Pressesd tenderly,
your carnal flower opens,
its butterfly released,
hovers like a hummingbird
drinking from the bill.

Oh, I too would steal you away
and cage you happily,
to get under your black-fringed skirt; 
to see that pretty dress,
fly off once more,
and see you bare;
burned now forever in my banks,
a first sight,
of dark curls!

As I think of it,
my desire stirs,
but of us
I have already masturbated twice:
jammed,
hips pinned,
sliding over our wet perspiring bellies,
in our jungle heat:
'cause in the firmament of our embrace
- it's hot -
where glued we **** into each other,
stoking flames,
until sleep,
when we disappear from each other.
My mind crowds,
with niggling neurotic inanities;
yours with manic dreams where bed-wetting criminals in cages beg to be freed,
before better spaces overtake.

When I awake,
I am lying next to you,  
Gwen over the horizon of your fertile valley,
a mountain,
white and reposed.
You,
murmuring desire for me.
****!
I can't wait to answer.

It is late,
late morning,
and we are all half asleep.
You have your back to me,
as we lie,
rubbing feet,
stroking hands,
(the oiled bulb at the end of a finger),
your fine shoulders,
(that delicate but persistent bone in your wrist that stretches with pointed elegance);
as quietly inside,  
(warmly enveloped),
my couched *****,  
rocks us:
each diffusing into the other
like the early morning brew.

Lust and love,
closing-in,
which for a good while on edge had been:
the weeks,
days,
hours;
faint promises from afar;
sometimes a little closer,
our shadows in daylight cross,
as one over the other storms;
and once (or twice),
a sleeve brushes,
even better,
hair crackles,
as a speaking lip touches lobe,  
and for a moment,
taking in the other's scent,
a hint sublimely overpowers.

And these,
dearest of fancies,
are just some,
with which to penetrate your mind,
as you have mine:
the energy of my yielding tenderness,
inviting you to complete me,
as I spread for you with desire.

Much later,
those daring looks you have,
the way you walk our stage:
your beautiful elongated face,
those quick-fire arousing eyes,
your sultry self-assuredness,
your pre-possessing self.

I could talk about your couple,
of generosity,
reaching up,
beyond mere comprehension:
of the fact that I like Gwen
(his love gift for you, me);
but actually,
in truth,
I prefer to take this moment to make love to you;
to say how wrapped I am,
folded in your limbs,
in our mingling sweat;
how with your joy,
you touch my desires,
into yours,
so they flow,
run rather:
honeysuckle from your blessed nymphae.

You love my smell,
you say,
and I dream of gathering you in pheromones,
of drugging you,
of intoxicating you,
so once again you will find me,
take me,
have me.
Entice you once more like a creature from its shell:
Come!
where I can ravish you,
all of you,
lay naked to me,
flesh,
sinews,
everything,
your very bones;
those fine elbows,
those knees I would like to ******* over;
wash their smooth surfaces in my come:
from these cliff heights,
rain ***** on the rocks below.

To once more cast aside your socks and get at your toes,
to pour oil on 'em,
to rub and squeeze' em,
while in the moist cavern of your insides,
we ****,
half washed over by our own tide.
And as we do,
I quail,
speaking sweet nothings of appreciation;
from full lips,
your sounds return,
the hypnotic rhythm of your breath:
I engorge and in our labyrinth,
- the maiden and the bull -
we consume ourselves.

There,
Sweet Lentiform,
you did it,
you got me rolling in flesh,
lusting after your intimate parts,
wanting you in bed as I know you must have me:
pulling me on you,
kissing and biting;
my arousal in your palm,
pops,
as you run a curved finger over my nethers.

Lying,
lying,
side-by-side,
lying prone,
lying ******,
never unconsumed,
because,
please,
please  us,
with more;
so rarely,
unfucked even for a pause,
nothing doing more than sleeping and carousing;
our sustenance barely enough to keep us at it,
an occasional comic thrown in.
Oh,
God,
throw the ******* comic at me,
will you?
Beat my ******* flesh with it if you like.
Anything to see you standing in all your pearly naked glory!

And if you can,
keep texting me,
so I can hang on your every word like a ******* puppy!
Beautiful
long-haired,
skin tight,
upright,
wise,
gorgeously wild,
woman ...
Now pull me by my **** into your **** -
where I love it best.

i just remembered when it all began to fall apart i was in mid-thirties weary of taking advantage of women i wanted to change grow become better person more compassionate find loving respectful relationship maybe marriage i knew i needed to step away stop

chicago 1985 Odysseus is a stranger to himself living someone else’s life does he really want what Mom Dad Chris want? is he lying to everyone else or himself? he snorts another line of ******* moves on to next girl in dizzy way he is having time of his life so much occasion to waste doors to open slam rooms to pass through “In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo, and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions” thank you t.s. elliott his ****** liaisons carry on from several weeks to several months begin with him adoring some girl or she adoring him little fires that burn themselves out for his part infidelity is rarely in question instead typically he or she feels let down by some personal response or character trait and simply stops calling in actuality no girl ever bothers to stick around they follow his lead and evaporate his mind draws a blank he wonders what do girls want? Deep inside he knows nothing in life is greater than the love of a woman he would have liked all those girls to be just one girl but she is missing where is she? occasionally he will run into one of his ex-lovers on street she wears an expression that hints why didn’t you phone me back? why did you stop calling? he suspects she is playing victim in self-satisfying charade in fact Odysseus crosses into new territory it is difficult to go back he hones his edge no longer is he wonder-stuck child possessed by curiosity for girls he requires **** and kink longer buildups then urgent bursts of effort drawn out climaxes nameless girl wearing tight jeans cowboy boots braids whom he meets in drake hotel elevator pushes stop button she ***** him off he has **** *** with tan-skinned french-canadian female tourist in telephone booth on north avenue gorgeous longhaired creole girl from new orleans ***** him on fire escape stairs **** *** with skinny punk girl in dark alley dutch foreign exchange student gives him ******* between parked cars on clark street weird awkward *** with goth girl in graveyard ****** by older blond woman who positioning herself underneath table in ritzy restaurant he has *** with chatty college sorority girl in jet lavatory he goes down on nerd girl wearing thick glasses in criticism section of depaul’s library he gets ****** ****** by perfect stranger in lake michigan each evening before he goes out prowling he looks in mirror wonders what strange female he will have *** with tonight it always surprises him what a person might not admit to or accept but allow or give in to if the right moment or if the right person is there not that he is particularly the right person rather he stumbles onto an astonishing streak there is the paris/milantokyo fashion model with stylish french haircut who possesses astonishing beauty perfect ***** and haughty temper after night of too many ***** martinis and ******* she announces “you and your friends are going nowhere  you’re all second-rate artist losers! and your cousin and his group are obnoxious *******” she flips him the finger then shoves him he shoves back resulting in dual arrests and domestic violence charges there is the tall blond stripper who totally fulfills his ****** desires once she lets him insert garden hose up her **** laughs uproariously as stream of water shoots out on another occasion she requests he *** in her *** he begins to believe he will marry her she insists she is too low class for his family one night she drunkenly hurls champagne bottle gives him black eye drives away crashes her car there is blue-eyed sweetheart with divine ****** loving touch who after months of sleeping with Odysseus confesses she is ******* some other guy and swears she will be faithful in the future she begs for his forgiveness as he loses it pushes her out door throwing her clothes after her one girl lights candles gives him full body massage ******* another girl holds him tight cries pushes him away one girl writes confessions with permanent markers on walls of closet another girl slaps him yells why? why why why! one girl runs to toilet pukes passes out on floor another girl sits up all night talking teasing never relieving him another girl falls asleep snores while he is in conversation one girl makes fun of small left ******* later gossips to her girlfriends he meets girl who will do anything except allow him to enter her ****** he meets girl who is professional escort she offers to do him for free she has lots of toys videos he declines they mess around she gets him off with ******* he meets girl whose ***** hair grows to mid-thigh she incessantly calls for her dog Bertram! he meets girl who shivers moans furiously cries laughs when he climaxes he meets girl with self-inflicted scars on arms legs who only wants it up her **** he meets girl who likes gagging deep-******* him to skull-**** her harder the better he meets girl whose ******* are so fierce she loses complete control drenching him sheets with her fluids excrement he meets girl who wants ******* squeezed so tightly he fears he will draw blood he meets girl who likes to talk ***** slaps his face as he is reaching ****** he meets girl with gargantuan ***** ******* as large as thumb she gurgles hot breaths later tries to steal string of beads he meets girl who enjoys lactating on his thighs while she gives him head he meets girl who knows how to contract vaginal muscles so tightly all he does is sustain ******* inside her in order to reach ****** he meets girl who pees tiny squirts while he penetrates her **** she laughs wildly he meets girl with furry mound who requests he **** on her as she masturbates he declines she reproaches him accusing you’re not nearly as freethinking as you pretend to be in fact you’re full of ****! he meets girl who wants him to act out **** they struggle he meets girl who desires to be ******* whipped he is not into inflicting pain he meets large strong girl who forces him he never tells anyone about incident he becomes mindful many females are more depraved than him women remain puzzle to Odysseus he is repeatedly astounded shocked can never predict about girl what her ******* ****** will look like whether she has eager *** or what are her secret desires he is explorer women are vast mystery he wonders are females as sexually driven as males? are they as vulnerable? is their **** like tiny *****? he speculates if completely unknown attractive woman walks up to any average man grabs his crotch many possibly most men will willingly allow it are women that weak? more than anything what most excites Odysseus is female lust handjobs are test of adequacy distinguishing character having masturbated thousands of times he thrills in having girl do it he delights in watching her arousal just staring at his ******* is captivated by method of her fingers hands revitalized by degree of her determination throughout he needs to ****** her ******* ****** *** titillated as she licks lips after swallowing ***** he realizes if he were female he would be total nymphomaniac yet he finds it difficult to imagine desiring men are all so like him women are so strange fascinatingly different he craves their otherness Odysseus loves women more than they love themselves smell sight of them sends him into frenzy problem is he fears their power over him

it’s been 25 years since those days i live alone for many years in tucson arizona have not been with a woman for long long time last relationship 2001 with crack ***** i hang my head cry wish for love wonder do i deserve to be loved pray to be forgiven

There’s a film by John Schlesinger called the Go-Between in which the main character, a boy on the cusp of adolescence staying with a school friend on his family’s Norfolk estate, discovers how passion and *** become intertwined with love and desire. As an elderly man he revisits the location of this discovery and the woman, who we learn changed his emotional world forever. At the start of the film we see him on a day of grey cloud and wild wind walking towards the estate cottage where this woman now lives. He glimpses her face at a window – and the film flashes back fifty years to a summer before the First War.
 
It’s a little like that for me. Only, I’m sitting at a desk early on a spring morning about to step back nearly forty years.*
 
It was a two-hour trip from Boston to Booth Bay. We’d flown from New York on the shuttle and met Larry’s dad at St Vincent’s. We waited in his office as he put away the week with his secretary. He’d been in theatre all afternoon. He kept up a two-sided conversation.
 
‘You boys have a good week? Did you get to hear Barenboim at the Tully? I heard him as 14-year old play in Paris. He played the Tempest -  Mary, let’s fit Mrs K in for Tuesday at 5.0 - I was learning that very Beethoven sonata right then. I couldn’t believe it - that one so young could sound –there’s that myocardial infarction to review early Wednesday. I want Jim and Susan there please -  and look so  . . . old, not just mature, but old. And now – Gloria and I went to his last Carnegie – he just looks so **** young.’
 
Down in the basement garage Larry took his dad’s keys and we roared out on to Storow drive heading for the Massachusetts Turnpike. I slept. Too many early mornings copying my teacher’s latest – a concerto for two pianos – all those notes to be placed under the fingers. There was even a third piano in the orchestra. Larry and his Dad talked incessantly. I woke as Dr Benson said ‘The sea at last’. And there we were, the sea a glazed blue shimmering in the July distance. It might be lobster on the beach tonight, Gloria’s clam chowder, the coldest apple juice I’d ever tasted (never tasted apple juice until I came to Maine), settling down to a pile of art books in my bedroom, listening to the bell buoy rocking too and fro in the bay, the beach just below the house, a house over 150 years old, very old they said, in the family all that time.
 
It was a house full that weekend,  4th of July weekend and there would be fireworks over Booth Bay and lots of what Gloria called necessary visiting. I was in love with Gloria from the moment she shook my hand after that first concert when my little cummings setting got a mention in the NYT. It was called forever is now and God knows where it is – scored for tenor and small ensemble (there was certainly a vibraphone and a double bass – I was in love from afar with a bassist at J.). Oh, this being in love at seventeen. It was so difficult not to be. No English reserve here. People talked to you, were interested in you and what you thought, had heard, had read. You only had to say you’d been looking at a book of Andrew Wyeth’s paintings and you’d be whisked off to some uptown gallery to see his early watercolours. And on the way you’d hear a life story or some intimate details of friend’s affair, or a great slice of family history. Lots of eye contact. Just keep the talk going. But Gloria, well, we would meet in the hallway and she’d grasp my hand and say – ‘You know, Larry says that you work too hard. I want you to do nothing this weekend except get some sun and swim. We can go to Johnson’s for tennis you know. I haven’t forgotten you beat me last time we played!’ I suppose she was mid-thirties, a shirt, shorts and sandals woman, not Larry’s mother but Dr Benson’s third. This was all very new to me.
 
Tim was Larry’s elder brother, an intern at Felix-Med in NYC. He had a new girl with him that weekend. Anne-Marie was tall, bespectacled, and supposed to be ferociously clever. Gloria said ‘She models herself on Susan Sontag’. I remember asking who Sontag was and was told she was a feminist writer into politics. I wondered if Anne-Marie was a feminist into politics. She certainly did not dress like anyone else I’d seen as part of the Benson circle. It was July yet she wore a long-sleeved shift buttoned up to the collar and a long linen skirt down to her ankles. She was pretty but shapeless, a long straight person with long straight hair, a clip on one side she fiddled with endlessly, purposefully sometimes. She ignored me but for an introductory ‘Good evening’, when everyone else said ‘Hi’.
 
The next day it was hot. I was about the house very early. The apple juice in the refrigerator came into its own at 6.0 am. The bay was in mist. It was so still the bell buoy stirred only occasionally. I sat on the step with this icy glass of fragrant apple watching the pearls of condensation form and dissolve. I walked the shore, discovering years later that Rachel Carson had walked these paths, combed these beaches. I remember being shocked then at the concern about the environment surfacing in the late sixties. This was a huge country: so much space. The Maine woods – when I first drove up to Quebec – seemed to go on forever.
 
It was later in the day, after tennis, after trying to lie on the beach, I sought my room and took out my latest score, or what little of it there currently was. It was a piano piece, a still piece, the kind of piece I haven’t written in years, but possibly should. Now it’s all movement and complication. Then, I used to write exactly what I heard, and I’d heard Feldman’s ‘still pieces’ in his Greenwich loft with the white Rauschenbergs on the wall. I had admired his writing desk and thought one day I’ll have a desk like that in an apartment like this with very large empty paintings on the wall. But, I went elsewhere . . .
 
I lay on the bed and listened to the buoy out in the bay. I thought of a book of my childhood, We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea by Arthur Ransome. There’s a drawing of a Beach End Buoy in that book, and as the buoy I was listening to was too far out to see (sea?) I imagined it as the one Ransome drew from Lowestoft harbour. I dozed I suppose, to be woken suddenly by voices in the room next door. It was Tim and Anne-Marie. I had thought the house empty but for me. They were in Tim’s room next door. There was movement, whispering, almost speech, more movement.
 
I was curious suddenly. Anne-Marie was an enigma. Tim was a nice guy. Quiet, dedicated (Larry had said), worked hard, read a lot, came to Larry’s concerts, played the cello when he could, Bach was always on his record player. He and Anne-Marie seemed so close, just a wooden wall away. I stood by this wall to listen.
 
‘Why are we whispering’, said Anne-Marie firmly, ‘For goodness sake no one’s here. Look, you’re a doctor, you know what to do surely.’
 
‘Not yet.’
 
‘But people call you Doctor, I’ve heard them.’
 
‘Oh sure. But I’m not, I’m just a lousy intern.’
 
‘A lousy intern who doesn’t want to make love to me.’
 
Then, there was rustling, some heavy movement and Tim saying ‘Oh Anne, you mustn’t. You don’t need to do this.’
 
‘Yes I do. You’re hard and I’m wet between my legs. I want you all over me and inside me.  I wanted you last night so badly I lay on my bed quite naked and masturbated hoping you come to me. But you didn’t. I looked in on you and you were just fast asleep.’
 
‘You forget I did a 22-hour call on Thursday’.
 
“And the rest. Don’t you want me? Maybe your brother or that nice English boy next door?’
 
‘Is he next door? ‘
 
‘If he is, I don’t care. He looks at me you know. He can’t work me out. I’ve been ignoring him. But maybe I shouldn’t. He’s got beautiful eyes and lovely hands’.
 
There was almost silence for what seemed a long time. I could hear my own breathing and became very aware of my own body. I was shaking and suddenly cold. I could hear more breathing next door. There was a shaft of intense white sunlight burning across my bed. I imagined Anne-Marie sitting cross-legged on the floor next door, her hand cupping her right breast fingers touching the ******, waiting. There was a rustle of movement. And the door next door slammed.
 
Thirty seconds later Tim was striding across the garden and on to the beach and into the sea . . .
 
There was probably a naked young woman sitting on the floor next door I thought. Reading perhaps. I stayed quite still imagining she would get up, open her door and peek into my room. So I moved away from the wall and sat on the bed trying hard to look like a composer working on a score. And she did . . . but she had clothes on, though not her glasses or her hair clip, and she wore a bright smile – lovely teeth I recall.
 
‘Good afternoon’, she said. ‘You heard all that I suppose.’
 
I smiled my nicest English smile and said nothing.
 
‘Tell me about your girlfriend in England.’
 
She sat on the bed, cross-legged. I was suddenly overcome by her scent, something complex and earthy.
 
‘My girlfriend in England is called Anne’.
 
‘Really! Is she pretty? ‘
 
I didn’t answer, but looked at my hands, and her feet, her uncovered calves and knees. I could see the shape of her slight ******* beneath her shirt, now partly unbuttoned. I felt very uncomfortable.
 
‘Tell me. Have you been with this Anne in England?’
 
‘No.’ I said, ‘I ‘d like to, but she’s very shy.’
 
‘OK. I’m an Anne who’s not shy.’
 
‘I’ve yet to meet a shy American.’
 
‘They exist. I could find you a nice shy girl you could get to know.’
 
‘I’d quite like to know you, but you’re a good bit older than me.’
 
‘Oh that doesn’t matter. You’re quite a mature guy I think. I’d go out with you.’
 
‘Oh I doubt that.’
 
‘Would you go out with me?’
 
‘You’re interesting.  Gloria says you’re a bit like Susan Sontag. Yes, I would.’
 
‘Wow! did she really? Ok then, that’s a deal. You better read some Simone de Beauvoir pretty quick,’  and she bounced off the bed.
 
After supper  - lobster on the beach - Gloria cornered me and said. ‘I gather you heard all this afternoon.’
 
I remembered mumbling a ‘yes’.
 
‘It’s OK,’ she said, ‘Anne-Marie told me all. Girls do this you know – talk about what goes on in other people’s bedrooms. What could you do? I would have done the same. Tim’s not ready for an Anne-Marie just yet, and I’m not sure you are either. Not my business of course, but gentle advice from one who’s been there. ‘
 
‘Been where?’
 
‘Been with someone older and supposedly wiser. And remembering that wondering-what-to-do-about-those-feelings-around-*** and all that. There’s a right time and you’ll know it when it comes. ‘
 
She kissed me very lightly on my right ear, then got up and walked across the beach back to the house.

No, it wasn’t happening for the first time

I don’t know whether anyone wrote ‘Tattered sky’ in a poem before. Maybe it was me. I haven’t met a poet in whose life memory and forgetting are so mixed up. Even if I wrote, maybe I had forgotten it..

Still, I am sure I am the first poet to write ‘tattered sky in the lake’ for the first time in the world. Otherwise, ask those crows pecking it to tatters. Or ask the kingfishers who fly in that tattered sky.

It is not the first time it is happening, you know?

I have cried in keka and kakali meters. I have begged in kalakanchi. I have lied in kalyani. I have laughed and guffawed  in anushtup and sardula vikriditham. I have masturbated in slathakakali, and ****** in anna nada, and let it flow innathonnatha. I have dozed in manjari and died in maakandamanjari. I have gone mad in mandakranta, and have lost myself in meters i don’t know the names of.

Two nuns who went to Aluva river sands to pay annual obeisance to the dead to Jesus

One day, while going via Aluva, i saw two nuns. They were two poor women going to Aluva river sands to pay to Jesus the annual obeisance to the dead.  One among them had the looks of my mother, and the other, that of my girl friend at the church compound. Even when i recited aloud VG Thampi’s lines ‘I am Jesus, unfinished’ they didn’t listen to it. They were not in any way related to me. Then, i was a handicapped Jesus.

It is not the first time it is happening, you know?

I have cried in keka and kakali meters. I have begged in kalakanchi. I have lied in kalyani. I have laughed and guffawed  in anushtup and sardula vikriditham. I have masturbated in slathakakali, and ****** in anna nada, and let it flow innathonnatha. I have dozed in manjari and died in maakandamanjari. I have gone mad in mandakranta, and have lost myself in meters i don’t know the names of.

My name was Shemeer then

In the hospital at NAD, my job was to sleep in the place of that fat insomniac doctor. My name then was Shemeer. I can’t prove through my writing how well I performed my job snoring loudly all the way.  I don’t think anyone would have worked like this so totally oblivious of oneself. My sleep was not in the least affected by the rounded ******* of doctor’s jasmine vine of a wife, or by the odour (i wanted to say smell) which was capable of bringing the dead back to life. Moreover, his two candle-like daughters used to play hopscotch on my bed sheet, which was my work place.  But what to say? They dismissed me from my job for opening my eyes a wee bit on a day at dusk. I heard a shriek. That too, a familiar one. They had brought Madhavi Chothi to the hospital when her asthma got worse. True, i did open my eyes. I am Shemeer, the one who was dismissed from his job for the first time in history, for having startled awake from sleep.

It is not the first time it is happening, you know?

I have cried in keka and kakali meters. I have begged in kalakanchi. I have lied in kalyani. I have laughed and guffawed  in anushtup and sardula vikriditham. I have masturbated in slathakakali, and ****** in anna nada, and let it flow innathonnatha. I have dozed in manjari and died in maakandamanjari. I have gone mad in mandakranta, and have lost myself in meters i don’t know the names of.

One could have adjusted at least a day..**

Something that smelt of breast milk. I think my name was Shinto or so at that time. I was an altar boy who had lost his belief in names after having cognac from a bar in Chicago. There was a little bird too. From that day, i developed the habit of calling even a crow a little bird. Whatever it maybe, there was a little bird. And that bird was building a nest. The bird brings the twigs, strands of hay, a bit of a flex sheet broken at the edge of a word. The bird brings a red wire, the bird brings. It was beginning to take life in the address ‘The Little Bird, Nest, Tree PO ‘. A day. A week. An year. Yes, it took a long, long time. Bird, nest, tree.. tree, nest, bird.. The moment i asked ‘Hey little bird, don’t you have kids?’,  it flew away. Here it comes with its little ones to occupy its home. Yes, that very day. On that day, just after those who won the tender contract, had cut that tree down. This was too much. They could have adjusted at least a day..

It is not the first time it is happening..

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.

For all the people who tell me I can't be a feminist

My feminism ruins my chat up lines
So much so that you couldn't call them that
I feel pathetic, ironic
Less of a man
Because I haven't touched a girl without her permission
Girls spill their drinks on me in clubs (with no apology), boys don't
Boys ask permission before they touch my entertaining hair
I love women, they're better to be around
I'm not gay, bi maybe but don't stick labels on me
Actually girls do that to me all the time
Literally, they rub their wet hands on my clothes
And stick stickers on me like I'm an object
But no a man is not objectified
Male equals misogynist
Equals creep
I can't criticise a woman's actions, thats sexist
They're in the struggle
This makes me wish I was a girl
I want informal privileges
I'm a ****** is that clear by now?
I don't know if I can **** a girl with my *****
With all of HIStory behind me

I suffer under patriarchy, but not like you do
I understand even non feminist girls,
Or bad feminists,
Still products of this gut wrenching, repulsive system
I'm crying now, an emotional wreck
My mates, some female, will tell me not to act like a girl
But that joke isn't funny anymore
It's too close to home and it's too near the bone
(or *****)
Literally the **** in my trousers is a curse I can't control
An animalistic cage that traps me within expectations
As I write outside a club, three people grab my hair
One male, so I'll take back the generalisation that they ask first. He didn't.
Girls look cold out here
They've come out like this for me
And I shouldn't feel guilty but I do
In the club I'm genuinely objectified
Girls get slurs, sexually abusive labels, they're human there
I'm literally shoved aside like a door by girls eager to look hot at the bar
The only feminist in a room full of chicks

I tolerate this because I love women
Is that sexist?
Is that gay?
If so that's very disappointing
But I've masturbated to **** involving girls
Is that sexist?
Female friendly ****
****** **** - Is that sexist?
I'm academic, I 'get' the gender binaries
Transcend sexuality labels - Is that arrogance?
Why don't these ******* love me?
Note the ironic slur
(Males can be ******* too)
So maybe I'm just the *****
But...I'm sorry
This is poetry, or prose dressed up like it
Emotional inadequacy dressed up like it
I've seen like minded men dispense with the term 'feminism' in pursuit of popularity
That tears me apart because women do the same
I'm not gay
I'm not gay
Stop with the labels
**** me with a strap-on if you have to
Get us back
But I'm not submissive, just overly dedicated
It'll hurt because my **** is virginal
Pure
Sure, I'm a feminist
But stop with the labels
This has become obscene
Put me on page 3 and call me a hero

I'm being sexist here
By noticing gender
Real feminists, please improve me
Fake feminists, how dare you use my views against me?
If I wasn't ugly I wouldn't be a feminist
(Product of my environment and all that)
Like you but with a rather different inferiority complex
As I said, please love me?
Or at least, let me be your friend because the average boy repulses me
Maybe we have at least that in common?
These men cause me to
Try to emasculate me
Women too even but it's understandably rarer
Though on the rise in our modern age
As feminism "succeeds"
But this is my pathetic emotional venting
My male sense of self importance
Or am I too harsh on myself?
Ok so I'll self aggrandise
I transcend your petty, completely logical movement
Look at yourself in the mirror
Metaphorically
(I'm fat too, and some girls make me feel the pain of it)
Yeah I'm a feminist ally
But I'll school half of you

"You've" made me leave the club now
I can't look at these amazing women the same way they want me to anymore
But by 'you've' I mean 'I'VE'
The emphasis is on me to remain rational,
Calculating (my chances with who in the club),
Hardy,
The breadwinner
The one with the jeans
Look, I'd wear a dress if it wasn't for the connotations
Ramifications
I'm ahead of my time, let's agree on what we can
I'm on your side can't you see?
I'm big, I could hurt you and I hate myself
For representing what could be
What is
What my brothers do behind my back
(Because my sickly chivalry would have me try my hardest to pummel these ******* into the ground to protect the damsel in distress)
But I'm not a violent person
As I text, I cant go back into the club but to say goodbye
to my female friend who I came out with alone despite the ****** undercurrent
I half notice two men try to charm this girl
I hear echoes of 'This Charming Man'
(Later I will go and stand on my own, leave on my own, go home, cry and want to die)
These ******* 'gentle' men

But here I'm being arrogant
Self indulgent
Assertive
Typically 'male'
I see a fight break out
The women aren't allowed to be involved
Their voices are drowned out though they push themselves between combatants
Men, we are responsible for wars
**** all of you (*some)
I'd trade social and political male privilege for free 'freedom from guilt'
I'd trade my **** away so I'm not called one callously
(You could even use it as a ***** if you wanted, but its not as big as the shop-bought alternative)
And the funniest thing is, I think my words are important
Think I can say all this and be a controversial,
Exciting
Challenging figure
Asserting my intellectual dominance
Now that's ironic
Ironic to the core that eats at me
That makes me feel like your plaything
Because these ironic jokes like me calling you ******* are too close to home, too near the bone
The bone I gave away, possibly to you (but it hardly matters)
I'm too 'above it all' to be loved or to love faithfully (like Morrissey?)
But all I ask is for your love

That's all I ask
For me to **** on the **** of your respect and trust
Like I did my mother, using her for milk
For sustenance
So my kind survives
And now I go back to the wild,
To the looks that barely notice me as they smash or glance off me
That label me a pig
Or a creep
Or a ****, a *******
Or a gay,
Or a man
Or a feminist

---

So next thing I know I'm with a load of girls again
(Rugby playing girls my mate knows)
I'm the only 'lad' (Irony really hurts)
I'm told my presence makes them claustrophobic
I give them five minutes
(Because my male voice counts for nothing when deciding on a club)
I tell them I'm a feminist
The more honest way out than pretending I'm gay
Its OK now
Thanks, labels.
I swallowed and dealt with the rejection because I'd just had this emotional vent
Thanks vent
And thanks girls for trying to make me feel small and unwelcome at your table
Because it makes me better
Makes me stronger (like men desire to be)
Only I was a step, a poem, a vent ahead this time
So I wasn't crushed or pierced under your high heel
High horse
You weren't willing to flip the tradition on its head and buy my entry to the club
When I couldn't pay
But it's OK.
At least you were real with me
And I'll be there in spirit
In my dreams
Checking you out while you buy drinks
Then wake up and hate myself again

Tears were in my eyes when the girl said that to me
But I, like a true misogynist,
Fought them back and remained a gentleman
Polite and robotically rational
Pliable
But really, how painfully ironic are these semantics?
To 'fight' emotion
To 'fight' honesty?

Like men do, because we're all the same

“have you masturbated yet”
no i haven’t
“do you even know how to”
yes i understand the mechanics of it
you put a couple of fingers in and
wiggle them around

“why haven’t you masturbated yet”
i lied when i told you that there was
a short answer to this
either answer involves yelling
and screaming so loud
that a fire blossoms
in the middle of my chest
and my voice cracks
and people can hear me on the
other side of the restaurant

this is not a quiet answer
it is not a quick one
it is the pull of a trigger
right into who i am
and it is a cruel
slash at my insecurity

have you ever heard of
****** autonomy
or maybe personal space
questions that
a grown man
an elderly man
should never ask a teenager
let alone a transgender teenager

and the age gap
42 years
a year younger than my mother
doesn’t make this a friendly thing
it makes you a pervert

(but i will answer this again
so more people than you
can look at me like i am
even more of a freak
than they originally thought

i do not *******
because looking at myself naked
even before getting into the shower
when i brush my teeth
and my ******* swing
like twin pendulums
over the basin of the sink
i want to cut it all off

and no
at this point
i do not care if i bleed to death
i have been bleeding for years
since that first person asked me
if i was a girl or a boy

and no
you do not understand
because you were not born
in the wrong body
you have the hanging anatomy
between your hairy thighs
and the biologically male on
your birth certificate
as proof of that

there are no
scars on your arms
or on your chest

parts of you are not going to
be cut off
and scooped out
so people will see you as
and address you as
male

so do not pretend that
you understand
because you do not
and you do not try to)

Dear Stranger,
I had a dream last night.
A dream, which I will never forget.
A dream, where I didn't fall into the trap of my neighbour uncle luring me into a false promise of chocolates when I was five years old and kissed my ******.
A dream, where I slapped the stranger on the road instead of running away when he masturbated looking right into my eyes on the middle of road.
A dream, where I brought the true colors of my so-called brother in front my family when he tried to rub his tool on my ***.
A dream, where my ex didn't try to undress me when my soul was tearing apart.
A dream, which I will never forget.

I remember my old street. (North Overlook)
The people there never changed, like a television with the **** broken off.

I remember my boxer, Brutus. I would let him lick the inside of my mouth to freak out the other kids.

I remember eating honey suckles in the back yard. I also ate a whole bottle of Tums in the medicine cabinet. (I thought it was candy)
I once drank a whole bottle of nail polish remover, but I puked it back up.

I remember having a jungle gym and a swimming pool. My sister and I swam naked in it once.

I remember when we touched each other’s private parts in a fort we built in the closet. She made me smell my fingers afterwards. My nose crinkled upward and I thought it was gross.

I remember when my mother came home crying one day because the hair stylist cut her hair too short and she looked like a “****.”

I remember spending mornings at grandma’s house. I would watch The Price Is Right and Days of Our Lives. She would fall asleep and I would clean the wax out from her ears with a paintbrush. I remember enjoying it.

I remember my first ****** nose (I used a whole roll of toilet paper). I could taste the blood running down the back of my throat.

I remember all the other ****** noses and calling mom from the nurse’s office

I remember Mr. Iles (3rd grade) screaming at his class for being idiots. He drove a motorcycle to school everyday.

I remember doing times tables in his class. I was always terrible at math and thought I was stupid. We watched the twin towers fall on television. I didn’t know what was happening so I continued to doodle on my times tables.

I remember in middle school being the only one at my lunch table wearing yellow.  My friends became gothic. I didn’t know what that was, but I knew I was different.

I remember my first art class in high school, thinking I was better than everyone, and I was.

I remember the first time I masturbated. I don’t remember how many times I did it that day but my **** hurt for a while and I walked funny.

I remember my mother trying to teach me about God. I never told her that I didn’t believe in him. I’ve always felt guilty.

I remember my first girlfriend. We dated for 7 months. My friends hated her, and I stopped talking to them. I remember hating them for it.

I remember the first time we had *** it was **** ***. I didn’t use a ****** and my **** was covered in ****.
She was great at *******. She once ****** me off in the backseat of her grandma’s car while her grandma drove. I forgot about the time she threw up on me.

I remember she loved Disney and nicknamed my ***** “Captain Hook” because it curves to the left.

I remember the day she found out she had ******, she told me over the phone. I cried because it was my fault. In high school health class, they didn’t teach us that if you have a cold sore and eat a girl out, they could get ******.

I remember when she broke up with me and went back to her ugly ex-boyfriend (now ex-ex-boyfriend). I cried again. Her friends stopped talking to me.

I remember it was on my birthday. (Friday the 13th)

I remember the threats over texts to leave her alone. I told everyone at school she had ******.

I remember eating lunch alone. (A lot)

I remember shutting myself in my room and not eating.

I remember when I tried to **** myself with a steak knife in the kitchen. I didn’t do it right. My mother asked me what happed, so I lied and told her it was an accident. I don’t think she believed me. We still don’t talk about it but I still have the scar.

I remember making art. (A lot)
I did nothing but art (That’s all I had.)

I remember making friends in my art class and how my teacher would dress like a Jedi.

I remember meeting Bobby, and Brandon, and Tyler.

I remember thinking that art had saved my life.

I remember the first time I smoked ****. It was in the parking lot of a Best Buy with Brendan and Kristiana. I didn’t feel “high” and we ate cupcakes after that.

I remember drinking a beer for the first time and hating the taste.

I remember, “It’s an acquired taste.”

I remember, “Drink it, *****!”

I remember the first time I got drunk. It was at my brother’s house and I almost fell asleep with my head on the toilet. He carried me to the couch, emptied a bowl of pretzels and set in under my face. The smell had me dry heaving all night.

I don’t remember the first party I went to.

I remember my mother worrying if I would make it home those nights.

I remember making friends with people from Sayler Park They were in a band with my brother, but liked me more. I felt bad for him, but I was drunk. I went to other parties they had. There were always sweaty teenagers and *****.

I remember the guy who ****** on everyone in the mosh pit. The support beam broke under us that night and the floor almost caved in.

I remember ******* in the front yard. It rained so we were mud sliding in puddles.

I remember the two girls making out in the bathtub naked. Bobby took a video of them on his phone.

I remember when he tried to get this girl to sleep with me. Her name was Lauren Luckey and it was her birthday. She found out I went to art school and had me draw smiley faces on her and her friends’ *******. She started kissing me over the sink (her hair got caught in the garbage disposal.) She bit my neck and broke skin. It was 6 in the morning.

I remember she took me up to the bathroom and we had ***. I remember her taking off my boxers with her teeth. Bobby tossed me a ****** but I lost it. Curtis (he owned the house) came in and ****** anyways. He told me I had a cute ***. When he was done, he left the bathroom door open. There was a line waiting to come in that watched the two of us **** on the eggshell colored floor.

I remember waking up the next day and finding out she was engaged.

I remember the first time I had a pizza from Dewey’s and fell in love.

I remember when I started smoking. My mother gave me **** for it. I always complained when she smoked (I used to break her cigarettes.)

I remember the summer my grandmother died.

I remember staying the night at her house the day before.

I remember when my mother called everyone into the room. I remember, “It’s almost time.”
My family crowded around her.
One of my uncles fainting while the other vomited in the corner.

I remember my mother crying. I remember crying.

I remember “Amazing Grace”

I remember when time froze.
July 11th, 2013, at 1:26 p.m.

I remember my uncle walking over to her, pressing his hand against her mouth trying to feel her breathe. His brain wouldn’t let him accept that she died. I remember him looking up at me like a lost boy, looking for an answer. (I didn’t have one.)

I remember my mother told me she was with God now.

I remember.

The height of her heels
    Shrunk with every passing year.
Each "December", torn away from the calender
   Was a buzz saw, sometimes taking a sixteenth of an inch,
   And during winters that seemed particularly cold to her bones
   Nearly a quarter of an inch would be devoured by time's steady march.

At 18 her heels were confident, tall, strong,
   Proud pillars supporting the pantheon,
   Complete with Houdini-zippers and unnecessary birthstone buttons.
The Uncomfortable beds
   Of the comfort class.

At 26 her friends whispered,
   With martini breath,
   That they could swear that she had shrunk.
One suggested that she had simply adopted a new hairstyle.
After all, who has time to daily consort with the curling iron
   And still make the 6:47?
Good friends make for the worst critics.

At 41, on certain nights,
   Like when the Jove's had their annual tree-trimming party,
   Believable sources say she could still be be seen
   With 1/4 inch tree-trunks beneath her feet.
There were no buttons or zippers any longer,
   To announce her presence as made her across linoleum deserts
   Towards the desserts.
Her footprint was further softened
   By the Doctor-demanded cushion,
   Which eased the weathering toll of
   Each.
   Next.
   Step.
Everyone at the part paid words to her image:
   "Such soft skin."
   "Eyes that look truer blue after each blink."
   "Pilates or Yoga?  I have to know you secret."
But none of the husband saw her on their eyelids
    As they masturbated in the shower that night.

At 70 her wrinkled dignified carriers
   Were most at home in slippers.
She rarely removed them,
   'Cept when she let her toes soak like veteran driftwood
   In a well deserved baby warm tub.
For some reason the "News" insisted on covering award ceremonies
   And she would always feel a sharp
   Pain ping-pong between her heel and toenails
   As she watched the young actresses climb each step towards the podium.
She would still go out, now and then,
   But nobody noted the style or color that her feet were wrapped in.
   Why would they?
For the record:
   Plain, black, flats.
   Appropriately

She died at 82
   And although the casket was closed,
   It can be taken on good authority
   That this regal eagle of a woman
   Was buried barefoot.

I like to think that she is flexing her feet
   Somewhere eternal,
   Just to see how the sand feels
   Between her toes

Perceived beauty purposely created
Because half the picture all you require
Cinema vision spoon fed desire

Reactions to stimulus under red cap
A little honey added sweetens the crap
Spoon fed perceptions wrapped in patriotic trap

Perceived sounds fully orchestrated
Because half a song is all you require
White noise spoon fed shellfire

Reactions to stimulus under red cap
A little honey added sweetens the crap
Spoon fed perceptions wrapped in patriotic trap

Perceived learning intentionally truncated
Because half a thought is all you require
Media highlight spoon fed vampire

Reactions to stimulus under red cap
A little honey added sweetens the crap
Spoon fed perceptions wrapped in patriotic trap

Perceived freedoms purposely complicated
Because half your will is all you require
Information highway spoon fed empire

Reactions to stimulus under red cap
A little honey added sweetens the crap
Spoon fed perceptions wrapped in patriotic trap

Perceived choices remotely masturbated
Because half the people is all we require
Right or Left spoon fed news-wire

Reactions to stimulus under red cap
A little honey added sweetens the crap
Spoon fed perceptions wrapped in patriotic trap

Written by Victor Timmons
Copyright 05/15/2017

i had a friend once, we used to meet up for drinks and talk *******... i like that notion: once... because it was only for a short period of time, i got ~bored of him, but in actual fact disgusted by him... one of those Dostoyevsky moments from Notes from the Underground... this is the thing about being well-read, self-educated, self-educated to the point where you can loudly say: university taught me nothing, hence my third class degree and ample material of having observed the pigs's numbed snout nibbling on the trough... how easily someone can say: i'm writing a book! i' writing a book! but when the question comes: can i see it? there's no book! i thought this friendly exchange concerning ***** and other juices of creativity would precipitate into a grand finale of actually seeing the sweat and tears on paper... so when i told him: i'm getting published, 100 copies and all, an introduction by an Armenian doctor... decent review... well... naturally jealousy came in... he said i should name the effort a word salad... funny thing about being well-read... you know certain terminological hot points... he was out there writing a book but really smoking dope and playing computer games like computer games are supposed to be played these days: about a million Stephen Spielbergs directing very economised games, very economised meaning: a great investment in them. he was being condescending with suggesting i name my first collection word salad, but that's the problem of being well-read, you know that word salad is a degrading term for someone not capable of writing a coherent narrative... someone who doesn't understand his own words, someone who writes loosely associated sentences of meaning, it's not a pleasant term... that was simply insulting my intelligence, not the sort of intelligence that's quantified within the framework of the i.q., when i mean the less statistical variation i'm invoking: intelligence quantum - a certain amount of understanding concerning a certain focus of interest - as with Kant, we choose what the mind might find entertaining, and discard what isn't entertaining - certainly, not everything contains in itself enough "energy" (for lack of a better word, hence the "   ") to be entertaining, partially because we are limited in what we find entertaining: a) something we understand or   b)   something we can barely grasp... usually the latter scenario, but sometimes the former... but to claim something is a word salad? let's just say i have enough psychiatric literature under my belt to know it's a degrading remark... and the hermit and a severed friendship.

people never think you're well read,
but they never, for once, think that
your isolation is due to the fact that you read,
as with the above stated scenario of
someone thinking you might not have
come across a phrase, that's essentially
degrading - too much video games and ***
will do that to you...
                          as with Bukowski
boasting about reading -
                                             he apparently
read Kant but doesn't bother to mention any
key ideas... populist at heart,
    sure... if i didn't bother to learn the laws
of spelling and punctuation...
                           i'd say as much on the rebellion
of never bothering to learn to tie my shoelaces...
it's pretty much the equivalent of...
     what he already said.
                              and philosophy books do
require patience... they're usually masturbated over
by students writing essays and instead
of going the full nine yards and entering
the narrative, they squeeze out a maxim and that's
that...
                       i'm 30 pages away from
entering the final part of the critique:
                                  transcendental methodology -
30 pages and i'm guessing two years since i
started reading the critique -
                                     well,
philosophy is more geology in terms of reactions
than it is chemistry, where reactions take much
less time to be completed -
                    philosophy in that sense is a variation
of geology - poetry and other forms of literature
are more or less chemically bound to be abrupt,
painfully drunk on the highs and lows -
                             and volatile -
                                                     hence the comparison.
   should i quote? i think i should...

idee czystego rozumu nie mogą nigdy same w sobie
być dialektyczne, lecz jedynie samo złe stosowanie
   ich musi sprawiać, że wypływa z nich dla nas
zwodniczy pozór.
                                                     (p. 303, vol 2,
                                      wydawnictwo naukowe PWN)

               another thing to mention... transcendental
methodology might be simplified in terms of
    transcendental grammar classification, i.e. borrowing
concepts higher than the general classification of words
allows -
                  the double noun exfoliation -
                                    apart from naming a word,
we can absorb the activity of the word beyond mere names:
         words that act as catalysts
                                   words that act as enzymes -
                 should there be specific examples?
                                   in general the substrate to product
transformation using an enzyme
                                                   can be voiced by sophists
throughout the ages -
                                 inflammatory coercion of words
to specific bundles of predictable excerpts is standard
                       when the pulpit is filled and all void denied.
but concerning the above quote, i too was thinking
something along the lines of *a priori being obstructive
       of the ideas of pure reason accommodating dialectics.

trans.
            ideas of pure reason cannot, ever, in themselves
                    be dialectical, but only the wrong application
of such ideas must cause, that from them there flows
        a deceptive guise.

      i could quote further, but the a priori principle is
the argued against dialectics are a false nature acquisition
in terms of these ideas of pure reasoning -
               that we've been given these ideas by a supreme
manifestation of nature in us, i.e. that this highest of
all possible tribunals dealing with pretensions and laws
of our speculation, could also contain within itself
primordial illusions and (loosely) spaghetti muddles.

            true to the reason behind moving from a)
a priori              through to          b)    a posteriori -
        if pure ideas are caustically anti-dialectical,
it's because dialectics would rarely mind the transition
being elementary -
                                       but then again,
i imagine the dialectics in a purely a priori guise
and the Newtonian debate given Einstein's counter-proofs...
in that sense, i somehow seem to disagree with Kant...
well, then again no... in themselves they cannot be
dialectical: i.e. disputed or argued against,
  hence the deceptive guise when Newton was supreme
for so many centuries and then Einstein came along
   and the mask that Newton put on the face of gravity
was to be found not straight, but parabolic.
so yes, that's true: time and space are ideas of pure reason,
and they cannot be dialectical -
                                        even though they are
but not in-themselves dialectical,
                                        they have to possess a dialectical
facade, or at least that's what they exfoliated
              and sedate with...
                                              i'd go one step further:
dialectics is, as far as i know, the only way to approach
ideas of pure reason -
                                           only once dialectics shows
us the ideas of impure reason (the Socratic daemon) -
as leading us into acknowledgement
                                              that certain things are truly
non-debatable -
                                      but that they somehow have
to be debated in order that they might be refined
for the purpose of them being true to their nature:
non-dialectical.
                                   this approach is at least better than
what becomes forcefully adhered to,
                                 i'm still facing a dialectical concern
over Darwinism...
                                      primarily because...
well... my concern is that a belief in a god is more comforting
not for some case in jurisprudence, a heaven on high...
          it's the bothersome timescale and the fact that
skeletons and drawings on cave walls are not much of
a comfort either...
                                   partially also, due to the fact that
i like to think about the item of concern, rather than
express some sort of benediction toward the item of concern:
    there's nothing insensible about that,
given that god, as much as space and time, is an idea
of pure reason -                if i was imbued with
   a natural supplement of atheism, i'd still be trapped
in a dialectical moment of concern -
                                 until i'd finally shed all manner
of a dialectical approach concerning the idea: and make
the final non-dialectical statement of faith.
the flip side is not whether you're right or wrong,
  but whether you actually can make that statement.
as far as i'm concerned (well, i never had that much
admiration for the man) - Mr. B never read a **** thing
of philosophy.

i find it abhorring to somehow feel the need for
a condescending approach to this subject of interest...
as any assurance there need be concerning philosophy...
one thing is perfected witch each new approach to
the subject: you never actually find the time to moan
about not being with women... or how poorly humans
treat each other... you never seem to complain about
solitude, you never once feel lonely...
                                                   you quiet simply get on
with it...                         perhaps that's what it always way:
the best way to entertain yourself...
                    you're basically having to write out with
ease crossword puzzles in your mind that precipitate down
onto the blank page... somehow with it:
life is bearable when alone... and there are more
entertainment hot-spots... none to do with gambling...
                 so that's about as much as being pegged
down to size actually means...
                                         never true: that cinematic
feat to depict modern (and very much Anglo) guises
of modern alienation...
                                           then again: he probably
did read it, but he never bothered to discuss it in any
way relevant as for it to be revealing his interest in
the topics... macho cool keeping it trendy, i'm guessing.