(i) pre-scriptum: anchor posit

it would be all-too obvious that i'm going to begin with writing about nonsensical subjects... bowel movements... what's not to laugh about... a warm-up standing before a firing-squad metaphor... not my last words: how they don't tend to bury people with epitaph these days... in manus dei... which is hardly an epitaph... definition of epitaph: a transcendence of maxim... the... maxim... the sigma of all the incremental parts that once held the man as subject of life...

...i cycled into central London to do no more than:
**** myself off...
all those lives i'm not part of...
without a drop of bitterness:
i guess i can only be glad...
somewhere in South London past
Waterloo station nearing the Shard
i came across... a mythological blonde...
yoga-pants... *****-esque...
couldn't tell the traffic from a horserace...
she had that expression
on her face that read:
i've been to a few ******* parties...
all holes properly used...
come to think of it: i'm only
there to be ******: not there to do some
return policies...
so a timid deer...
point made when i noticed three-guys
ogling her up...
eyes turned to lap-dancing tongues...
point proven...
well... it's South London... even if's still
teasing the scent of the Thames...
it's a lot different over the river...
so i "debated" myself
on the point...
   CS4 is worse than CS3...
oh most assuredly...
CS4 is congested...
too many pit-stops...
i promised myself that i would never
again cycle into central London
via little Bangladesh that begins
in Ilford and ends at Aldgate...
that's CS4...
CS3 though? oh that's another barrel of
laughs... begins in Barking...
although it could begin in Rainham...
and ends at... don't know... to be honest...
i must have taken a CR13 from tower bridge
through to Waterloo station...
but... it's the proper underbelly of the city...
near the docks come Canary Wharf...
as i promised myself i would never
again cycle into a heavily urban scenario
being the tourist of faces and all manner
of the locals' mannerisms:
i said to myself... Essex county is open...
the trees the diluted traffic... all that fresh air...
but not exactly Belgium: flat...
such contemplations when you find
a pseudo-Nirvana of the third take of
emptying yourself into the throne-of-thrones
because... you put a quasi-hibernation
plug in your ******* for the day
and now the bowels strike back with
a build-up to a crescendo of: unplugging...
the usual suspect of bits & bobs...
  that allows you to suppose you've
been emptied but... ooh... oh...
the crescendo proper...
                      custard pie... of ****...
thank god for all the stealth work...
the pipes... the sewage treatment plants...

(ii) change of focus

i always had an invitation toward a monk's life...
ever since visiting Taizé...
the Teutonic Order had a brothel in their
monks' citadel at Marienburg...
a break from a 4 year dry run...
perhaps the end of a year of grief having
buried a friend of mine:
fishing, cycling / reading buddy...
someone to watch the Vierschanzentournee
come Christmas and New Year...
someone to listen to on a dementia loop
as if: no... the memory bank wasn't broken...
it was on a repeat that
asked the question:
is this a drowning man...
               clinging to a razor?
once old ages enter the fore...

it was all pristine in my head: i almost chuckled...
now coming to the canvas i can see it's going
to be a hard-won effort:
mini-digressions is my best attempt
to keep this afloat... even though it's sinking
like a hard-earned stone of mass...

sometimes drinking has a taste.... esp. in the variation
of kalimotxo... with a red Marlboro:
like it's the taste synonymous with a
first kiss... both of you are slobbering teenager
all to ready to precursor either *******
of glugging down oysters / eating fleshy
flowers... tongues to eager...
an ode to the mosquito legion owner/ vampire goat...

(iii) words come across as shortcomings
  
i don't have enough patronage money to begin
painting... a photograph will have to do...
i remember this room, this same brothel...
there were two mirrors on the wall...
i'll bring her a copy of my book of poetry
and i'll ask her if i can take a photograph
of her face... for the love of Rousseau's
heart for a god... beside the argument: i need to photograph
her in a variation of the antithesis of the self-portrait...
i'm already saving up for the hour...
perhaps she will say no...
but i don't want a ****...
nor a picture of my phallus in her mouth...
i need contortions using the two mirrors...
words have become the weapons of gods
and gagging orders of men...
Khadaj'ah...
              something has to arrive sooner:
i'm breathtakingly agonised by my own: coils...

cauliflower - ALUMINITE - alias
of brain tissue folds...
           Al₂(SO₄)(OH)₄ . 7H₂O...
well... if it isn't me looking at paintings...
or naked bodies of prostitutes...
it's me looking at minerals
and their chemical formulas...

all that's quartz SiO₂...
most notably the amethyst... iron stained quartz...
jasper... petrified wood quartz...
onyx quartz... agate...

or... VANADINITE
   Pb₅(VO₄)₃Cl....

now... if i were drinking a second bottle of wine
to calm the already frantic nerves
at the prospect of the next encounter
all school-boyish...
and owned a dog... he might bark at me...
a feline presence is more welcome:
joke of my curing insomnia and "insomnia"
with this here wine...
fern of a creature... always disappears
into the dream world...
who asks for a leash or a muzzle
or walkers in the presence of a cat:
a time least spent: certainly not wasted:
that cats decided to sleep more than
actually waste their time with being:
conscious...
not somehow a waste of time:
like the waste of time modern man has
become: seeking refuge in "reverse-psychology":
duped by the undercurrent of
the crucifix of the subconscious...

the holy Freudian trinity... the sacred secular
trinity of the: consciousness:
the son... subconscious: the holy spirit...
the collectively shackled premature
*******... pre-suppositional heap of dung...
the father: shackled... proper:
in the unconscious...
if asked: about time to raise the father:
to unearth him... "him": who is my father?
shy-titan... you already know the score...

it excites me more and more with the prospect
of writing these words
and coming back with a photograph of the
*******...
dizzying heights of the grave of gravity
in that's how my body: hollows out
futures... and tendencies of a list of todays...
if only i had enough and of having enough
i would become bored:
perhaps i could become an ageing lecher...
but since i'm gagging for the least:
of the last... i'll be keeping up the spirit of mute:
sometimes teasing onomatopoeias during
*******... i want to take a selfie of
her using at least two mirrors...

i want to take two photographs...
my mind is burning from the mere thought...
clear the fog...
thank god no genetic details of mine
will be passed on...
i couldn't shackle myself to the responsibility
of children...
call it immature:
a delinquency... i will call it what it has been
for almost... "forever"...
share my responsibility in the coming
onslaught...
           if i'm feeling it... what's to suppose there's
no build-up of a greater tide...

i've made satire of the "diet"...
fuckless for years...
but come the opportune moment when i wake
up and take to a feeding:
i find her...
       juiced up from the cradle of my
unsatisfied longing...
can a woman tell a man hasn't touched
his antonym in so long
as to also not have: some... pillow-talk ref.
to combat that carnal Kandinsky-build up moment?

wine! wine! more wine!
words are staggering when picture would
better suffice to encapsulate these sensations...
for those that have had enough:
retreat into kink... gimp suits and all that's latex...
for those that haven't had enough:
retreat into mirrors...
    revising slits of katakana-niqab rereading...
some depeche mode doesn't hinder...
and one: either...

        oh sure: reimagine...
it's a feverish writing of a man who desires all that
might invoke the zenith of a shared
patience with each other:
for the worth of an hour's worth...
after the hour's done...
there's no companionship...
there are no shared stories...
we return to the shadow: we return to the grave...
the foetus is cut from the womb
from the umbilical chord...
the hour's enough...

i return to my: steinherz...
she returns to her: dachboden-frivolfotze-eskapaden...
i'm glad other people can:
cut-the-mustard... and... reproduce...
if i don't die by my own hands
aiming at the pulse...
alone in a hospital ward eyeing up nurse
with one of these octopi purely pupil eyes
of rage... i never...
it will be a private affair:
no one will interrupt the world
of people having their conversations:
i'll keep in mind the congregation
of crows:
i'll keep the crow forever in my mind...

(iv) body needs to be under 5K

can you believe me that i acknowledge all that you have written with... how can i escape verbiage...  oh wait... i was hoping your wouldn't spiral out of control with a bunch of defence mechanisms: easily-offended etc. you are... a breath of fresh air... truly... comparison? even though you sent me your picture... it's in the back of my mind... i don't remember it: i'm still focused on the avatar you presented... and... oddly enough: you are starting to resemble Harley Quinn... sipping that espresso while reading a romance novel while the whole world around her: is ablaze... let's forget the the buzzwords i picked up... they're not important... they're not important if we have allowed ourselves to synchronise ourselves on other points of interest... i can be excused leaving some time between reply, though, no? you still are a pen-pal who's sharing her passion for teaching... it's never personal... it might become personal if i pressure you with imitating my punctuation, or, for that matter: some grammatical idiosyncrasy... the red roses: roses are red... n'ah... bad example... not off the top of my head (scalp included) to make a point... i agree... we're two people toying with imitation ping-pong... next subject matter... ah... oh... casual ***... paid for or... somehow... spontaneously... given?  i already have an answer in my head: from experience... i was reading the sunday times magazine last weekend... dating apps... i know they came about circa 2012... apparently there was this great revolution of people seeking & finding casual ***... i was still into my psychotic trip without the use of hallucinogenic juice... "fear of god"? ha ha... i've just heard that dating apps were a breakthrough in how people made themselves available... casual ***... me visiting a brothel probably itches the thought: where *** is so freely available... but there's someone out there... still willing to use cables... when everyone else is using wireless WIFI... notably for headphones... i still buy vinyl and CD to "translate" the music to MP3... you're asking what casual *** is: akin to? you want me to describe what it feels like? it probably feels like any form of intimacy that one subscribes to within the "confines" (parameters) of long-term relationship expectations... although more concentrated... esp. if you haven't had a chance to be intimate with someone... my last diet lasted for 4 years... extended by a year since i was grieving for my grandfather's death... i was grooming my pet cat and she... decided to agitate me... not cognitively: primordially: therefore sexually... i'm not into this whole trans-sexuality... but what i was agitated by was a trans-species probe... i had to find resolve and exercise against a canvas of a woman... "against": to match-up to... to compliment... i found that in order to have casual ***: one must be unusually restrained for the whole affair to become: passable: casual... you can't bring your firsty laundry... your most inhibited frailty to the fore... a most assured contraint is to never invoke words during *******... at best: vowels... with a pinch of consonant: i call it the vowel-catcher "principle": what could be shouted as A... becomes a softly oozed out Ah from mouth to mouth... you chose the subject matter: blah! politics... whatever faction we supposedly belong to: there's always that citizen of the world: the universal man nibble... isn't there? would you want me to tell you what you might be missing in the arena of casual ***? i couldn't tell you... since i haven't used any of the modern short-cuts of the hook-up culture "dating" bonanza... i'm an outdated model when it comes to ***... if it happens... casually... proper... once or twice... there was this... no... i won't go into the details... it was my birthday and i mixed her a decent cocktail and.... well... the pistons... the grease.. whatever metphor you like... then there was this Thai-surprise... she was supposedly a lesbian... later a bisexual... i took her home and played her some Kind of Blue... it's not like jazz is cheap... am i still... sounding a bit crass: "objectifying" as a way of making shortcuts? isn't it? *** without having children? it must be... esp. if you have long spells of not doing what most urban folk seem to be having all the time: unless they're merely boasting about having: smoke & mirrors... i'd allow my head to be chopped off and turn into an urban myth surrounding a cockroach if i could have more of it... the urban myth of the cockroach? apparently if you decapitate a cockroach... it keeps on living: a zombie torso... finally dying after two weeks from... hunger... since... the ****** obvious... it has no head to ingest food with! - how odd... i thought i had something original to write tonight... i started scribbling then lasted long enough to find myself writing too poorly, so i resorted to read my inbox messages... i am more willing to leave you with a reply than have to masquerade with some "originality"... you asked me: or at least insinuated about casual ***...what's your take on *******? i ask the question while listening to the cure: short term effect from the album: *******... i'll hardly make this a light-hearted question... i don't even think it might be categorized as a question: hasn't ******* / rather the spread of it... become ominous? i still remember the ****** of shame with colour in my cheeks when i would buy: a magazine short of sinister... a woman's naked body: if not celebrated.... sure... i'll be the one jerking off to a revision of the **** via cubism... the face will not be a sorting out process of a nightmare...  if ever i watch a pornographic movie: it will be done via turning the sound off... whatever a woman is concerned i like to see a potential: i don't like to see something to imitate... come to think of it: i don't think i've asked a question: if i wanted some clarity... i would be gagging for it... no wonder we moved away from politics and onto such "pressing" matters as to why: so many of us are not getting enough of "it"... no? whether we have children or we don't have children: i've seen it for my very own eyes: having children doesn't allow you to savour certain guarantees:  my maternal grandfather ought to have been surrounded by his loved ones... his grandson (moi) and his daughter... (my mother)... what came about? a "conspiracy" between his wife (my grandmother)... and his son (my uncle)... so he died... alone... in a hospice... last time i checked in never wanted to have *** beyond the gratifications bound to the "casual":... i want the puddle experience when other people might stress: there's the sea! there's the sea!
you probably acknowledged a truth that wasn't a question before someone who... wouldn't want you to find seeking said experience as something... necessarily... equally shared by one and all... it won't be... i've had my moments of raging against the night having spent a paid hour with nothing more than kisses... caresses and a limp phallus... come to think of it: i don't think *** is ever "casual":  it might be for sociopaths... sociopaths who "think" that stealing apples from a grocery stall is synonymous with buying them...  by casual i'm implying: it's better that there's a transactional transparency invoked: someone is getting more than the other... the party involved with thirst is thirsty... the party selling water: eh... a metaphorical muddle by now...  while you're wondering why casual *** is like... i'm wondering what... fatherhood is... it's a nice compliment of agitations... what wouldn't i do with fatherhood: well... what wouldn't i... keep 3am a time worth staying awake for... so that i might sccribble some words down...

(v) comment section

commented on Mr *******s Integrity

- it must be a fairies' tail...no? at least en engaged cat telling with waggling to joke at the dogs' investment in: the currency of leash / muzzle? good to know that you remember Mr. Schmidt... i'mm somehow sure he wouldn't be content with anyone else remembering him... lessons seem to have been learned... and all the best of him: kept, since you allowed him to be: so graced.

- One thing I’m sure of is only a twisted A-hole would make a comment like this but at least thanks for reading this and these were real people.

- i'm the twisted A-hole and you're the "dear Jesus"... crux-sucker? fair enough... love's a temple... however you want it: on your knees... hey! your take on the best dangling of doodling fancy. no problem... i'm no homophobe.

seems to me... people lack all the entertainmet
when it comes to nuancing language...
they can digest jokes...
they can doodle around with crosswords...
but... when it comes to...
hell: if they're not going to bother...
why the **** ought, i?!
too many movies: too many books unread...
a barrage of art has left everyone
yet to feed into the feels of:
the end of the 20th century: romance.