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Kalon R  Mar 2015
E. Bovary
Kalon R Mar 2015
I am Emma Bovary
I am Prufrock
I am the Underground Man
I am Gretta

I'm trapped in my mind, wondering why I am in this situation...
I'm unsure of myself and my feelings...
I needed to dominate but now I realize what I got isn't what I want...
I'm judged by my past and still wanting to re-live my glory days...

I too am Baumer...
I'm fighting but it's time to rest
Oh Dorian! why am I so perfect?

Tomorrow, I'll be at breakfast and won't see the girl who made me feel this way, I'll give up hope
and continue lying saying "I'll elope"

Besides, she'll think I'm ugly and I'll feel alone and ashamed

I too...



Am Decaying on The Inside
"She was eaten up with desires, with rage, with hate. The rigid folds of her dress covered a tormented heart of which her chaste lips never spoke"
Word Therapy Apr 2015
Bright-eyed and bold
With dreams that unfold
Artless, naïve and hopeful
A certain unease, that shifts with the breeze
Afflicts you
You think that bliss
Doesn’t come with just a kiss
But to other lands you fly
In your mind, unsatisfied
Such discontentment inside
Wishing….

Wishing for walks, for long midnight talks
The hearth of a snowbound cabin
Mysterious scenes from a cinema screen
Fill your mind
If I could make all your dreams come true
And take you to Heaven – I would
You’d still be wishing for more
Always unsettled, unsure
Wishing… wishing…

Wishing for grace, a moonlit embrace
Tears bathing hands at parting
A silk-curtained room, and the finest perfumes
Are your due
When you survey your reality
It makes you turn away, away
You grow detached day by day
Wishing for what - you can’t say
These are lyrics to a song I composed and recorded last year. Obviously completely inspired by the novel.

It's available to listen or download at: http://geoffmather.co.uk/track/madame-bovary
Don Brenner Oct 2010
Seven sit around a fire,
burnt marshmallows on two foot sticks
stuck between grahams,
talk *** and film.

Had her naked like Kate Winslet,
not Titanic Kate,
but Little Children Kate.
**** on the washing machine
behind Jennifer Connelly's back.

But the part about Madame Bovary,
who really needs feminist literature in a feminist film?
Okay, maybe it's classic romantic...

I felt lost like a pebble
sinking in the ocean
five miles deep
in the Puerto Rican trench.
I hadn't seen either movie
nor was I well versed
in feminism or romance.

My mind drifted to my first time.
Started with a french kiss
from a Latina girl,
at a house on Cleveland Ave,
I wish I could remember more.
2009
Donall Dempsey Jan 2018
THE DANGERS OF READING FLAUBERT....AL FRESCO!
( for Ray )

"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour..."

he reads, stops:
kisses her.

" ...Fait rêver fillette à l’amour."

she completes the words
kisses...kisses him.

Dining al fresco
feeling somewhat frisky

they throw caution
to the wind

soon all too soon
Flaubert forgotten

Madame Bovary
discarded on the grass

soon all too soon
even the food forgotten

clothing of both
male and female attire

discarded on the grass
now nothing but gasps

they each
the other's feast

the wind idly turning
Bovary's pages

skipping to the end then
beginning again

until one last ***** gusty
breeze interrupts their play

chasing their clothes
that run away

his boxers hang now
upon the bough

her pink camiknickers..pale pink bra
making a run for it

laughingly they chase
their clothes

this Adam and his Eve

bra floating ****-up
in a pond

the camiknickers never
alas to be found.

And here now on their
50th

they share the same smile
when asked how it was

they came together

remembering their love making
in windy weather

shyly slyly blame
Flaubert

" Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."
***

From the Italian, literally translated as 'in the fresh'. In English, used to mean either 'in the open air' or, where specifically related to mural painting, 'on fresh plaster'.

Almost always, it is used in relation to dining alfresco, that is, eating outdoors.

Both meanings have been in use in English since at least the late 18th century; for example, in Mrs. Eliza Haywood's History of Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy, 1753:

"It was good for her ladyship's health to be thus alfresco."

The lines quoted are from the end of Madame Bovary who expires as the Blind Man sings them in a raucous voice. They are from a  Restive de la Bretonne poem from his"The Year of the National Ladies" way back in 1791. He who was so much into women's shoes  that his very name became as one with this particular peculiar fetish..Retifism

"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour
Fait rêver fillette à l’amour.

Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."

"Maids in the warmth of a summer day,
Dream of love, and of love always. . ."

"The wind is strong this summer day
Her petticoat has flown away."
st64  Jun 2013
boat-shimmerix
st64 Jun 2013
1.
there once was a poem
who climbed into a paper boat
             and sailed on to the moon
             not a moment too soon
for they came to lock the sun away!

2.
best not mount this whippy one
rock-a-billy wild carriage
              ride me to the city's end
              don't drive me round the bend
we can always try a bold bovary-move!

3.
look into the fire and sing a song
about the lonely, tarrying sea
               oh sailor, make it sweet
               then I'll put it up on tweet
and nary mind; make your children's lullaby.

4.
I gives ya posies bright and gay
come sit by me...closer, dear
                she smells, then sneezes
                oh, he didn't know how to please her
her floral allergies packed him off for good.

5.
there was a lazy man from Shadder
who said 'twas too cold to empty his bladder
                  so, he sent it a-walkies
                  off alone to the loo
well, it just drove his wife madder!



S T, 30 June 2013
ha....was I trying to do limericks? lol

oh, holy mother of all bricks...no!

:)

time to disco, guys......get ready, man......whoo-hoo!





sub-entry: "Rock the boat" by Hues Corporation

So I'd like to know where, you got the notion
said I'd like to know where, you got the notion

to rock the boat, don't rock the boat baby
rock the boat, don't tip the boat over
rock the boat, don't rock the boat baby
rock the boat-t-t-t-t

Ever since our voyage of love began
your touch has thrilled me like the rush of the wind
and your arms have held me safe from a rolling sea
there's always been a quiet place to harbor you and me

Our love is like a ship on the ocean
we've been sailing with a cargo full of, love and devotion

So I'd like to know where, you got the notion
said I'd like to know where, you got the notion

To rock the boat, don't rock the boat baby
rock the boat, don't tip the boat over
rock the boat, don't rock the boat baby
rock the boat-t-t-t-t

Up to now we sailed through every storm
and I've always had your tender lips to keep me warm
oh I need to have the strength that flows from you
don't let me drift away my dear, when love can see me through

Our love is like a ship ...





www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfBwsG8ubFw
Sia Jane  Jan 2014
City dreamer
Sia Jane Jan 2014
Hold my hand dear Benjamin
don't let Professor Edwards
catch me in a dreamscape
challenging me off guard
as we sit in math class
hands clasped together
for when you knowingly
squeeze my hand tighter
scribbling with your right hand
the answer which is required
to be erased so as not caught out
but today as I look out
onto drifting clouded skies
I see the changes and I lose
myself in shapes and smoke
forging out homes, characters
stories into my past, present
and what could be in the future
nothing is taken from me, distracted
in an instant I'm Vivian Ward
racing around Hollywood
with my best friend Kit De Luca
who eats cold pizza for breakfast
and crawls the streets with me
hop scotching across the
Hollywood Walk of Fame,
five star terrazzo and brass stars, names of Hollywood greats
blonde, brunette elegance
Manolo's, mink coats,
jewelled necklines of emerald stones
we'd both dreamt as kids
Los Angeles; the City of Angels
we are the winged, we are the free
inhabiting the land of opportunity
the ladies of the night, grappling onto souls of kids, shared flat
with bunk beds and a closet filled
with 80's short tight spandex
leg warmers, faux gold earrings
bright coloured lingerie, leather bomber jackets, tutus...
oh and those perms and scrunchies
fake eye lashes, an 80's kid high as hell
being courted by an older wealthier man
living fast, dying young, a fugitive
of the land

broken

The silence I succumbed to
bruised by a cacophony of bells ringing

"never change Lou lou!"

he winked and smiled
packing his rucksack
leaving for the day.

© Sia Jane

“She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.”
Gustave Flaubert, “Madame Bovary”
Romina Shyle  Sep 2015
Celladora
Romina Shyle Sep 2015
I remember how we first met,
It's a blurred image of you and the rain
Right now the things I love the most.
I remember our first fight,
you, yelling at the top of your lungs
And me,  crying my eyes out on the other side of the phone
I remember our first kiss,
I still feel bad for pulling you close so I could kiss you forever,
But you said you liked it, so it's okay.
And then I remember every time we broke up
Every broken heart, every broken moment, every shattered piece of heart
I also remember me always coming back and you always forgiving me.
This time had to be different, not the good kind of different

They say time heals everything, and I will get over you
You were the most beautiful shade of blue, but blue to me is just a color.
Of course I will get over you
Over your hugs and kisses, because I never stayed up late
thinking of how time stops every time we touch.
Of course I will get over you
You were the only reason I loved writing poetries
But poetries never meant anything to me, anyway.
Of course I will get over you,
I will eventually get over you.
And I think I know the perfect time when to

I will get over you soon,
As soon as I start believing Emma Bovary was a total *****,
And Jessie J is a bad singer,
And poetries are just words connected to one another,
And Sleeping at Last is so not the best music band ever.
I will get over you as soon as I start hating rain,
Or think that black is the most beautiful color,
Or just claiming that black is a color to begin with.
As soon as I start being all passionate about studying Biology
Or stupid trigonometry.
I will get over you, just like I'll get over flowers,
Or Sasuke, or Zuko, or English.

They think I can't get over you?
I will get over you.
You still remind me of Saturn and Venus having a baby together,
That would have probably looked like you,
But they are just planets,
I don't like planets.
So I will get over you.

Just like that prince got over that beautiful girl he danced with until midnight,
Just like the sun gets over the moon every morning when she dies,
Just like Shakespeare got over his lover or Narcissus got over himself.
It's not that hard to get over you, come on.
I will get over you, as soon as I stop feeling.
I will get over you, okay?
Just not now.
Not today.
Not ever.
Lewis R.  Mar 2010
Good boys win
Lewis R. Mar 2010
If you had to describe the night time through the senses, what would you say?...

Night. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the table. A cigarette with a shadow of lipstick still highlights a little spot in the empty room. An act of passionate synergy just happened here, just now.
A woman is lying next to a man. The man starts slipping into the vague slumber. He did his part, and started dreaming about his first love, then the second, and afterwards just about another woman who was not a “******” but a “Madame Bovary”... not a fire but an atomic bomb.
She is naked from the waist down. Even darkness of this room seems to like her smooth, young and perfect legs. Her skin is painted into the twilight colors and occasionally gleaming lights of passing by cars, the only intruders here. Eyes closed, lips shut, a silent mask on her face says that is somewhere else now, as well. She has a slight breeze of dissatisfaction, melted by sweet atmosphere of the good wine. “But the *** was not as good as the wine; today’s *** was rather like a Siberian *****. **** butcher…” she thought.
She smiled, as a note once dedicated to her by a guy, whose name she forgot, came up in her sleepy mind:

“It is totally impossible to describe. Furthermore, describing you is an offensive act that sets boundaries to your unlimited perfection. I gaze at you as though you are my best and the one perfect equilibrium for any moment of my tiny life. You could have been my best decision and “perpetuum mobile” for the whole life, where is no sorrow and solitude, but ideality. As sun flares, your true beauty starts and ends in you. I am lost in your magnetic fields. From the moment I saw you, my existence disappeared. In the places where you appear, everything loses its meaning, each string is exhilarated to build a special and an ideal reality around you and for you. And I am a part of this new universal heaven where there is no need to breath or think, but only to see you dancing…”

On the last hissing sound the cigarette burnt out. Good boys win.
Shaine van Brug Apr 2018
Proper proportion exits and I am left
To figure out what to do
With shadows and light
I cannot seem to get it right

So I will swallow this life whole
As punishment
As penance
Practicing patience
Donall Dempsey Jan 2019
THE DANGERS OF READING FLAUBERT....AL FRESCO!
( for Ray )

"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour..."

he reads, stops:
kisses her.

" ...Fait rêver fillette à l’amour."

she completes the words
kisses...kisses him.

Dining al fresco
feeling somewhat frisky

they throw caution
to the wind

soon all too soon
Flaubert forgotten

Madame Bovary
discarded on the grass

soon all too soon
even the food forgotten

clothing of both
male and female attire

discarded on the grass
now nothing but gasps

they each
the other's feast

the wind idly turning
Bovary's pages

skipping to the end then
beginning again

until one last ***** gusty
breeze interrupts their play

chasing their clothes
that run away

his boxers hang now
upon the bough

her pink camiknickers..pale pink bra
making a run for it

laughingly they chase
their clothes

this Adam and his Eve

bra floating ****-up
in a pond

the camiknickers never
alas to be found.

And here now on their
50th

they share the same smile
when asked how it was

they came together

remembering their love making
in windy weather

shyly slyly blame
Flaubert

" Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."
***

From the Italian, literally translated as 'in the fresh'. In English, used to mean either 'in the open air' or, where specifically related to mural painting, 'on fresh plaster'.

Almost always, it is used in relation to dining alfresco, that is, eating outdoors.

Both meanings have been in use in English since at least the late 18th century; for example, in Mrs. Eliza Haywood's History of Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy, 1753:

"It was good for her ladyship's health to be thus alfresco."

The lines quoted are from the end of Madame Bovary who expires as the Blind Man sings them in a raucous voice. They are from a  Restive de la Bretonne poem from his"The Year of the National Ladies" way back in 1791. He who was so much into women's shoes  that his very name became as one with this particular peculiar fetish..Retifism

"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour
Fait rêver fillette à l’amour.

Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."

"Maids in the warmth of a summer day,
Dream of love, and of love always. . ."

"The wind is strong this summer day
Her petticoat has flown away."
Donall Dempsey Jan 2020
THE DANGERS OF READING FLAUBERT....AL FRESCO!
( for Ray of the Pools )

"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour..."

he reads, stops:
kisses her.

" ...Fait rêver fillette à l’amour."

she completes the words
kisses...kisses him.

Dining al fresco
feeling somewhat frisky

they throw caution
to the wind

soon all too soon
Flaubert forgotten

Madame Bovary
discarded on the grass

soon all too soon
even the food forgotten

clothing of both
male and female attire

discarded on the grass
now nothing but gasps

they each
the other's feast

the wind idly turning
Bovary's pages

skipping to the end then
beginning again

until one last ***** gusty
breeze interrupts their play

chasing their clothes
that run away

his boxers hang now
upon the bough

her pink camiknickers..pale pink bra
making a run for it

laughingly they chase
their clothes

this Adam and his Eve

bra floating ****-up
in a pond

the camiknickers never
alas to be found.

And here now on their
50th

they share the same smile
when asked how it was

they came together

remembering their love making
in windy weather

shyly slyly blame
Flaubert

" Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."
***

From the Italian, literally translated as 'in the fresh'. In English, used to mean either 'in the open air' or, where specifically related to mural painting, 'on fresh plaster'.

Almost always, it is used in relation to dining alfresco, that is, eating outdoors.

Both meanings have been in use in English since at least the late 18th century; for example, in Mrs. Eliza Haywood's History of Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy, 1753:

"It was good for her ladyship's health to be thus alfresco."

The lines quoted are from the end of Madame Bovary who expires as the Blind Man sings them in a raucous voice. They are from a  Restive de la Bretonne poem from his"The Year of the National Ladies" way back in 1791. He who was so much into women's shoes that his very name became as one with this particular peculiar fetish..Retifism

"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour
Fait rêver fillette à l’amour.

Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."

"Maids in the warmth of a summer day,
Dream of love, and of love always. . ."

"The wind is strong this summer day
Her petticoat has flown away."
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
it's not like i was away from society,
sure, i crawled into my room and stockpiled on books,
the Tibetan Book of the Dead was never something
i was going to finish reading and find translatable
insights to compliment...
but there were plenty of books...
enough newspapers too... all the culture sections
written by critics: just today i was reading
up on two reviews in the culture section of
yesterday's the Sunday Times:
  poetry reviews! wow! wow! poetry is being
criticised in a mainstream media publication: still?
isn't poetry dead? last time i heard
TS Eliot killed poetry...
    well: if anything needs a killing -
i imagine trying to **** a dead person...
**** a dead person by mime?
**** a corpse by propping him in a chair...
talking to him, it, her,
pouring her, it, him a glass of whiskey...
dealing cards to them?
pretending the dead thing is somehow still
a body and all the mechanisation process of SIGMA
we dare to call soul or a seal of falling leaves or self?

horrors of the novel and all things
flashy and pop... i could if not for the autobiographical
drip drip drip...
   today i stood in the kitchen and imagined
myself: the demon cook of hell...
tomorrow i'll be making a Turkish dish
of finely cut beef... rosemary (oddly more complimentary
of beef than lamb), chillies, garlic,
sumac, pepper... cheese... white wine vinegar
to cure the meat...
                        black pepper... salt...
eaten with LAVASH...
                                          gorge of all gorges of
the thirst -
      but i will also be making two curries for the day
after tomorrow... to give myself more time for:
more time...

i went away from society: but didn't...
society tried to cement my ear into a lunatic asylum:
how i wished i made it among the madmen,
truly... how i wished i was at one point sectioned:
i tried my luck, i tried and tried but failed...
i never was... pop pill X white as nerves
and the bleaching of aluminium -
   pop pill Y... no result... the desired result...
the world span forward and still the same world
i returned to... although with quaked psyches
reaching out for hands instead of receiving
pointing fingers... exclude you: exclude i and you:
you-not-you i-not-i: or even:
i as "i" and you as "you"...
                    
in this kitchen: this, not this: any kitchen...
what was playing in the background? a spin on vampirism,
a blood-disease romance...
i thought about: if i wrote a YA novel about
vampires in the decadent period of the 1980s
with the height of the AIDS epidemic?
imagine: i "said" to myself...
    imagine vampires with AIDS... i started to imagine
vampires suffering from AIDS...
    not the sort of pristine vampires that needed
virgins or children to survive...
just a wild-thought: an unnecessary thought...
i'd be better off thinking of windmills...
    like that one coming up to Upminster from
Hornchurch...
               because this book, will never be written by
me... but a theme exists...
vampirism at the height of the AIDS pandemic...
vampires with AIDS...
             the homosexuality of vampires is yet
to be explored... seems these creatures might want
to exchange blood, spit and *****...
perhaps vampires would be immune to AIDS...
but then again: that's irrelevant since there's a cure
for ***: the virus that designated the past-"redemption"
state of AIDS...
or at least: this is what i "think" i "know":
point being - i don't care to know...
                              
the following rubric also came up...
on the topic of gravity...
swimming - ∇ (you find gravity in the top part
of your body... in the torso)...
the feet are slackers... they come in for the swim...
cycling - (again) ∇ nabla schematic...
your torso actually manages the coordination
of the body on the bicycle...
your feet do all the work... peddling...
but your upper body needs to coordinate
the centre point of gravity being: you're not falling...
you're not falling when either swimming
or cycling...
you're not falling when walking...
you're not falling when climbing, rock or tree...
∇... the legs are only there for the "ride"...

but? ice-skating... it should be the same!
it should be a ∇-schematic...
but is it?! is it?!
hardly some darkened mysterious, poetic O...
oh god... not another of those O O's...
like O is ****** or O is orbit
or O is eye or: whatever happened in Ur
and why not Oor for up-sigh-alone
   is not different to oh-mega-n: oh Meghan?
not a name in the tabloids... just
a coincidence, a little coincidence...

i can't be blamed for underachieving in the second
wave of literacy: basic example i can give:
frightoffreedom = "FRIGHTOFFREEDOM"
print(f"{frightoffreedom.lower()}")
who write so complicated but still performs
magic in 2D and can't translate 2D into 3D?
did every child start speaking said, any said
language to an unsaid capacity of a Buddha's
silence? gate-keepers some say,
a new literacy i say: i too could learn if
there was someone willing to teach...
but as the first pigs to the trough...
first learners come first and the rest "struggle"...
that's me sorting out the basics of ever used
EXCEL twice, properly...
HTML building blocks once...
sorting out my father's change of accountant:
three years prior to his retirement:
quick-books confuses everyday tax-payers
except for the intended audience of accountants...
but... how happy i was... filling out the rubrics
finding math fun without doing any math...
my new favourite expressions
are =SUM(D3:D34)
   that's for the total of money spent...
next column... =(D3*1.2)
   that's the rubric for the Netto (without VAT)
slide the mouse down from D3 through to D34...
next column the VAT (Brutto)..
    =(D3-E3)
             ergo... the VAT in cell F3... scroll down
to F34... then at F35 type in:
    =SUM(F3:24)...

                   modern poets are yet to have discovered
or used the internet or computers...
Poet-Luddite... conflated language:
i want to forget outside of the immediacy of having to
know an elephant is an elephant and
there are five blind men trying to tell apart
a chair from a table...
                 perhaps seeing each item represented
by a cubist painting would leave them
the same blind men if they were only given
a snippet of sight to tell a chair from table apart...

conkers left on windowsill and other locations
in the household allow you to spend the winter
months: freed from feeling spiders...
spiders apparently abhor the scent of oak seeds:
i've been huddling in my winter abode
freed from spider bites... in winter...
when spiders morph into mosquitos and draw
blood from mammalian flesh...

- i can't believe it though! it was so easy!
but... it had to take a lesbian to ask me out on a date!
it took me from the age of 21 through
to the age of teasing 37, done so casually...
hey: do you want to go ice-skating with me
after the shift is over? sure! why not!
today i paid for it... however many hours
i spent cycling, today i felt muscles i never thought
i had... but it took a lesbian to ask me on a date...
a coworker mingling scenario...
we worked the shift, we went ice-skating...
she filmed me trying my best not to fall over...
her laughter, or rather, her giggling reminded
me of Ilona... that masculine-feminine aura
of self-assurance...
i'm not attracted to these women:
they just seem to be attracted to me...
tattoos, piercings, bully-boy butch-Toms...
standing a proud 5ft4 eyeing up a 6ft2 example
trying to kick punch and kiss all at the same time...
well... it was so easy, so much fun...

it should follow that finding the centre of gravity
within the confines of ice skating
should be the same as that of finding the centre
of gravity while swimming or cycling...
i.e. ∇... that's the schematic...
upper-body: the torso is giving prime psychological
concerns... the legs are secondary...
but no... it's counter-intuitively: "intuitive"...
you can't exactly begin finding gravity while
either swimming or cycling by flapping your
arms about pretending to learn to fly:
but you do! you do!

            a drowning man is flapping his arms about
but his legs... his legs...
i'm starting to think i'm getting this theory all wrong...
swimming = cycling = ice skating = ∇...
i kept looking at my legs
pretending to walk while simultaneously trying to glide...

Δ schematic insinuates: don't look at your legs...
no one who walks upright looks down
asking the legs to do the walking...
one looks down to resemble a humbling
expression of grace: thank you: mechanisms of
what binds water to a tide and the mountain
to itch for rising above the setting sun...
thank you...
no one looks at one's legs insinuating:
you're not performing my unconscious demands
of moving from X to Y...
but on ice? ice skating...
it's a fake schematic... ice skating is truly like
swimming and cycling...
next time? my 3rd time on the ice? i will have to let go...
i will have to fall the nth number of times...
what's scary is generating a momentum
so easily without any obstacles of a hill
of grit of grind...
     it's a bit like: people exercising in the gym...
performance art... they can lift weights as a spectacle...
they can create a sexed-up physique, body-shape...
but throw the same people into a manual-labour
environment: with the drudgery of manual labour...
the bulkiest of them will stumble...
tell them to lift, perform "art work" on a roll of
      felt in the roofing industry...
lifting weights is an abstract compared to actual
physical labour...

still... aged 36 and the first "date": it wasn't a date...
was with a female who just so happened to be a lesbian...
what sort of heterosexual woman would go on
a date with me so simple... she asked to go ice-skating
i would have asked: want to go cycling with me?
want to go to an art gallery with me?
was there any talk about what job i have?
was there any talk about what living arrangements
i'm living "under": more like over given
the current climate of renting in London:
12 months upfront rent?!
             of course i still live with my parents...
i clean the house, i cook, i sort out my father's invoices...
i do the VAT for the accountant,
i tend to the garden...
                              i pay "rent"... well...
thankfully i didn't have hopes to get married...
so... my parents didn't have to fork out from their savings
for some grand fakery parade of ceremonial pomp
of ****** white: bride to be...
easier with the prostitutes in the brothel...
but i figured: if the the 8 year old me figured out
how to ******* before he could produce *****
he could also have an inkling into the current debacle
of men who *******: like that was ever a hindering
"problem": because women are all pristine
because they rarely talk about it:
cipher: Madame Bovary...

         two bad experiences having *** in one brothel
and i'm thinking about curing my ills seeking out
another brothel... but it's winter and my libido is
obviously not up to scratch...
so? three times daily... jerking off to the point
where i: i don't have to actually enjoy it...
no movies... just pictures... cleavage... ***...
eyes... mostly eyes...
                           bacon, butcher, bacon,
tenderising meat, curing meat with acids...
spices... herbs...
                 the more i do it the less i think of it...
worried about communal hot topics about loss
of testosterone?
                   i have hair on my chest
my stomach, my back and on my chin...
                  blah blah some parrot said...
seagulls dived in for a *******... the Kraken yawned...
Norse mythologies crept up on dying Christianity
and all was well... meadows covered by frost come
late January somewhere in the open green patches
of Edinburgh...

                - the labour and the pains of the crucified-foetus....
some say it's like waking into a world
where women perform the splinter-membrane
argument of what's living and what's not...
how ancient male mammals performed infanticide...
yet how chemistry and the abstract allowed
a new-mammalian-wave of female infanticide:
because: early birds in the dynamic of ***
made their first falls the fault in the opposite ***...
while some of us waited and waited and
by waiting became freed from ugly brides
and social expectation: Darwinism's pressures
to procreate...

i can't listen to both Darwinism and Buddhism
at the same time: i simply can't knife through
to the fork to subsequently spoon up and gulp down
this sort of duality...
like i can't stomach the dualism: if there is one
of consolidating the aesthetic with the ascetic...
i can't consolidate the AESTHETIC with the ASCETIC!
Christianity did just that! Christianity
married the AESTHETIC with the ASCETIC"

— The End —