.the 3 Ps... priests, prostitutes, psychiatrists... i never went to psyvhologists or philosophers... i guess i became the last of the Ps... a "poet": thank god i didn't conform of form / rhyme, or that dreaded: feel the peer pressure! feel the peer pressure of circus monkey ******* 20 clowns congested into a fiat 126P... or an english mini doing / attempting the: i've found h'america in a can of sardines type of joke... play me some: chant of the templars: da pacem domine... look at me: happy bunny for the rest of the year! hell, i'll go one better: chevalier, mult estes guariz... i like this sort of "crap"... well, given modern pop music being less about crack and more about... getting a high from chewing on the sailors' nutmeg... who's who and who's to blame?! am i drifting as a sense of a reminder, or was this always to become a bad joke? i'm guessing: this was always a bad joke... given all of this... i'm just tired, as an european i'm just tired of the h'american narrative... i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******.... i'm tired of living in h'america's shadow... it bothers a bothersome lethargy out of me that has to state: the end... h'american culture was fun in the later stages of the 20th century... but now? the paranoia has become... totalitarian, past the scheme password: fun... it has become... blasé... unimpressive... elite-bound scrutiny without a binding revisionism... generic cultural export that seems to only satiate the anorexia of h'americans while, no one else... i have watched the death of the cultural export of h'america for a while now... h'america as a cultural goliath exporter of its culture is dead... nothing, culturally, to come from h'america, will ever be taken seriously... h'america can't replicate its former cultural export prowess... everyone these days just laughs at what h'america exports culturally... i still remember gap shirts: made in canada... i still own one, will i buy one in the neart future? those shirts are made to last for 50 years... they do not lose colour or form... chinese communism is what runs h'american capitalism: cheap **** sells, and since cheap **** is not made to last, more cheap **** is needed... even if h'america landed on the moon, the world still rotates around: made in china... bravo capitalism: selling out to the chinese communists! low quality products over high quality products... just to mind the expedience of upkept momentum: without a desired quality of individual products: rather the product per se... **** me... back my march into folk songs, into pagan ***-for-tat... away from h'american pop crack ******* songs or from rock... h'america... once the prime cultural exporter... now? eh... somewhere between rain man & the green hornet.

yeah, did that, talked to the psychiatrists,
they "figured me out",
   they thought i was abused as a child...
depends... on what you call abuse...
had the girlfriend or two...
              she got engaged with me,
threw the engagement ring back
in my face...
   called me up while i was roofing...
first it was the "voices in her head",
then a pregnancy...
                          once engaged, broken,
once divorced...
                newly married:
god, i pray for that ******...
                  what's the differnece between
anger and drinking?
  a litre of whiskey and having replaced
the mixer from a pepsi to a ginger ale?
angry, that's almost funny...
                  1.5 hour's of a worth of
public utility's worth of transport...
i too find the long way around an outlet...
talk... talk...
why would i feel like talking?
          what has, talking have to do with it?
my 'ingers are itchy,
can i just type and call it an extension
of thought?
               no one talked,
there was the sound of some music,
and some clicking sounds,
and, hey pretso...
   some letters appeared on a pixel canvas...
and then i really think about,
before a drinking session
i forgot to take a ****, ****,
and ******* to some 1970s italian
******* classics...
      in the intermediate of a drinking
sessions...
i remembered the shoved shy **** up
my ***... the ****...
and the no. 3...
         it was still going to be
1970s classic italian ***** cinema...
when... it all felt sensual...
but... wait... wait a minute...
   aren't all these ***** circumcised?!
wait... wait a minute...
i'm not circumcised...
my phallus looks nothing like
the prime exponents!
          right now: was it ever a "jewish thing"?
maybe i should buy a web cam,
some scented candles...
and **** one off?
                   incel...
i mean... you're implying
the guys who are... reactionary...
in a secular environment,
being prescribed an ultra-religous
practice of the martiarchy -
snippet till the end,
   bride to be once the male tirade ends?
yeah... well jerking off:
is a problem...
if you've been circumcised...
you're not supposed to...
but...
     i haven't been, circumcised...
so where's my *******
web cam, transations,
*****?

                         you want to begin
explaining why,
akin to baptism,
    the act of circumcision should
be a choice...
  rather than a "circumstance"
of "all possible eventualities"...
there's only so much
self-help psychologist *******
you want to hear,
before you turn up the heat...
so what about your lower tier
big hard-on pharma psychiatric
fwends?
oh, right... you're a psychologist...
so you're not really a doctor,
since, you can't prescribe
pharmaceuticals...
my bad.

        oh... you didn't think that
brain is nothing but a word salad /
chemistry soup?
no?
           oh... weelly?
                   weelly weelly?
trying to interpret these men,
armed with everything,
but nothing regarding
their circumcision,
and how...
   uncircumcised women can
just make money
off jerking off armed with
a web cam...
but men...
     well of course they won't
derive pleasure from
jerking off if they are
circumcised, will they?!

     by now it would be easier
to round up a bunch of retards,
lie to them,
point them in a disorientating
direction,
   and watch them do the *******
derby akin to horseracing...
because...
      not that i'm ******* einstein...
but that would be
just as good...
as all this current, vague,
self-help, *******.

there aren't that many excuses for
an under-read poet,
           of course, there are excuses
for under-red novelists,
who's idea of an obscure citation
constitutes a ref. to digging up
a misplaced synonym stand-out
in the already apparent rigid
vocabulary: standin like a tree
in a forest of toothpicks:
   a word like that... **** me!
     "obscurity" that begins and ends
with the thesaurus...
     a 'yellow yoke':
    heard of black tulips and black
swans...
            is that supposed to be
a gimmick of yoyo?
           yet I can't exactly find peace
with poetry that: having all
that space, doesn't hide within
its scarce lineage of words some
version of beef, perhaps even
the raw impromptu of a Tartar
choking chunk of razor's raw edge...
god I miss shaving:
     a spared opportunity to cite -
   the one downside of ****** hair:
you miss having a shave...
     and yet 'ere they come -
infiltrators, women, perfectly sculpted,
wishing a poem become like
a handbag, and, thrice
the depth of a puddle...
   perhaps England is "etymologically"
susceptible to overusing pronouns
and other shrapnel words...
   for all I know you can have
a conversation in Polish, and almost
never use the pronoun I...
           hell, to and back from Timbaktu
and not even a sly sniffing out
a necessary use of the pronoun...
which explains the whole
gender "neutrality" of pronouns...
last time I heard, in "ancient"
times, Kings used the singular-plural
pronoun of We...
           and youth can get away
with pretty much anything,
as long as they become good consumers
and spawn consumer ideas...
grammar, though?
    that's not exactly ******* on a wall
and watching the makeshift
   waterfall dry and calling it
grafitti... even though:
    that's my take on invigorating
a post-grafitti movement:
    all it takes is ******* on a wall.
yet there's this woman and she's
like that ***** model reciting
poetry to Samantha
    (*** and the city cougar)...
           nigh, night, knight...
god' (oops, misplaced comma)
   and to think that the concept of
a consonant as a surd
     in English, isn't fascinating...
PEDANT!
           nope, I don't have time for
Tsfetayeva...
               abandoned girls write poetry,
mandible with a beauty like
jaws of canines and prostitutes' bodies...
she writes poetry and she's pretty
and not Plath psychotic?
     last time I checked she thought
a poem was polka dot dress,
or that teasing mini,
a brioche in her middle age...
    or that quirky horseracing
sundial she calls a dead peacock
that's a hat, worthy of only champagne
and nibbles of caviar...
           I can excuse under-read
under-nourished novelists...
              who need to chicken scratch
out volumes of sleeping pill
substitutes, and concrete commute
material to avoid eye contact on
the London tube...
     and the bestseller formula of
the csrpenter's aesthetic:
    write a book that becomes a chair
someone can sit on, rather than fall off...
no problem...
    but when a poet is under-read...
with, simultaneously having
  all that SPACE before h(im/er)...
        shortened to a ref. by some
obscure german, with the name:
   Conrad, Himmer!
                     who cited old german
women and their memory of
the third *****, who, in interviews,
we're adamant that die Führer knew
nothing of the Holocaust...
            mind you,
    I've never seen a photograph
            of Adoolwoof ever visiting
a concentration camp,
    like Lady Di might have walked
a landmine field and called it a Parisian
catwalk...
             my bewilderment is still
regarding, one of the drittereichoma:
    third reisch oma: gwandma'h!
                     ha ha... hw'ite...
oratory example from...
                          Ah'w'ah'ba'h'ma'h...
just a thought: passing around
a whiff of lilac...
                   apparently english was
always going to be fertile ground
to harvest the tetragrammaton,
with, or without a Yiddish influence,
asking whether it was necessary,
or unnecessary...
            still, Tsvetaeva would know...
pretty girls can't exactly
write poems that turn into
mental tattoos...
         and we are past the schoolyard
talking parrot stage of
forcing children to remember
and recite poems,
   only due to the execution of
rhyme...
     our father doesn't exactly rhyme,
as neither does
    a timestable rubric of 1 through to 12...
   mandible beauty
write a poem that becomes
a tattoo on my mind...
        we all know of
the exhausted use of rhyme
         as: safetynet when forcing children
to memorise and recite
a poem, as if it were nothing more:
than a ******* nursery rhyme.