can you find,
who would find their own farts
"offensive"?
      imagine a crowded tube carriage...
well... you shy one out,
a ****...
   who can stand this perfume,
the most?
   only you...
        i'd love to be a jewish matchmaker
on the grounds of:
  well... only if you can
   spare yourself to stand
each others' farts;
         what a dating utopia.

a vague memory of relationships,
something,
as vast, as it is nothing but
an act of sheepish nodding...
     to be so dependent
on another...
           to set about i.q. plagiarism,
to make "things"
mutually inclusive,
rather than keeping
a mutually exclusive attitude...
to format
          gemini in siamese?
i could sacrifice my i.q. upon
this altar,
but seeing my previous attempts
to do so...
   and seeing them fail...
i'll just stick to the original intent,
me, object, her, object,
   at least i.q. doesn't matter
in relation to prostitutes...
and have you ever seen
a self-objectifying woman?
where she can't play tricks with
contraception?
   that's what put me off...
      
   once again: sad, happy, morose...
is that even relevant,
esp. now?
           you can't get more
"puritanical" ***,
   other than with prostitutes -
two people, anonymous,
with with their faces
later like tattoos on their memory...
1066... a tattoo from my surrogate
mother, England...
   i'm supposed to remember it...
i sure as **** remember
           Edward the Confessor...
i don't know why...
but he's my favourite king...
he's just, so... nuanced in a mingling
of availability and vagueness...

loser living with his parents...
cooks, cleans...
   weird...
   and drinks a liter of whiskey
almost every night...
and the cats like him...
   and he's not homeless...
  what sort of man is he?
a curiosity,
an oddity...
          i still don't know why
these "people" put up with me...
perhaps i'm only the well
assured ******* on a piece
of paper...
         oh: that high-threshold
of experiencing pain?
   it's a schizoid "thing"...
or a bilingual "thing"...
     ha ha.... i forget which is which...
what sort of drunk am i?
pedantic about spelling...
curious about the behaviour
of vowels, in hebrew,
acting as pseudo-diacritical markers...

    eclectic interests...
but then... a focused narrow expression
of but a handful of interests...
the sort of "miracle"
that is not looking
for an antithesis of "god"
via... passing on the genes;
what was that about,
to begin with,
                 in the atheistic circles?

i began and i will end with
this observation:
of atheists concerned with passing
on the genes...
as... highly, **** me: highly suspect.

p.s. i tried, once, or twice,
to allow my cat to sleep with me
in the same bed...
   no chance...
     so... me sleeping in the same
bed, with a woman?
if i can't sleep with a cat in the same
bed?
   where would a woman
fit, into a revision?