i would like to argue with anyone regarding Chris Rea's music... well... it's not exactly dad-rock... glam rock in spandex... it's not the Eagles (god forbid) or Lynyrd Skynyrd... it's a music to do something while listening to it... or rather... not listening to it: rather... it's not listening to traffic... while cycling at night... i don't even think it's car music... it's: cycling at night music... say... to the 24h Tesco for a £6.25 35cl bottle of the cheapest whiskey... while the brothel just teases me... road to hell... it was written about Chris being stuck in a traffic jam on the M25... well... there's hardly a traffic jam when cycling at night... no hands on the handlebars... gliding...

i woke up today and... cleaned the drain...
oddly enough i didn't puke...
but the sight of all that grime of soap and hair...
and fleshy dirt... i always say:
there's nothing like the smell of fresh horseshit
in the morning... nothing can beat it...
no perfume... no delight of a curry...
the smell of fresh horseshit in the morning...
or... spreading manure when planting baby
trees in the garden...
the butterflies were still there...
it didn't feel right: come again?
nothing ever feels right in all honesty...
although i lie: it does for a while...
probably like the fury when undertaking
the act of ******... it probably feels great...
*** also feels great in the act...
and when done properly...
a day... now two... afterwards... it still feels
quizzically good...
but just because there were still butterflies
in my stomach...
let's be honest...
i'm no Edward Lewis... maybe a Bradley Cooper
lookalike... ha... ha...
but no Richard Gere...
and she wasn't some Vivian Ward...
                                i cycle in the night for 35cl
of whiskey... he drives a Lotus...
a lawyer while over 'ere... some sort of a... poo'et...
reality check... what a fascinating take
on hyper-gamy...
                    i too liked  La traviata...
   (saw it at the st. petersburg opera house...
she wanted to see madame butterfly...
                    i insisted... bending of will)
although... this is some retelling...
   what poet wouldn't fall for a *******?
   - how's it going with ms. chaste over there
on the cockerel-carousel?
i never understood the mystique of...
not letting the lecher out during *******...
what "no kissing" rule?
why have i managed to kiss all the prostitutes
i've slept with... i lost count... i don't have
a number...

- but i have a fitting song to complete
the movie in my head...
faithless - woozy...

    - away from internet culture... eh... listening
to a book review of... HALSEY's poetry...
the bisexual experience... ****** men...
the trauma of having *** with a man...
i do hope they don't use ******...
that wouldn't be fair...

  and having *** with women is somehow...
not "traumatic"...
like that one time she was a timid *******
and i fed pearls to pigs
or rather wasted £120 on... touchy-feely bollocking
that left me feeling like castrated imp?!

listen 'ere... missy... what choice do some of us
*** "starved" when encountering ***?
i had to check my body...
itemize it to stop this... ****** cinema having
fun in my mind... all this daydreaming
where i really was the protagonist with
this... pristine nymphomaniac...
i said i wouldn't drink to save up for another
encounter: not going to happen...
i drink to write truthfully...
but i've cut down...

i said i wouldn't look at *******:
no films anyway... something akin
to the old tabloid: the Sun's page three...
three shakes of the fox's tail
and i turned into a premature *******
case...
from being an ******* dysfunction case
with a timid *****
to fully blossoming with a head pulsating
in the spectrum of purple:
i guess she really did tell me that
she owned my phallus when i moved my hands
to pretend force-feeding her:
she already did anyway...

how's that? the dark arts... i don't have any other
name for it...
*** of the *** "starved"...
while i'll be giving her another hour's worth
of drip... ******* so easily over...
let's me honest... thinking about a cow's ******
sack will not make a difference...
i still like milk...
   but... if i'm so ******* adamant on semi-:
feeding pearls to pigs...
i need to harden my body and my mind...
i can't have a cockerel for a mollusc...

           yes... because *** for men is not...
traumatic... perhaps in stable relationships
where both man and woman
can... pretend *** never existed...
at the supermarket i spotted these two chubby-loved-up
bundles of joy...
let's just pretend... *** has to translate back
into furthering genes... whatever the hell that means...
a good idea never seems to attach itself
to genes...
nothing biological came out of Newton...
perhaps it would be best
to aim at an ***... perhaps...

*** isn't "traumatic" for men...
  so bisexual women have to state that all *** with
men is ****?
**** inverted... a timid ***** that can't
give you a hard-on is like...
a barber who can't trim your beard...
or a dentist that can't ease your toothache...
for ****'s sake... am i not imprinting a
parody of 2 + 2 =  4?!
no... wait... last time i heard:
how do i manage to pick up these
bogus messages i don't know:
mathematics is racist...
well... let's all study algebra if arithmetic is
too soon... "too soon": to somehow also pretend
to spell...

among the Goliaths and the Nimrods
i have learned that...
sure... we're all supposedly literate...
but... for some people there's still no horizon
for... there's still no... chance for language
arriving at a spontaneous fluidity...
there's no horizon for...
  digression...       n'est ce pas?

the best **** turns out... i have to return to...
cycling... push-ups and stomach crunches...
drinking in moderation...
and once i've tested the waters and the dream
is finally over...
where i can **** myself off for... at least ten minutes
without teasing the prospect of an *******:
i'll be ready for another encounter:
as promised...
where she will show me her mouth: agape...
her wonders of her tongue...
her eyes glistening in her mania...

   funny how i was once diagnosed as psychotic...
well... a once upon a time... a...
nymphomaniac met up with
a Spartan psychotic and...
oh... they had a dozen children...
and these were the envy of Nox and Cerberus...
when that... ******* concept
came to its final fruition...

it's almost unbelievable how...
the most... tried and tested method of... "inquiry"
can become a put off for some...
but i know what this is worth...
the butterflies in my stomach:
the unblocking of the drain with the sight
of curling hairs and soap grime...
by comparison... her well attired body in cleanliness...
but for me... i need to harden my body...
i need to exercise...
and wait for my cockerel to recover
for pecking at the oyster...

that's how it is... esp. when not conscripted
into the army of the numbed heads of
male genital mutilation... circumcision...
of course she knew that she would pull it back
during *******...
but that i still have the sheath...
i don't have that ****-numbing luxury of
somehow being... brain dead enough
to have to compensate with...
hey! 3 ****** at a time!

- i can't just become a duracell bunny and have
a hard-on all the time...
recovery period...
after 4 years of "solo project" of projecting
fantasy... to come up with the reality...
it's not going to be... well... i had
a dream: although i sleep but am a dreamless
****... her name burning into my brain:

oddly enough... it's akin to the prophet
Muhammad's first wife... Khadija...
has she rolled in her grave long enough
to emerge as a ******* in a brothel?
i'll just wait for Muhammad to turn in his grave
and be called out as:
ambitious pseudo-Solomon...
i'll wait for that one...
although: i think the concept of reincarnation
is horrid: i.e. there are only a limited number
of true selves...

  the rest? zombies... dead once: dead again...
monstrous strap-ons of technological
advancement: suddenly running dry on the prospect /
need to procreate...
no? if everything is being automated...
who needs... i never liked reincarnation...
that concept of completely obliterating the faculty
of memory... it takes a second to conceive...
circa... 9 months for the tadpole to wriggle out...
about 4 years for any consciousness to arrive
armed with the faculty of memory...

reincarnation is like: a hyper-inflated take
on libido... or... something akin to...
the doppelganger...
but it's not like there isn't a push-back...
if actors could steal the shadows of people...
people steal the faces of actors
and associate them with... the crippling furores of
fame... once upon a time...
how were you known who...
so-and-so was... Richard the Lion-heart...
this freely available spread of the image...
once upon a time...
of greatness was never associated
with an immediacy of recognition...
oddly enough...

i suppose there's still more time, required...
to ponder this transition...
**** me... if i'm going back at a stab
with this nymphomaniac...
i need to harden my body...
my phallus can't be a mollusc...
i need my body tense...
so that when she does her... ***** tricks...
i'll be fit for an hour's worth...
if not to my pleasing:
then at least to hers...

      oh sure... only women find *** with
men traumatic...
only women have a voice in a democracy...
where's the ******* fire?!
where's that: a face that sent a thousand ships
toward old Priam's gates?

obvious there's a sieving process...
i like a sieving process...
those that arrive... those that: don't arrive...
those that are late... and those...
that are... always late...
perfectly simple...

           i need a second encounter with my nymph...
i need to crease these meanings...
i need for my sight to turn all blurry
and my hearing to fade out...
a gurgling snigger of a boar...
        a sound of an animal almost drowning
in a swamp of its own ****...

the *** was great... but the aftermath...
well... if i were in a closeted, stable... relationship...
none of this would have happened...
i wouldn't be writing like this, or even:
about this...
there are some journalistic columns... funded...
properly paid... of the higher sort of "peoples"
describing visits to... Parisian ******...
like... affairs were: solid steel... Lego-building encounters...
but me and these ****** is suddenly...
what? decrepit moi?
    degenerate moi?
                  self-deprecating humour comes...
allied with... a self-moralistic accusation-al mandate...

it's trivial overtly-worded *******...
but it does... sometimes...
turn my heart of a pebble's worth of a throw into
a... soft... fleshy... essentiality of...
the plethora of doubts... and negations...

        yes... a night well invested in...
                                      came the time for hardening
the body...
to later hope of relaxing it with another
encounter: for the vain hopes in all of existence...
her face is still unknown to me...
it too immediately contorts into
her manic circus of arriving at pleasures:
conversations will never give.