******* out your *** and ******* fives times a day
Or when reading a short story by Hemingway
Stained in inferior underpants,
Exposed, I write poems like Wilt Wittman at 5.47 am,
With my muttered papers amongst the *******
Sometimes with nonsense said, its  never finished.

Unless you received a text message or being driven in a car
-On your way and bye the way "you're a nasty **** to women"., "let's have quiet and never dictate to me".

It takes years of discipline in the morning, which is not for everyone.
I am starting to get towards the end of a book as another girlfriend returns from work
While Sleeping on the sofa without love, my hand smelling of ***
I neglected my self for this poem, the short stories, which has lead onto this.

Unless you received long emails or lonely conversations “that life is too precious” and “can’t live this way” brief movements, I have to stop to wipe my ***, but the final words said “we are finished”

Each night walking into a room with clothes on the floor reminds of my of youth "My old man"
I slip into bed at 11.24 am after, considering nine cans left in the fridge
Upon waking I started again

I slowly creep around the room looking for the remainder of the things that I lost
There's no ambitious, pure amazement and delirium of remembrance.
On the end of the bed, with my hair pulled back, with missed coordination, I'm more undecided and I wait further.