john cougar mellencamp
jettisoned “cougar” long ago
it served its purpose
now it’s up for grabs
beyonce cougar knowles
mark cougar zuckerburg
donald cougar trump
the ***** cougar poet

That night I did cry,
That night in July,
As I read the note which told me of the demise
Of the man made of glass
Who lived atop the mountains, so high.

His prismous chest lay in pieces
Upon the rocks
Which never knew his name.
And the light he reflected for so many years
Never again would know their singular form,
And they scattered their rainbows
On the blanket of water below.

For the summer, before,
All he had known
Was the new cougar in the jungle below
Who sat and watched
And swirled its long tail
Through the glass man’s light.

The golden cougar lay still
With its tail so long
And lifted its paw
And purred when it saw
The man atop the tall hill.

And the man did grin
But knew not of the sin
Which awaited the summer sun.

The next day he awoke
With the sun in his chest
To find a golden cougar
Licking his smooth, glass toes.
It purred and it purred
And its tail was so long.
And the man’s mouth formed a crescent.

The cougar swirled its long tail
And nipped at his toes
And clawed at his shins
And scratched at his knees;
But the man made of glass
He let it all pass
Although his feet grew frail.

“Could this be real?”
Did this cat feel
The skin of the man
Made of glass?

“I feel like a man!”
And each day he ran
To see his idol feline.

And this went on for weeks
And the day of which my note speaks
Came with a whip of the cougar’s long tail.

“I’m bored,” purred the cat
“And just for some fun
We can go up and run
To blot out the sun.”

The man didn’t fret
Thought his feet felt so wet
And he nodded at the cat
For peace for him
Came in the form of a rat.

They ran up the mountainside
And looked down at the tide
Which beckoned to them below.
But the man need not worry,
Said the cougar,
“It’s all just for show.”
And she playfully nipped at his ankle.

At this the man heard a noise
And began losing his poise
And felt the wind on his face.
He saw patterns on the approaching rocks
Brought from his chest;
And his shattered ankle to the left of his head.

On the cliff top, above
The man could make out a golden figure
Swirling its long tail.
And it was this action
Of fatal attraction
Which noted the fast growing refraction
Appearing on the beach below.

And with a frail hand,
He wrote in the sand
“We are not the players
On the stage of the world.
We are the riotous crowd
With tickets in hand,
And we can be shattered with but
One,
Single
Word.

The tired, old cliché –life is short—is probably more accurate than I would care to admit. With wry amusement, I have to admit that overused saying can be quite a joke to me, for I’ve heard it said way too many times, quite at the level of nauseam. Often times, I think the opposite, that life can be pretty **** long when you are not satisfied with it.

I am now at the age which I once thought was getting old, just having another unwanted birthday recently, turning forty-seven last month. As a girl, I thought anyone who had reached the age of forty was practically decrepit. Well, perhaps not, but it might as well have been that way. Forty wasn’t flirty. Forty wasn’t fun. It was far from a desirable age to be, but at least it seemed a million years off.

Surely now, life is far from over for me. Yet I must admit that I am feeling that my youth is slowly slipping away, like sand between my hands that is impossible to hold onto forever. Fifty is over the horizon for me, and I can sense its approach with a bit of unease and trepidation.

It is amazing. Many people still tell me that I am young, but even in my thirties I sensed that middle age was creeping up on me. And now I really am wondering when my middle age status will officially come to an end and old age will replace it—just exactly what number that is anyway. If I doubled up my age now, it would be ninety-four, so my age bracket cannot be as “middle” as it once was.

When we are children, we often cannot wait until we are old enough, old enough to drive when we turn sixteen, old enough to vote when we turn eighteen, as well as old enough to graduate from all those years of school drudgery, and old enough to drink when we turn twenty-one. I can certainly add the lesser milestones—when we are old enough to no longer require a babysitter, when we are old enough to date, when girls are old enough to wear make-up, or dye their hair. Those benefits of adulthood seem to validate our importance in life, nothing we can experience firsthand as a rightful privilege before then.

Many kids can’t wait to be doing all the grown-up things, as if time cannot go fast enough for them, as if that precious stage of life should simply race by like a comet, and life would somehow continue on as before, seemingly as invincible as it ever did in youth. Yet, for many people, after finally surpassing those important ages and stages, they often look back and are amazed at how the years seemed to have just flown by, rushed on in like a “thief in the night” and overtook their lives. And they then begin to realize that they are mortal and life is not invincible, after all.

I am one of them.

When I was a girl, I did not have an urgent sense of the clock, certainly not the need to hurry up to morph into an adult, quite content to remain in my snug, little cocoon of imaginary prepubescent bliss. It seemed like getting to the next phase in life would take forever, or so I wanted it to be that way. In my dread of wondering what I would do once I was grown. I really was in no hurry to face the future head on.  I pretty much feared those new expectations and leaving the security of a sheltered, childhood, a haven of a well-known comfort zone, for sure, even though a generally unhappy one.

Change was much too scary for me, even if it could have been change for the good.

At the age I am now, I surely enjoy the respects that come with the rites of passage into adulthood, a status that I, nor anybody, could truly have as a child. I can assert myself without looking like an impudent, snot-nosed kid—a pint sized know-it-all—one who couldn’t impress anybody with sophistication no matter how much I tried. Now, I can grow into an intelligent woman, ever growing with the passing of age, perhaps a late bloomer with my assertiveness and confidence. Hopefully, more and more each day, I am surrendering the fight in the battle of self-negativity, slowly obtaining a sense of satisfaction in my own skin.

I have often been mistaken as much younger than my actual age. The baby face that I once had seems to be loosing its softness, a very youthful softness that I once disliked but now wish to reclaim. I certainly have mixed feelings about being older, glad to be done with the fearful awkwardness of growing up, now that I look back to see it for what it was, but sometimes missing that girl that once existed, one who wanted to enjoy being more of what she truly had.

All in all, I’d much rather be where I am right this very moment, for it is all that I truly can stake as my claim. Yet I think of the middle age that I am in right now as a precarious age.

As the years go by, our society seems ever more youth obsessed, far more than I was a child. Plastic surgeries are so common place, and Botox is the new fountain of youth. Anti-aging creams, retinol, age defying make-up—many women, including myself, want to indulge in their promises for wrinkle-free skin. Whether it is home remedies or laboratory designed methods, whatever way we can find to make our appearance more pleasing, and certainly younger, is a tantalizing hope for those of us who are middle aged females.

Is fifty really the new thirty? I’d love to think so, but I just cannot get myself to believe that.

Just ask my aches and pains if you want to know my true opinion.

Middle age women are now supposed to be attractive to younger men, as if it is our day for a walk in the sun. Men have been in the older position—often much older position—since surely time began. But we ladies get the label of “cougar”, an somewhat unflattering name that speaks of stalking and pouncing, of being able to rip someone apart with claws like razors, conquer them and then devour them. There is Cougar Town on television that seems to celebrate this phenomenon as something fun and carefree, but I still think that it is generally looked at as something peculiar and wrong.

Hugh Hefner can have women young enough to be his granddaughters, and it might be offensive to many, but he can still get pats on the back and thumbs up for his lifestyle. Way to go, Hef! Yet when it comes to Demi Moore married to Ashton Kutcher, a man fifteen years younger than her, it is a different story. Many aren’t surprised that they are divorcing. Talking heads on television have pointed out, with the big age difference between them, that their relationship was doomed from the start. Other talking heads have pointed out the double standard and the unfairness placed on such judgment, realizing that it probably would not be this way if the man was fifteen years older.

Yes, right now I have middle age as my experience, and that is exactly where I feel in life—positioned in the middle between two major life stages. And they are two stages that I don’t think commands any respect—childhood and old age.      

I’ve been to my share of nursing homes. I helped to care for my father, as he lived and died in one. I had to endure my mother’s five month stay in a nursing home while she recovered from major surgery. I have volunteered my time in hospice, making my travels in some nursing home visitations. So I have seen, firsthand, the hardship of what it means to be elderly, of what it means to feel like a burden, of what it means to lose one’s abilities that one has always taken for granted.  I’ve often witnessed the despair and the languishing away from growing feeble in body and mind.
There is no easy cure for old age. No amount of Botox can alleviate the problems. No change seems available in sight for the ones who have lost their way, or have few people that can care for them, or are willing to care for them.  

I think time should just slow down again for me—as it seemed to be in my girlhood.

I am in no hurry to leave middle age.

I'll be your raindrop
if you'll be my window pane
or
I'll be your wet blouse
if you're caught in the rain

Be my asylum and
I'll be your criminally insane
and
I'll be your stock options
if you'll be my net gain

If you were my trap
I'd cordially be your reeking dead mouse
or
I could be your wrap-a-round porch
if you'd be my creeking old house

I'll be your idiot
if you'll be my quick thinker
and
You can be my Bud Lite,
I'll be your binge drinker

I'll be your loser
you can be my laughing hyena
or
You can be my cougar
and I'll gladly be your half-dead zebra

Be my ****** predator
I will be your self-defense class
or
I'll be your censorship and
you can just be your own **** ***

Oh how that woman looks so divine
we can honestly say she's aged like wine
how her lips would feel on mine
oh wondrous cougar so sleek and fine

I'd love to be that cougar's prey
oh how the thought would make my day
I'd be perfectly content being her toy
I'd always be a good little boy

I'm down for whatever is on the head
as long as we leave dents In the bed
oh how she looks so divine
that woman there who aged like wine

honestly? if i could be accused of being an anti Semite:
could Freud be called a Semite in the classical
sense of: say, scuttling like a "rat" in sneakers
on... hmm... why is it that when i type on
Day of Judgement... i first receive results for the Islamic
concept of Yawm ad-Din,
   and not... oh... right... i'm thinking of Yom Kippur...
i used to lived next to a synagogue...
i'd love watching these rug-a-muffins with their
curly "dreads" scuttling into their hiding wearing
sneakers... because they couldn't be bound to any
ownership of leather... no leather shoes...
no leather belts... yeah: and i was considered a lunatic
once... get enough people on board...
no secular psychological lion to stress you out
as some weakling away from the herd...
but with Freud? i'm a ******* SS-mensch...
i abhor him... interpretation of dreams?
  hey, Freudy-ol'boy... i think i just dreamed of
the birth of an oyster... i think i might as well
have shoved my head backward like the freefall
head-first of a Lucifer back into the source...
i think i was literally dreaming of how oysters
reproduce... curious little boy that i am...
    i hate Freud with a passion... to me he's not even
a ***... he's just a high-brow intellectual
readied to pamper to the needs of 19th century
aristocratic ladies having to be married to the likes
of Huysmans' Jean des Esseintes...
or Baron Masoch... Venus in Furs...
                      things... change...
         mutatio omnia...
                         all is subject to change...
                Copernicus is rigid... Freud... eh...
not so much...
                               there are fluctuations...
Freud is not rigid...
        his intellectual outpouring is subject to change...
unlike Marxism with it's rigid idiocy...
because its focus is on the personal level:
i... i return to the archetypes...
               Freud can't do that for me...
i do that for myself...
                   imagine a lion yawning when
watching a boxing match... because... the spectacle
per se is boring... he has to take care of this
mental "******" having a panic attack...
i can't imagine being this abusive to my mother...
a ******* train about to derail...
    even she said... as i sat down and talked with her...
trying to comfort her...
in my scenario: my mother would be crying...
while i'd be the one making last judgement remarks
about the society i'm living in...
in her case... she's the stern one...
while her son is crying... having a panic attack...
while i'm trying to hug him... comfort him...
i'm the one who drinks half a litre of whiskey
and then gets a double hit from adrenaline
while cycling...
   thankfully i had this... i'll mention race...
once... i'll mention race... once...
thankfully i had this black steward under my supervision
that helped me sort this sack of **** out...
like... what's the ******* stereotype?
akin to: one flew over the cuckoo's nest...
that... all the head-cases were handled by black guys...
are they more tender? are they motherly...
lion-prone imitation? and i'm the ******* remains
of a Mongol horde... i too can be tender...
touch touch... but black guys are tender creatures...
i don't even know what that meme was about...
about them being Orc... what African tribe ever
left Africa to invade some other piece of land...
well... beside now... but now they are invited
by the masochistic ruling "elite" of Oops-orp-U...
        even at the Fury-Whyte match i was wondering...
why have these two gals walked out of the VIP
restaurant, the 1-20... 1-120 club... club Wembley...
whatever it's called... conversation sort of claustrophobic
in there? a great bake of ***...
mind you... i can get the same for £120 per hour...
i don't need to spend £3000 and a date for a boxing match...
Mammoth doesn't discriminate when it comes
to females selling their sexuality...
just standards differ... beauty in the eye of the beholder
sort of *******...
         sure... nice piece of bagels... but not worth
£3000... i can get the same for £120 for an hour's
worth... hey... that's how life goes...
    why i abhor the Madonna-***** Complex
and why i'm invested in the ******-Cougar Complex?
beside the grannies... i'd **** anything that moves...
or maybe it's to do with...
   oh... this story i heard... see... i was born
with a Chernobyl tattoo... a birthmark on my right shoulder
blade... a sort of mark of Cain...
later down the line i had it removed...
which implies: loss of muscle from the shoulder blade
area... now i have excess muscle surrounding my
shoulder blade...
        but anyway... when i was born... silence...
then the nurse that was taking care of me...
tried to choke me... **** me... which... translated
into an enlarged heart problem...
  i was also ridden with a hernia...
                blah blah...
                        if i have any animosity towards women?
it's unconscious... which translates as:
transactional, purely ******...
   to hell with looking for a Madonna...
that part dropped off... i just took the ***** part
and made it into a ******-Cougar complex...
            and i like tending to people's needs...
                                   but i'm also, strangely: misanthropic...
when i need to be... i am...
when i don't need to be: the recluse i become...
i just can't stress it enough...
  you know: when you've been hurt by women
on an unconscious level...
as a baby in hospital... because of a Chernobyl
strawberry mark on your back...
hell: if they hate you so much from birth...
what are you going to do?
hit them back with love... go to the prostitutes...
**** the priests and psychiatrists...
you want to touch... feel around the other's
body like a blind worm... like an octopus...
wrap the whole of your 6ft2 100kg around
them... make them as tender as an oyster...
gulp them up with ever kiss every slobber...
every plum tattoo of the pelvis as you ram them
into convulsions of mini-spasms of Morse-Code
ecstasy...
         but i hate Freud with a rare passion...
that doesn't translate to all other Hebrews...
                 i find revulsions when orientating myself
around his intellect... his supposedly
rigid... archetypical findings...
                   the dissemination of the herd...
                       **** me... i need the herd intact!
so few are the calibre's worth of being... stealth...
of being predatory...
             at work i'm always of this mentality:
there's no ******* psychologist's couch safety net...
it's the closest i've come to my daydream
of having joined the army...
          but... conversation comes first...
physical stress comes later...
          if at all... like only two days ago... with that
panic attack sack-of-****... being mouthful to my stewards...
appease this little ****** as much as possible...
i don't want to use force... hey presto! it worked...
he did eventually sit down next to his mother
and watched the match... even she said...
i lived in London for 15 years... i know where i'm
going after the match... but he doesn't...
he doesn't have any money on him...
so i said to my black: yes: BLACK steward...
good job... don't worry about it... he has a mobile...
she has a mobile... they'll be able to find themselves...
- but i hate Freud with an anti Semite passion...
even though i'm prone to the occult...
an advocate of the Kabbalah... because...
Ha-Shem has all the necessary requirements
of phonetic sense in Roman script...
   because Ha-Shem didn't destroy the Roman script
like he might have and did...
destroy the Egyptian hieroglyphs
                 and Persian cuneiform...
   since the Romans never enslaved the Hebrews...
the Hebrews which became the Yids in Germania
were allowed to flourish...
    even under Casimir the Great they were allowed
to flourish in ******-lack-lands...
   and that's because of, what? they brought us a
Trojan horse equivalence of a suffering on a cross?
subdued "us"?
         i hate: equally... Freud as much as Christianity...
kneeling... giving ******* to some concrete
emblem of... the biggest troll of hell:
the Lord of Mosquitos...
     Ba'al Yah'Toosh...
                          come to think of it... there's Israel...
so why am i still "thinking" about the diaspora
of Yids all around the world?!
  ****** was a vegetarian...
                    Eva Braun had Jewish genes...
   you think, her masterplan wasn't
    for the resurrection of a Jewish nation:
  to be finally freed from being subconsciously
"European" and... strike the hornets nest
of Islam?
                         Helen of Troy...
           Elizabeth Bathory...
                       ****** Mary... yeah... only men were
ever evil...
          i'm starting to think that Henry VIII
was a mild mannered man... until...
   he stepped into a pile of **** of ****...
                      best bet... with prostitutes...
i'm trying to understand why so many men are
hung up on women they can't keep...
me? i'm clueless as to why my cats like me...
and i'm still trying to figure out
how people can post adverts for their: "lost cats"...
eh... "lost"? cats don't become lost...
they just figured out: you're a **** keeper...

    gingers... Jemminah... ah man... when i cycled past
her walking with the most un-remarkable looking
man... sort of her height...
i knew something went terribly wrong...
intimidation... i must have intimidated her...
bringing along my own home made wine...
and my home made banana loaf...
reading her boy's poem out-loud to him...
like Frank O'Hara i hate the colour orange...
but i love oranges...
   and i love ginger haired people...
add some curls to the canvas...
we're talking...            no... we're not talking...
Jess Glynne... we're imagining...
                 i guess i wasn't looking for a Madonna...
and she figured it out...
that's why i hate Freud and that's why i hate
him by doubling up on coupling him with
a *** perspective on European matters...
that's why i once made it prominently known:
i'd rather drink my own *****: which i did...
than drink the metaphorical blood juice of red
wine... then i'd puke on the crucifix...
rather than **** on it...
                     emblem of too much easily
available fixations...
                        no thank you... i don't need
a woman attired in a niqab when i'm freely in possession
of a *******...
if i could: i'd take the snip... if i were guaranteed
a leash akin to a niqab on a woman...
but i still don't understand why it's
only called circumcision and not MGM:
male genital mutilation...
        is that some sort of a libido trick
i'm not "yet" aware of? does China or India
have the same methodology?!
   i think they don't... not with their population size...

my mother was never mothering...
i'm sort of lucky...
she cries before i get a chance to... probably laugh...
implanted in me... the archetype of a blonde...
that soon died... recently a hunger for
girls with ginger... curly hair woke me up
to a new pursuit...

if i were looking for a Madonna...
ugh... sick... Freud...
    i wouldn't be looking for a woman to tend
over me... if i had children... yes...
over them...not me... leave me: the **** alone...
and how it's framed: all the fault is relied
on man's existence: per se...
this per se: is crucial... without men...
you couldn't implant these sick: Semite ideas...
into crushing the European soul...
it's like these Semites are fighting two wars...
one with the Arabs: the actual war...
but with the Europeans... a spiritual war...
so... why ******* this **** far north?!

o.k. Kippah brother... you know what happened
to Balaam?
            you will not lead these letters into extinction...
you made your offering... of the crucified man...
now the crucified man is making a comeback:
let's change him a while...
redress him from a crucifix packaged into
an iron maiden, how's that?!

right now... i'm *******... and i'm rarely ******
off... but now i'm ******* fuming!
i'm scratching my nose... i'm pinching my lips...
i'm looking for my forehead...
all the more looking at the people
most oblivious to change...
            
                no! i will not be sexualised by someone
who has been deformed by genital mutilation!
i will not accept his intellect! ******* ******...
nein! nie! niet!
             i'll only accept uncircumcised intellectual
arguments... by now... yes! i'm a ****!
in the broadest sense imaginable... i love the uniforms...
god... give me a Hugo Boss schwarzanzug...
                  i don't hate the Hebrews...
i just hate the intellect of one Heb...
                         with a William Hazlitt follow-up...
i am not going to be pacified into
a **** **** of an Islamic invading party...
but i will fast with them...
like i told them: it's not for religious reasons...
fasting gives me a chance to concentrate
a little bit more...

                            but... honestly?
most of the people i'm working with...
they'd be better suited to an extermination camp...
they're so ******* useless...
you can tell they have been borne from
an uninhibited ****** thirst...
        they're useless...
   a space... a time... but function? no...
that's missing... like a head might be missing
on a worm... oh... wait... worms
don't have heads... just mouths...
         i pretend thinking that these Muslims
have eyes... or ears... but i mostly see heads
that resemble mouths...

well if the leftist media wants to conjure up Nazis...
hey! hey!     oi! oi!
                                     like my once known fwend
once stated: plenty of Nazis in Poland...
so... not in Ukraine?!
            whatever...
lazy-*** Somalis...
                      i think i'd be a good gas chamber
operator; because i've reached that point
where...
           people exist... for no ******* ulterior
reason... they are just rigid... chess-pieces types...
retards...
         or they pretend to counter authority
with some ******* scam argument...
                 it's simply for me...
                                       i'd be a great gas chamber
operative... i might blink once or twice...
but i'd most certainly yawn...
                   i can't the believe the animosity for humanity
stirred up in me...
             it's almost: godly...
i'd feel less if i were allocated the status of farmer
and required to keep company with a herd
of cattle... this isn't cattle...
this is a splintering pseudo-herd of a mix
of scammers... busy-bodies... sure... the large proportion
is compliant...
         but the rest? what could give either or them
more relief? shackle them... or gas them?!

i don't know... it must be an ancient curse of feeling:
when... people are uncooperative...
the whip and lashing sort of comes out in me...
the army-esque rigidity...
it makes me feel like i want to shave my beard
and just keep the moustasche:
   like some British Empire officer...

           i abhor thinking these thoughts...
    but they are, necessary, they are the required learning
ground in order to inhibit their execution...
to their fullest extent...

      i need to think these thoughts through
in order to not enact upon them...
i need to curb my impulses...
coupled with: showcasing them... better i show them
than hide them, ferment on them...
and later... much later... do the much
utter worst...
            
                      i hate Freud... seriously...
all he had was internalized masculinity? there was...
nothing... external?! all man... women
sort of "stopped" existing?!
women stopped existing during the 19th century...
which... made them non-accountable: primo!
during the 21st century...

                              no wonder, then... why wouldn't
Islam pounce! at the freely available
****! it's not "our" women would ever mind...

me? i'm just trying to clarify the collective
narrative... it's nothing personal...
         i'm walking with Horace... i simply don't
care;
   why would i care? for "western europe"...
we're the non-existent jokes of Alred Jarry...
"eastern eruope": via language...but geographically
we're CENTRAL-EUROPE...
   yeah: here's your *******, glorious: SUNSET...
you generous *****!
                        i think that's what always ******
off the Russians... that they were...
relegated as pseudo-Mongols...
                      even though: Kiev was founded
by Swedes...
                       that would **** me off...
                                 if someone kept labelling red:
blue... i'd get *******... on a microcosm level...
i would... i would become so *******...
i'd loose it! simply!
                                     i'd start a war...
why excuse the Iraq or the Afghanistan invasions?
seriously? this side of history?!
**** it... if they can invade Iraq / Afghanistan...
why not us?!
          any news from Syria?
                          
the world can ******* and be the world it
chose to be...
i'm just thankful that... massive lizards
were made erased and these weren't
massive insects.

i was 15 when Kokopele knocked me up
and i was ripe, though unready --
every day i visited my spot
at first to relieve, but then to sate allure --
invisibly appeared,
mysterious pleasure day and night
throbbing at the thought
of that strange spot.
i clawed to sate in dream
what goddess women understand
in noontide reveries,
sultry swells of swoon
i don't know how my belly grew
was it at that drafty wall
or by the reeds..
there were several spots it seems.
i am ashamed
i was told to be ashamed
of this belly i love, and body
cravings carved into my soul,
covert sudden lusts
set in stone at 50,
children grown and making music of their own,
in tents along the streams'
comingled murmur moans,
he visits each in turns
to teach the spiral dance
and finish in the seeded womb.
flowers glow to settle racing heart with truth
infant recognition of an origin's choiceless birth
and now, i am in force --
become katcina cougar, proud Kokopelmana:
the role is taken by the horn --
eat my cornmeal cakes
with crooked somiviki smile while i make you mine
you can scatter but i will find you hiding
purring soft to catch you firm --
every boy and man will learn







.

this will make sense in the end, or at least along the way... a modern version of the Ruben's judgement of Paris, although if you watch the debate, the mediator already insinuates the "confusion": to my left or to my right, ha ha, left to right, right to left, 1st 3rd 2nd... that's putting it mildly, if i were Paris i'd have given the apple of knowing to Hera, queen of the goddesses... naomi wolf... beauty is in the eye of the beholder... and your phallus in the hand of... mhmm... softer than the flesh of an oyster at the end of the day... they did say once in times just after Pericles: make my inner as beautiful as my outer, and my outer as beautiful as my inner... then take art as not representing images: or the "shallow" arguments... any man would have given the apple to the intellectual Aphrodite (karen straughan)... we all know that antigone darling is Athena: who speaks so little you start to equate wisdom to be a distant synonym of needing courage to engage with a plebiscite crowd... oh don't give that prize to her: she'll probably tongue-tie herself and will never be able to speak into a microphone, the intellectual Aphrodite knows all too well the conundrum... it's the cougar attired in crimson that fuels the whole debate... she doesn't need to have inner beauty, you phallus is already shouting 'sir! yes sir!' at the drill sergeant anyways... you take Aphrodite as a paradoxical beauty, namely that of long conversations and not long interludes of ******* and baking cookies... you'll leave Aphrodite confused... i once heard an English motto: don't take for a wife a woman that's too attractive... that wasn't intended to be within the bias of intellect, i mean a beautiful woman within the bias of being able to manage a harem of 72 male virgins... well **** yeah, artists leave clues, whether knowing or unknowing... they're working from triangles, poets end up writing from Δ, they obscure textures and antonyms of what appears to be monochromatic, we say: red, crimson, burgundy in x-ray confines... the point being: there's no intellectual debate to be had with someone representative metaphorically or not of Hera... you can't have a Parisian fashion week catwalk where you find dehydrated beauty on the outside and an anorexic ego on the inside... what you find in Hera is a volume (voluptuousness) on the inside, within which there's a leech libido that transgresses all demands for intellect... unless it's pistons-well-oiled orientated... please, read some Marquis... if you get an ******* having read a few of his works: you're qualified - or as i like to call it: neo-classical *******... ever masturbated over Bronzino's Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time? well, if you haven't i guess **** ******* and gang-banging is your outlet: mine are pictures of Aria Giovanni and Chloe Vevraire (googlewhack no. 3!): Chloe Vevrier... but if you're never done the Odysseus pokes fun at Polyphemus... yep: the ghost hand: nobody!


you know, you can cram a lot into a 30 hour "day",
which results in the complete erosion
for the capacity to dream afterwards,
to actually work from the unconscious and create
a subconscious medium vector that connects
to points of consciousness: 30+ hours awake,
however many hours asleep, and then awake again
for another 30+ "day" to digest...
the classical definition of the subconscious, in theory,
is that you get plenty of sleep,
and it's a bit like that schematic A x B (algebraic)
A knows x     and B knows x...
   something mutual acknowledgment
via the same schematic but
A knows x, B knows x,
A knows that B knows x,
A knows that B knows that A knows x,
   which is all very Aristotelian to be frank,
it's this hyperlogic of having to acquire
great technological feats and reduce such
complexities to cat-videos on the internet as
the Egyptian partake in the genius that actually
made it possible... the slogan goes
Moses, you fool! said Nefertiti...
    so B knows x and knows that A knows x
and knows that A knows that B knows x
and B knows it's not necessarily anywhere
alphabetically less, even though the French said
a, b, c... which was very imperial of them,
that's the imperial version of what the mathematical
imperialism proved with the English inches, miles
and furlongs... but in this French case of imperialism
it wasn't a e i o u, b c d f g h j...
            that's what 30 hours awake does to you,
you wouldn't think of alcohol as a party drink,
a social barrier deconstruct... after 30 hours
you're hoping to meet Vladimir Klitschko on your
way to bed... aye pleasing Cossack, give us a
smacker goodnight... one glove it filled with
whiskey, the other with naproxen and amitriptyline...
boom! k.o. snooze, baby:
you gotta love buddhist honesty...
at least you get to see the bright side of life...
  and if people start thinking that Kant was the harbinger
of ill fate... you obviously haven't met a necromancer...
it was only von Kleist for ****'s sake!
       and he had the American option of a suicide
pact with a terminally ill woman and a bullet from
a pistol in a ditch... you can't get more romantic than that...
and there i was, mid-afternoon, having done a few of
the household chores: the washing, the ironing and
cooking a two-course meal while my mother did
the taxes (seems only mothers understand their sons
these days... women my age?
   ever see David Attenborough describe Emperor
penguins? money was invented for women,
because it brokered the end of the brotherhood of man,
we became famished by feminine needs
and have reduced inherent sports in us (hunting)
to sledgehammer bashing entertainment...
i'm the "drunk" that would rather watch ten hours
worth of ping-pong that tennis...
    i don't know why they resurrect the Olympics
every four years, have a **** coverage of it anyway
and then go back to that Glaswegian diet
of deep-fried pizza and haggis... and i hope to never know,
maybe Sepp Blatter knows...
but that's 30 hours of being awake, and only not
able to relax, by writing...
                 you wouldn't see this sort of "abuse" of
alcohol anywhere in the world...
the Soviet sleep experiment is actually not that silly...
too much sleep can also make you feel the minutes
upon your wake as if you've been stung by a bee...
three of my all time favourite songs?
the stone roses'* i wanna be adored,
    chromatics' cherry,
and finally: i can be forgiven for having missed this,
i got into them seriously with the album aufheben
and didn't really move anywhere else,
the dandy warhol effect got me...
but this song out of obscurity, 20th century technology
translated into mp3 and then onto c.d. and then
back into mp3... a song from an album that doesn't
even appear on their discography...
the brian jonestown massacre's pol ***'s pleasure penthouse,
the song in question? fingertips.
so there's that three...
      but **** on me, i half expected android (2015)
to be like ex_machina (whatever year that was)...
same topic... what the difference between android
cyborg and robot?
                                  aren't robots the proper a.i.?
as in: in production, the thing that's not hand-crafted
is artificially crafted, because it is crafted to a large yield
of a product? isn't that so? i can't distinguish (as of yet)
the difference between android and cyborg, i guess
as a Latin man (a - z user) i have to condescend the Grecian
pompousness of demeaning Hebrews (original anti-semitism
originated in Greece, not Rome, the Romans gave
the Jews not elaborate architectural schemes to abide by
in honour of Octavian, but the supposed pride in Greek
thought, undermined what later science would provide
a Latin man with, given the translation of יחֵוָחֵ,
indeed variables... i once wrote a piece about
the two Adams... namely how אָ (alef)
and עַ (ayin) are prominent letters among consonants,
but no vowel kindred of Eve is equal...
or how Eve is covered in both mainstream Islam
and orthodox Judaism... and Christianity is
a Rastafarian dream for more jerky reggae reggae...
they never sing down with Rome, judgement upon
Rome... they always sing about Babylon...
well, polytheistic or poly-schismatic,
it's all Hindu from hereon in - apart from that
here's a very tiny heresy... is that yod he vav he
or is it yod he vav het?
         there is a difference, afterall:
he (ה)        and het (חֵ) obviously differ... oh!
xet!                   god this garden is a mess,
               i guess the fruit of knowing good from evil
was intended to say: till the land, deforest,
learn agriculture... that's good, the **** you do to each
other... well: that's hardly a tonne of grain...
but they so alike though, even when you apply a noun
to these two symbols!
  could have said he xet but instead it's known as he het:
no wonder the Hittites came along for a curious look...
mind you, had not a prominent Roman, a centurion,
asked for help... we'd be prudish in runic from the northern
invaders... so thankfully no one within the Roman confines
of encoding sounds didn't have the bright spark idea
of looking at the very tiny little island of Israel and that
four lettered word and how it became known
to say o = omicron, ε = epsilon and γ = gamma,
   and cutting those things apart leaving only letter
having done plastic surgery on the noun that denotes the
letter that's denoted by the symbol, rearranged it
and got the idea of εγo: ****** marvellous!
- this is not brian pallenberg's story about the pleasure
penthouse album...
but you know what really got me in those 30 hours:
day, night, day, night: a NHLF debate between
naomi wolf, karen straughan & antigone darling,
the part where karen makes the point that
once upon a time men who beat their wives
in Scotland were publicly whipped (dhaal,
straugan), and if they were beaten-up instead by
their wives, a plebiscite of good-wishers would turn up
at the house and apply the Freudian theory of
a castration to the man, bang pots and pans,
and then in public display him having to ride on a
donkey backwards, having to hold the donkey's tail
for stability...
     see that woman in red in that debate? a true political
man-eating beast of ***** readied in atom bomb
explosions... the one next to her isn't wearing any tights...
unconsciously you're thinking: i like her french freestyle
of not having shaved her legs... the smart one is wearing
jeans and she looks oh so desperate to get out...
    the discussion doesn't even enter the realm of ideas...
hen-picking is discussed... all poetry ascribed to language
is gone... is it politically correct to ascribe the sexuality
of female chickens with the word hen to women?
behind me in Blackpool stag-dos (dos? no does...
there isn't even a ******* spelling for that phrase...
hen-nights and the inflatable Juan)...
well obviously your mind is working out why you'd
**** the middle 'un right away... she doesn't say divorcee
which is so "unsexy" but say she's a mum twice,
a mum, a single mum... polly wants a *******...
her address is new york city? ******! i'm heading there,
right now! can a white guy use urban colloquial
in the suburbs on a piece of pixel paper, which he claims
is mere the cartesian extension of his thought
and disinterest in rhetorical skills? i hope so...
it's not like herr adolf wrote a disclaimer saying:
read this or a thousand volts up your ****!
that really was a constipated debate, plus the red was all
provocateur and peppered with "you know",
   and "i know absolutely nothing": there were no ideas
in the debate! whenever there was a chance to debate
ideas, the debate turned into a debated about words,
and what words to use: to simply brush aside any clinching
to a idea-debate... perhaps because feminism is
an ideology without any coherency of ideas, as stated
from the debate: a coherency of wording: and that better
be hen = an asexual chicken, rooster = an asexual chicken...
it's still a chicken kiev at the end of the day.
now? i might squeeze in another poem...
     but it would still be great to get any kind of analysis
comparing the movie android and ex_machina...
the only problem would be: both creators are men...
so that's gender-stereotyping already...
but hell! she gets to build a buggie that she directs with
a laser pen... so that's nice...
but i'd love a discussion on these two films,
given that the music in both films is very oomph!
thriller genre always had better music than horror...
horror music is too romantic... thriller music?
***** back-stabbing you whenever you think you're
going to get a comfortable 10 minute slot...
but it's there... aside from both robotic creators being male...
woman: ex_machina - out of the machinery of man
          ergo? deus, or woman as...
i actually have a problem with the word android...
the woman is a factor of playing the two men against
each other... the android actually find a mechanical
part of himself in the way the "human" talks to the woman,
while the "android" is prejudiced against the rigidity
of his ****** movement: unlike the "human" having
an intellectual rigidity... the woman plays the two against
each other... well, 30 hours no sleep...
  i'm doing the helter-skelter trying to throw ideas
by way of remembering the actual plot of the film...
this obviously adds nothing to the discussion:
meaning i probably gave away a "spoiler" -
but more the point, i need a refill and some fresh air
to breath, having farted into a leather chair for the past
hour.

In miniskirt she
Dances, streaked hair and all that
but oh, she is old!