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removed.polaroid-scrabblePoems
another sober day, and another day spent gardening, trimming hedges, forming bulbs from shrubs, only yesterday i cut a 7ft tree to a hardly seen stump, today the weeds got the treatment, while a strange cohort of bees were flying under the decking with pollen pouches attached to their hind legs, a little colony, rebellious bees that escaped from a beer keeper - all of this attached to a hope for a new rigour: a new year or new techniques, an invested in the discourse between Dionysian and Apollonian poetics - only because it annoyed me that the man who invented this conceptualisation actually thought Goethe's poetry was the latter... the man died like a patriarch in a bed, apparently uttering the words: more light! he enjoyed the latter's rigour, a statesman and a respected member of the established... so long have i wished to remember how i wrote sober, but there's an ulterior reason... i can't be left with scraps of £9.00 as a bank account, here's the arithmetic:                       monday, wednesday,                       friday, sunday -                       £11.00 x 4 = £44.00                       carton of romanian cigarettes                       £4.00 x 10 = £40.00                       a weekly saving of ~£50.00                       (give or take)... an hour with a girl: £110.00, entry fee for the madam £10.00...                                    how many weeks is that to save up for the pleasure? let's call it an even month of saving up... i just remember that one time i was walking from a pub tipsy... the rumbling in my stomach was so great, it weren't butterflies in there... honey bees! 10 metres from the brothel entrance... diarrhoea... i **** myself from excitement... i took the seat of shame on the bus, squid of **** in my trousers, then a cab home with the cabbie being polite enough to not mention the smell... that was one time... it's what i learnt about England and the "roses" of Devon and Stratford-upon-Avon... cold like the lions of Trafalgar Sq., i've been living here TWENTY TWO YEARS... guess what? NEVER HAD AN ENGLISH BIRD... i must really look like Quasimodo or something, anyway: you just have to learn to compromise, a healthy appetite for the carnal in youth - because who really dreams of wrinkly lechery? even the brothel girls said that to... one just said: 'who'd want to **** old men? not me!'
0
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC
Alternative Days (no. 2, a)
another sober day, and another day spent gardening, trimming hedges, forming bulbs from shrubs, only yesterday i cut a 7ft tree to a hardly seen stump, today the weeds got the treatment, while a strange cohort of bees were flying under the decking with pollen pouches attached to their hind legs, a little colony, rebellious bees that escaped from a beer keeper - all of this attached to a hope for a new rigour: a new year or new techniques, an invested in the discourse between Dionysian and Apollonian poetics - only because it annoyed me that the man who invented this conceptualisation actually thought Goethe's poetry was the latter... the man died like a patriarch in a bed, apparently uttering the words: more light! he enjoyed the latter's rigour, a statesman and a respected member of the established... so long have i wished to remember how i wrote sober, but there's an ulterior reason... i can't be left with scraps of £9.00 as a bank account, here's the arithmetic:                       monday, wednesday,                       friday, sunday -                       £11.00 x 4 = £44.00                       carton of romanian cigarettes                       £4.00 x 10 = £40.00                       a weekly saving of ~£50.00                       (give or take)... an hour with a girl: £110.00, entry fee for the madam £10.00...                                    how many weeks is that to save up for the pleasure? let's call it an even month of saving up... i just remember that one time i was walking from a pub tipsy... the rumbling in my stomach was so great, it weren't butterflies in there... honey bees! 10 metres from the brothel entrance... diarrhoea... i **** myself from excitement... i took the seat of shame on the bus, squid of **** in my trousers, then a cab home with the cabbie being polite enough to not mention the smell... that was one time... it's what i learnt about England and the "roses" of Devon and Stratford-upon-Avon... cold like the lions of Trafalgar Sq., i've been living here TWENTY TWO YEARS... guess what? NEVER HAD AN ENGLISH BIRD... i must really look like Quasimodo or something, anyway: you just have to learn to compromise, a healthy appetite for the carnal in youth - because who really dreams of wrinkly lechery? even the brothel girls said that to... one just said: 'who'd want to **** old men? not me!'
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removed.polaroid-scrabble
36/M
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC
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