"once upon a time" i was the sort of boy
that would grow his hair long...
prior to i would sit through and sift through
chewbacca jokes...
good for me: this "chewbacca" is not going
to grow bald...
now i'm fond of playing with the prospect
of ****** hair...
back in school i sat next to an egyptian-iranian
mongrel who would boast
about his premature ****** scrub-scrub...
i came "late to the party" mid 20s...
with my own beard and tash...
now i can't rid myself of this ****** hair myopia...
i look in the mirror and witness some
sort of history... it's not like i'm a pretty thing
to begin with... but i like the aspect of
a... continuation of curiosity...
imagine me putting all that effort
into lying to a woman about how her beauty
will not fade...
perhaps Beethoven is worth celebrating
with a peter suchet for an hour's worth
a year celebrating the death of:
in that classic.fm say-so: 72 years young...
but never old... but for me...
this is the year of the 216th celebration
of the death of the ultimate bachelor... who?
Kant! the man the clockwork the basic basis
for... anything that's required of a sifting through...
i like my sunset and i like my sunrise...
but there's something much grander...
the full moon... the clouds are heavil trodden on...
fudge-esque smog booth of the eye left peering...
peering from behind: a canvas upon a canvas...
a wintry delight of a shed oak...
x-ray and all those arachnophobia extension
of branches... the tree to move fears
and mountains! mind you...
i have been given but one hallucinatory impetus...
which is a hard thing to come by...
that it's a hallucinatory impetus...
the word being: WAL!
it's a verb and not a noun!
no, it's not wał...
WAL implies: to hit! knock!
but the emphasis is bound to:
the act having a repetitive stipend!
i'm better off with a beard than long hair...
there's no 6-pack no 3 evenings per week
spent at the gym...
there's no teasing the prospects...
as there's no: making the prospects...
"glum" or... "forthright" em? gullible in having
to subscribe to the mediocre choices...
and the crab-details of genes
of... procreative for the purposes
of hoarding absences.... rather than memories...

otherwise thank god for not being a woman!

there's still that tree, but more to the point,
the night itself...
and the nearing fullness ***** of the moon...
and seeing the moon from the telescope
of a skeletal ascpet of a tree being left...
intricate with its branches: but no niqab
of leaves...
will i borrow from islam more?
i will...
i have experienced the best of islam
and... frankly... the worst of it...
the best of islam always came in the better part of,
what a woman might call:
the case of the handsome stranger...
for me it always ended up being:
meeting a man i could never
have a beer with...

and abc a variation of the usual *******
that plague men...
when they cause themselves
to want to escape the company of women...

like i once said to an inquisitive pakistani stranger...
when he asked, given my 6ft2 200lb posture:
why aren't you with a woman?
and i replied...
having a mother cures you having any
necessity to encourage you to seek
any further female company...
"mommy issues" doesn't even cover it...
i truly wanted to succumb to being a monk
upon a visit to Taize... Burgundy...
i somehow knew that me providing
grandchildren for a woman that
became more and more loved up
with counting her pairs of shoes...
that cats for this sort of grandma would do...
just fine...

i'm happy to only now be allowed to admire
****** hair... i can't see my chin!
and thank god for the "lost doughnut" for that!
the moody blues and:
the age of aquarius...
and the better parts of the 20th century...
and no better parts...

but one woman is enough to keep me from
the entire rest...
beginning with a mother,
to no towed wife or mother-in-law...
perchance your luck with also
having a grandmother or a great-grandmother
to boot!
and since when a man marries...
he is expected to come into marriage,
with his wife and his father and mother in-law!
he is supposed to abandon
his ****** riddled relations with
the: foreboding prior...

the loser status to counter: "social-mobility"...
i do love to remind myself that...
this is neither the England
of the youth of Michael Cain...
or the Rolling Stones...
or will it ever be... a burlesque of Blur or
Oasis Brit-Pop mania come early
the mid-90s revival...

the final fork in the road... the zenith the crucible...
the prayer and the subsequent lacklustre...
of us demeaned by the turn of the century...
having so much to have to remember...
of the living: how few of them
wonder why we wish them dead...

by any standards... the revival of the 20th century
within itself and its inability to
be translated...
some variant of nostalgia and this
persistent: banking on the past...

scoff! muffins and the muffins eaten by ice-skating
penguins! this ridiculous language
and its inability to shelter a well written letter...
my inability to fathom the thesaurus man
the lawyer...
i.e. since when was...
one direction going to become the next
rolling stones... the next Twickenham filler?!

but better for me and the: once upon a time...
perhaps the long hair was what it was...
girls in high school asking about
what shampoo i used... for the french braid...
now i grow my beard shabby enough...
i am allowed the peruse of my own eyes...
not necessarily finding fond eyes of voyeurism...
a shabby beard implies: terrorist
or of sympathetic "content"...

well, how else? free tampons!
next time i feel like shaving i will also have
to feel like slitting my throat.