/you really don't come between me and baltic "sushi", i.e. raw herring fillets in a white vinegar cream cause... that's the "*****" that get's slaughtered by a, gnash... gnash? itchy teeth.

/                    and... what is wrong with watching
****?
   the movie, without a drama aspect...
ever walk into a cornershop
and buy a magazine,
clearly you never went to a catholic
school - and got away
with a pornostar t-shirt aht read
the slogad: *******
IS NOT A CRIME...
   oh... becauae only women can
make profit, exposing their genitals?!
this is going to be fun,
while i tell that to a choir of templars...
so... still-life, bikini **** is bad?
i thought that ***** movies were bad?
you can't have one, without the other:
is this... the second tier of what americans
abolishing alcohol?
      i drink, i drink to excess
in the same vein as modern americans
celebrate coffee...  
    so i am wrong in my excesses of
applying alcohol as a counter to insomnia...
while you celebrate excesses of coffee?!
let me teach you a word or two
of slavic:
     pies, na sznurze: wiszącym -
translation?
   (a) dog,
                   on a hanging: noose...
somehow a cruelty against animals
doesn't translate into
a cruelties of man, anti man...
but... this...
             cold turkey of *****?
was movie the first and only medium?
what about the imagination
surrounding the curves,
the apples and pears to insist:
we can't really do it with classical
nudist art...
    movies?!
               you joking...
that element of imagination?!
            if you've ever allowed yourself
to buy classical ****,
with still life images of, flesh...
      you were never in need of
moving parts...
          the still image was always
the potency, of a potential...
        and never ever to be discovered,
yet kept,
  within the confines of: the per se -
there was always that imaginative
en spiritum composite allowance...
movies... only become first,
in interpretation, then the tertiary
wave enveloped the lost secondary
50s to 70s lost the battle...
and patent primary...
               and if i were a picasso?
   i wouldn't have allowances to paint
just graces...
          of course i won't!
do what a louis XIV might take for
granted...
      but then...
                  but "then" there's no then:
and i reach a pontius pilate
transcendece of -
                   and let so be so,
       so "i" might at least find an i...
with or without "being",
with or without "thought":
the ought of past, future, and a "now"...
         and...
            schneiden ein kreuz in mein
rücken: und nennem mich
                            aufrecht ähnlich
ein todlächeln -
                   oder: gebogen -
                 mögen - die eitel aspekt
aus leben:
               ein bucklige, mit
                                     aufrechtkinder!
one suggestion:
you **** away calling them *****
addicts watching enstilled images
of naked bodies,
like the might not be spotted
                       going to an art gallery!
still life is all that desires
to be imagined outside its
alcatraz of what becomes
                             the imaginative motion...
death desires a portrait,
a...
              a commission...
                    reign free: my imagination...
leave the bad acting to the bad actors
of both hollywood editorial staffing
and bad *****...
    we're replacing taking
a date to a gallery, and using our tongue,
to using the tertiary "tongue":
with what could have been:
a woman's heart in a man's stomach.

yeah, buy art, what a weird concept in the 21st century; i'm waiting for pope Francis to become my patron and ask me to redo the Sistine chapel.

i can only remember buying four
singles disks in my day,
i bought *en vogue's don't let go (love)
when i was "supposed" to buy
the prodigy's music for the jilted generation
(indeed i'm part of the jaded crew),
i bought no doubt's cover it's my life
(original version by talk talk),
m.m.'s fight song, and indeed the Budweiser
advert song done by the wise guys
say ooh la la - the Graeae frogs you remember?
bud - weis - er... the shared eye actually
a brown glass bottle - peer in...
admit it, pop music is intended to make
your heart into a sponge, soak up **** up
all those emotions that you'll never get
as you might get from toasting bread
or making coffee or drinking a sharpshooter
of excess whiskey and little coke, a shandy
by comparison (shandy? ah,
beer topped up with lemonade, like you like me
i know the only slang is that of drunks)...
well the 5th was eagle eye cherry's save tonight,
but i don't know why i returned it
at the our price store (post-****** megastore
music cornershop outlet) with the cashier's bewilderment;
but admit it, pop music is intended to make
your heart into a sponge, **** it up and soak in it,
when the songs don't reveal you the love intended;
well, the music industry did combat the free music
policy (i still stream but don't keep),
they employed about 5 producers,
used algorithms to create an endless stream of
music without an original message
but a pattern by which you react emotionally to it
in the same way... and i'm not ashamed to admit
that justin bieber's love yourself is good,
i mean the sly and gentle guitar riff and the horns...
and i can relate to the message...
music for the bedroom, music not for arenas or
clubs... music you can think in rather than dance
or be a cheerleader of movie iconoclasm -
man, the lack of drums, where the vocals act
like drums, bring back the woodwinds of the vocals
and drop the excess bass and drums that
thump your eardrums deaf.

Cat food is
a high priority
shopping list item.

A fly dies
its useless body
a pimple on the windowsill.

The pub is not an option
you know the man
in the cornershop quite well.

Your car has had
a toothache for
the past six years.

A phone call
is never good news
only your sister’s white noise.

The TV’s used
just for the lottery
but you’ll never win

and the cat meows
wondering where her
food has got to.

i remember times when we used
to buy **** and alcohol with the irish
pre 18...
and the hindu cornershop owners
deemed us proficient quran
readers mingling with
Ilford pakistanis...
             the current narrative?
            nacht von die füchse....
            something you make use
to quest to: baron...
                                     rather than: hear.

herr fitzgerald and st. augustine's ethos
of education - a primary in Barkingside,
close enough to the Gants Hill roundabout:
an infamous thrill for a cyclist
             to merge with heavy traffic...
nonetheless,
                        so a boy picks up pictures
of Pamela Anderson from a cornershop
   (which isn't on a corner) - for free -
             and distributes a few in the playground -
gets ratted out after a sloppy attempt
              to another boy
                          who never managed
  to ******* to bronzino's
          venus, cupid, folly, and time...
which ends up being a double standard
on the western niqab: or sun-glasses,
     or is venus & cupid a better
               cipher than madonna and
                                    the child?
   what would castrated piglets knows?
- all i have to point to is:
    do you "teach" the boy
          (regarding the Pamela Anderson
soft core nudes)
            lesson (a) what would you
     say, if that was your mother?!
  or lesson (b) what would you say,
if that was your daughter?
             lesson (a) actually happened...
but where's the ******?
        the motivation?
                        thank you herr fitzgerald
for this worthwhile lesson,
    and i really have to thank
   for all the psychiatric regression
implants insinuating some sort of
*******...
                   quasi-sympathy...
   as ever, psychiatry, the cheapest form
of acting...
                    came the elephant,
and you know what the elephant
  is good at?
                    ganesha,
          the patron "saint" of alzheimer...
                          you sheer, or sneer?
my, the mighty addition of a letter,
    suddenly the world turns up-side down,
or receives a copernican rotation...
         point being:
     how can you curb pornographic
excesses when you having done it over
          a fine art piece?
     to later resort to: no third parties welcome
bridge: is that a winking game?
                   it's still a question,
do you conceive passing morality by asking
the question:
      (a) your mother?!
  or (b) your daughter?
                           hello once again,
   on the chicken prior to the egg or the reverse
                     carousel...
  whatever that might be:
   i'm pretty sure that the umbilical mouth
came before
                         the mandible jaw,
            which came after the pucker pooch,
          which eventually became an ****.

/                                             ha!

                             what a glorious sound!

                              two foxes mating,

            like a female fox
                                      cried: ****! ****!

foxes are the new wolves
of europe,
and the old hyenas
of africa...

  the shrill!
like smashing glass,
like dropping iron
   pellets onto a mirror!

like applying sandpaper burns
onto a book!

the dogs in the vicinity?
whimpering...
barely able to usher out
a barking noise...
  even the german breeds
invested in
          by the english people...

and when i mean: outer-suburbia...
i mean: bordering on
farmland,
        and just such example
of the wild giving
away: dreams!

     perhaps once upon a time
with wolves...
   i only have foxes to appease me
in marking the tongue
as delivering
the organic format into
            an inorganic medium...

i fiddle with my beard,
pretend i am playing the violin,
and remember that i took
the road into a dark wood
away from the safety of
a cornershop, where a woman
attired in cheap (rather than expensive
bishop) purple
was buying frozen pizzas...

                   god, that *** and those
eyes!
             it's almost like a gypsy stole
my heart! and subsequently
stole the money left in my wallet
as i lumbered half-sleeping: drunk!

2 days, 6 women apart...
      that's a ******* lucky ratio
in spotting a sight for sore eyes
in essex...

              nothing magazine glossy
types, no generic ditto faces...
    mandible beauties...
        ones involving flesh, and bone,
and: all the "imperfections"
requiring someone like me
             to make an observation of...

mandible bodies...
     crisp... having lost
    the logistics of army-styled
                       rubric columns of
                            snap-of-the-whip...

one just stood above five feet,
gorgeous thick cranium-eating
fat, exposed, thighs...

             17th century fetish for
coral bulging near-edibles...
                versailles type oysters...

a bit of floral there, a bit of floral over
"there"...

               it's like english women
have a knack at ensuring **** is coupled
with appearing lazy...

            rough, "run of the mill"
                          heroics avoiding Gucci...
******* can *****,
   and i mean that without
          a *****-driver involved...

english women, simply are...
        the only compensating comparison
i can find is
            within the videos of
                       ThePatriotNurse...

a gypsy and attempting to speak
deutsche fetish...
                     bad ******* combo...

purely urban women?
             n'ah...
                                              i'll pass...
blonde in the belly of the beast
                                                          ­  types?

tartare steak = the neu-sushi,

     but not minced beef;
                                roughly cut up.

****! seems i'm inclined to be
more ******, than political,
   mention of trans-categorical allocation
of "being": also, an animal.