right... phew... not this time... i'm getting this off my chest... i have to... i couldn't possibly tell this to a friend, i'm not even good with stating this anonymously... but it would explain a lot of things... i actually see this in print, out of my own volition... it has to be done... i just remember that poem Philip Larkin...
                    they ******* up, your mum and dad.
                    they may not mean to, but they do.

i don't like science, or rather: i do like science per se,
****'s sake, i did chemistry to a university degree
level - first person in my family to even go to university,
had it not been the Blaire era in politics
with that tragic motto of: education, education, education
i would have gladly went to a trade school -
even though: i sort of did by working a summer job
as a roofer in the construction industry -
oh not tiles and roofs all slanting...
i'm talking industrial scale roofs sometimes the size
of half a football pitch... tar work, felt work, fleece,
insulation, gravel by the tonne-load...
  
                but i just don't like... scientific language...
the way people talk science -
this supposedly "higher" i dare even say "moral" superiority,
well... it is sort of moral to know something
is red: if it actually is red...
rather than saying it's blue... knowledge, i find,
can be constrained by a morality of: truth...
ah... philosophy on the other hand...
that's like when science ****** art...
   the freedoms within Ms. Sophia are seemingly limitless...

what am i getting at?
     i don't have *** that frequently... all the better...
or worse... because for the next two days...
when the night comes...
                 mind you... i'm asleep...
                         i get torn up by something that
hides in the night and beyond: in dreams
and the vast yawning vacuum of nothingness...

i can see it upon waking... walking into a dark room
where my mother and father are *******...
p.t.s.d.? we were on holiday
    they were young, i was young... only one room
available... one bed...
      i fell asleep, they went out...
i woke up to the noise of them *******...
   i was lying in the same bed mind you...
   and that i had the audacity to say something
to my mother as they finished and she cuddled me...

i'm not even going to go as far as calling it child
abuse... after all... i was a bit of a devil myself...
i started ******* when i was either 7 or 8 years
old, i do remember that...
we were playing hide and seek in a construction
site of a church and i stumbled across a pornographic
magazine...
    and...
              and... by about 9... or maybe 8...
so as a first generation immigrant...
   back in the day... a ****** lady married this
Jewish guy who had a massive house on Perth Road
Gants Hill...
    he had a market stall, selling cheap-***** t-shirts
which he used to travel to Manchester for...
he also owned a string of Rolls-Royces and he drove
them, rented them for weddings etc.,
   but... he also "rented" the entire house to immigrant
men... sometimes? 20 under one roof... sometimes maybe
more... and he lived in this house...
with these migrant men... with his two daughters
and his son... and his wife...
                       right... get the picture?
we used to live like that at the beginning...
    obviously there was also me and my parents...
crammed? eh... just a bit...
    was i abused? not that i can recall...
              well... one time me and this guy's son
were having a bath... together... yeah...
children... mother was standing in view of us
as she ironed some clothes...
    and? would you believe it?
                  i taught him how to *******...
i told him: there's this funny sensation once you've
done it enough times...

so i mean: if i was sexually abused as a child...
it was by either me or.... the myth of an incubus...
some magical ***** fairy godmother
that gave me a heads up... on what was to come...

sure... shell-shocked... after that incident of waking
in the same bed your mother and father are *******...
i had the opportunity to return the favour once...
some black woman picked me up in a pub
and since i had nothing better to do
  i thought: **** it... let's go...
trouble is... she took me back to the room she was
renting somewhere in Stratford...
i walk in... ****... a young girl and a boy sleeping
on the bed...
          what does she do? she literally drags them
off the bed onto the floor
     gets on the bed and... ha ha...
         she doesn't even allow me to penetrate her
******... she folds her legs so that it's an imitation
******... like... a bit like... what Buffalo Bill does
in the Silence of the Lambs when he hides his genitals...

she did that... i tried maybe one ******...
   and immediately the memory flooded in...
who's fault was it? who was more ***** that night
that they couldn't help themselves?
my father? or my mother?
              well then... i was standing before the truth...
or... about to do some pelvic push ins...
i stopped myself... i said: i can't do it with children
in the same room...
so we just lay there... fell asleep...
i woke up and this little bundle of sweet afro
was standing beside me... ******* on his smoczek
******-soother... or just soother...
so i picked him... obviously completely naked
and placed him on my torso...
and he... fell asleep... there...
                                            
maybe that's why i need the extremes of sexuality
by going to the brothel...
maybe i can only **** prostitutes...
i need to know: for certain... i don't want to **** on a whim...
i don't want some dating game...

perhaps this might be called an ode to Johnny Depp,
a sort of cherry on top...
i don't want to be hiding these details of my life
inside of me... i have enough cognitive labyrinth to
think through as it stands...
i like transparency, i'm a disciple of truth:
well... "disciple": an adherent of it...
   better me digging up old skeletons from my closet
than having someone else defame me or smear me,
straight from the horses mouth as they say:
or as i say: liars don't walk on stilts...
   lies have short legs...

why? it's about ******* time...
    it takes some courage to be honest... just enough...
but science can't explain the last two nights...
where i was apparently making strange noises
in my sleep... where i got out of bed
and toppled down a case of my c.d. collection...
i woke up and i was like:
   wait a minute... i remember playing back
that *****-flick from two days ago in my head:
meditating on everything...
   me, Khedira...the two mirrors...
   the *******, the brandy...
                the apparent non-existent ******...
weird things that go bump in the night...
   a horror-lust realm of entanglements and things
non-scientific...
       i had to explain to both of them:
i wasn't drunk... not really... i was high from the ***...

i don't understand how *** can become tedius
to some people... well... i can... they have it too often...
no wonder they have to find "other" avenues
to express themselves with latex and role-playing...
if you **** like a Teutonic monk...
you **** like a Teutonic monk...
           you transcend something that otherwise
bores people after having moved outside of
the saturation point...

two days ago i knew i had to make my move...
return the favour... she counted how many times
we were together... when i asked... this was our 4th
encounter... with this other *******
i was asked to pay an extra £20 to perform oral *** on her...
i knew it would be different with Khedira...
she was comfortable in the *******...
she didn't even have to **** me off prior
to *******... in between the change of rhythm
i dived in and slurped on a bucket load
of oysters...
    stuck me nose in it...
             carousel of tongues... seems i have more than
one...
   then back to *******...
then diving back down but this time ******* her...

it was coming... i knew that expression on a woman's
face... it happened to me before... with Ilona...
when i was 21... but then i couldn't believe it...
i thought she was faking it...
    it's not like an ****** in pornographic movies...
exaggerated almost extraterrestrial...
the spasms... the ******* spasms... recoils...
like i said previously:
   i'm of the school of act that says:
it's sometimes more pleasurable to give pleasure...
than to receive it...
evidently i love eating ****...
       probably more so than getting oral *** in return...
which would place me in the Gomorrah camp...
no... i'm not into whatever ***** was up to...

       to hell with it: we're over-sexed as it is...
we're living in a time of libido-insomnia...
                         fight fire with fire...
                                better still... bring some cooking oil
and a deodorant spray can...
                     i'm on the side of: counter to what's currently
the state of social-engineering...
no problem... i'll be your "****" your "pervert" your:
"stranger" your outlier...
if Walt Whitman could celebrate himself...
and be his unabashed gay-self...
   gay-pride? right... sure... no problem...
                    let's try this for starters...
   i'll parade my affection on paper...
             and since so few people read... i'll just slip past
the nets of censors...
   i'll dig a trench and employ covert methods
to get my stance to stand in full view: of those who are
willing to ingest it...

it wouldn't be the same if i had long her like i once
had... back then she could have the fantasy
of being eaten out by a woman... and a man...
morphing: androgynous circus...
but with short hair... ah... so much better...
the way a woman can sort of grip your short hair
and with such adamant want
try to invert the process of giving birth
by showing you into her... and since we're all
born like the fall of Lucifer: head first...
eh... merely sticking your "poker" in her while
retaining: keeping... eating her eyes with your eyes...

obviously i read the Kama Sutra...
slapping... pinching... biting...
       that's all part of the ritual...
                           it's nice to hear the following:
i love you...
   i don't think i can forget you...
              not after you bit my upper lip...
she was clearly insinuating that i perform oral ***
on her... all that tongue waggling...
feverish tongue of lust....
   an array of onomatopoeias...
                 the crows might have been croaking...
the woodland pigeons could be cooing...
ancient reptilian morphs...

    seriously... it's unlike any "conquest"...
the antithesis of Don Juan seducing a nun...
   because... what the hell made more special than
all the other men she slept with?
to be able to... what day is it today? Saturday...
long weekend... diamond jubilee and all...
   Sunday, tomorrow... she's going to text me tomorrow
and tell me when she wants to meet up...
yeah... i actually managed to convince a *******
to a date... i was looking up hotel rooms in Barking
only yesterday... that's roughly £70 for an entire
night...
           obviously i'll take her out for dinner...
buy a bottle of decent alcohol...
  strawberries... brandy or prosceco?
probably both...
                   lemons? maybe...

because i don't do it by the hour...
                 i'm like a diesel engine...
    i need that reminder of the 7 hours during the night
when she had about 4 *******:
my last night in St. Petersburg... ah: those white nights
of St. Petersburg...
how?! how did i manage to pull this stunt off?
i moved from paying her for ***
to paying for her to spend a night with me in a hotel
room... well... that was quick...
only after 4 encounters: i guess the oral *** i performed
on her was the deal-breaker for her...

it's also good to know that:
i'm the good sort of mad...
          yeah... we talked... i lay on the floor with my head
resting on a make-shift pillow of my shoes...
smoking a cigarette... laughing...
   then we washed each other in the bath...
            i was drunk on not being drunk...
***-starved and then: outlet... boom!
              everything starts making sense...
to hell with relationships... i wouldn't go as far
as to want to bore myself with
sharing a life together:
              well... maybe... but then the *** wouldn't
be ***...
   i wouldn't go as far as the Muslims in terms
of covering the women in sadistic attire...
****'s sake: at least they could make the niqab
out of white linen... or cream linen...
       but men and women shouldn't sleep in the same
bed... obviously **** in the same bed...
but sleep? i tried that once...
every single night... half of me was numb for having
fallen asleep hugging her...
  i need my own bed to sleep in...

hell... if society and culture is selling me the fantasy
of Pretty Woman... starring: you know who...
Richard Gere and Julian Roberts...
well... i'm not a business man, i'm not a lawyer...
i'm a humble "poet", i spew words...
i regurgitate them... i'm a "pooet"...
    why not ask society... so... this is good? yes?
then you hear dating horror stories...
and you're like: i'll be Pontius Pilate...
    i'll wash my hands clean off these affairs...

it's that simple... people want to play ball... sure...
i'll play ball... but this time round:
i'll be making the rules...
the last time i tried to tango with a girl
she was misplacing her feet...
   i kept on standing on them... mea culpa mea culpa
oh where is my mea culpa?!
enough... is... enough...
   reiteration: but it has to be a reiteration
in Deutsche: genug ist genug!

i've seen enough, i've smelled enough, i touched enough...
funny story...
me and this Irish lad were talking before my encounter
with Khedira... he had a balloon and a flask of
laughing gas on him...
we talked... he thought i was an undercover
journalist... Oxbridge educated...
i think i was laughing more than he was:
even though he was inhaling laughing gas...
he had this funny Celtic name...
almost feminine... a name a bit like: Nikita...
i told him... i knew this girl once...
she said she was: not naive... she was Kneev...
but her name was written as Niamh...
go figure... i told him: i'm not English...
i persuaded him: your people are inspired...
to preserve themselves... a bit like the Welsh...
who still retain their mother-tongue...

he was willing to share some of the laughing gas
but out of politeness he refused to share
the balloon with me... obviously i agreed with him...
he talked about a thumping sensation
to his head... like the brain was trying to
get out of the skeleton by routes outside
the realm of mummification...
     we talked about *******... i was like...
the first time i tried it was when i was 35...
reluctantly...
   because, like i told him: it really doesn't do anything
for me what too much coffee and nicotine
already does...

his friend came out after having ****** Khedira...
well... she's sure as **** not a ******...
lucky me... the "omega-male"...
i'm not here for conquests... i'm here for postcards...
wish you were: i too, wish this was Venice...
jealous? n'ah... let's play the game right...
i'm not here looking out for timid virgins
or for that matter mouthy under-aged girls...

i just hope that by writing this i can have the "audacity"
to have a calm night's sleep...
i seriously can't be sleep-walking
throwing down things, groaning, moaning
in my sleep...

        two days ought to be enough to let his lustful
demon incarnation wrestling with me, pass...
maybe if i ****** on a regular basis i wouldn't
be drinking as much...
   maybe i'm finally sobering up to the idea
of *******... maybe i've saturated what has
become very real for me...

i'm pretty sure that the Ukrainians were happy
when **** Germany invaded Poland...
well then... the Ukrainians are fighting Russians
as we speak... and i'm thinking about a second schism
in Islam... with a Turkish *******...
the best barbers in the world...
and, i suppose, the best prostitutes in the world...
the Russian girls are overshadowed...

ha ha... even she said that men are better cooks
than women...
she told me to slow down on the "invisible" macron
hovering above the A in laa'vash...
oh... it's this Turkish meal...
black peppercorns... sea salt... chillies...
rosemary... white wine vinegar...
i forget the rest... cheddar... actual lavash...
thinly sliced beef...

          that's always nice to find... a man... within a woman...
within a sentiment left by a woman:
men are better cooks than women
because women "think" they know how
to cook food... we agreed...
no... they don't... i told her about my worst
dinner... cooked by my grandmother...

i initiated ******* / chewing on a piece of chalk...
wrong temperature... doubly-butchered...
it's the sort of meat that makes your teeth
click... click... chewy ****...
chat chat... chuckle... meat that makes
your teeth stick together...
and i said to her: you can readily replace CHat...
with a SHeep of a slurp...
   juicy meat... juicy everything...
  meat like juice of a pomegranate...

by the end of the encounter...
i asked her: are you happy?
yes... she replied...
fair enough... so... now don't worry about me:
whether i ******* or not...
obviously i wasn't...
         i knew that i didn't know that i was
barking at the right tree... dragging a Trojan horse's
worth of a libido back into my bedroom...
i was about to erase about a 200 cohort of men
in her gallery of exposing her ****...
lucky me... night-terrors...

               science is: too... demystifying...
i don't like answers... philosophy doesn't like answers...
philosophy does the question-bits...
according to Heidegger something is either
question-worthy of worthless...
i'm in love with German-thinking...
        England has provided the economic side of "things"...
but in terms of "thinking"? let's just say
yes to English comedy... i will not digest Locke...
no ******' chance in hell!

funny that... mann von schreiben...
man of letters...
     English thinking is too pragmatic...
me? like a German...
how do i "solve" a "complication"?
i over-complicate the "complication"...

i have to pity the day...
i beg and i beg, and i beg
for the night to relieve me...
            i pray for the night to come...
i'm most aware of undetailed things
when i find myself surrounded by people that
are asleep...

the great Biblical deluge?
like the great Swedish deluge of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth?
wasn't there an ice age moment
when the ice melted?!
                 too much journalism... not enough
poetic imagination in the people...
      
i "think" i'm just about done... yes...
Matthew said to Conrad: i think you are.