.you're kidding me, right, U2 is the new phil collins?! me? i've never achieved the chance, to keep up sober people's mories... morose... moon-dabbles... whatever you want to call "it"... last time i heard, phil collins was the problem, then U2 started to become the problem... then bradley cooper never made it to the western genre's revitalization... at that point, i could only fathom some giggles.

i once had an ex-girlfriend,
                        russian,
who... made it her fetish,
whenever she heard me
                                   utter the word...
  crumpet...
nothing new, just your atypical
english invention..
   crumpet soon became
her focus for...
      pet-word,
for lovers...
  which... never became much,
of a fruition
or a relationship...
    she should see me now...
how i gobble a scone
and absolutely butcher
a hot-cross bun...
   with some crème fraîche...
hot-cross bun,
some butter and crème fraîche.,
a glass of milk?
   still wavering on the ****-side
of "things"?
******* cannibal...
put some classic 90s U2 in
the background,
and you have yourself
a ******* berserker...
joshua tree...
sunday ****** sunday...
it's not even a "question"
of the beatles vs. the rolling stones...
U2...
        you just want
to head-**** a few irish-men
in between the scoffs,
bites, and:
last thing i remember,
prior to that?
   taking a ****,
jerking off...
watching a video
film herself also, jerking off,
that's how i get a jist of sanity
these days...

listen to some dropkick
murphy's...
           do something funny /
irritating...
   feel the itch...
so they told me to integrate...
i've integrated?
what's the placebo "ad hominem"?
   prior to the hot-cross bun?
a decent amount of stake...

so a sacred cow...
           slobbering over this amount
of chew main...
   had to give this slab
a well done treatment...
i didn't mind the juice,
but i minding the excess of chewing
while thinking about
val kilmer's chubby visage
while ageing...
  and... robert downey jr...
that giggle fest of kiss kiss bang bang...
oh...
   and that 1990s western...
  tombstone...

       knock on skull...
val kilmer, kurt russel...
christ pratt...
    ****... d'uh...
            jeff bridges...
         oi! oi! sleeve!
any more up there?
perfect counters to clint eastwood
or...
         jaun ween'e?
i'm starting to build up a fetish
for these westerns like
some kiddy come-by of stalin...
scares, the ****, out of me...

oh i'm not worried about
the ex-russian girlfriend,
i became a recluse,
she, "declined" being proposed to me,
a proposition, she herself,
instigated,
   she married some poor ******
after me,
   divorced him,
and managed to find another one...
in between...
   a few ****-buddies...

   i seriously didn't want this to make
sense...
    for clarity...
          no autobiography ever should,
make, sense...
and whoever makes sense,
of, something,
that can never make sense?
     n'ah...
           if i was to be this ideal english
gentleman,
   and she was supposed
to be my crumpet
rather than my honey...
  yck!
                 endearing ***-pet
slogans...
        who's-band
          und              ­      woe-****...
    i'm still up for butchering
that hot-cross bun,
with the butter and crème fraîche
and a glass of milk.