Bailey sat at the kitchen table. stiring her coffee and staring out of a ***** bay window at an old apple tree covered in snow. "i guess that all of the birds have flown south for the winter." she sighed, hugging herself as the cold wind blew through her. "who cares about those disgusting rats with wings anways?" jacob rolled his eyes and guzzled his coffee down, finishing it all with one big gulp. "i do, they're beautiful." bailey argued. "you used to love birds." she continued. "i used to love birds... before you started feeding them all of the bread." jacob complained with a playful smile. "besides i love voltures and falcons." he smiled. "i feed the birds old bread that nobody wants... and of course you do." B ailey shook her head, grinning from ear to ear.

Silence of the night is where it all begins
After my cover of being fine is torn to shreds
It's pretty easy to look okay once you're used to it
But just never believe you ever were
Morning filled with I'm fine and thank yous
Nights filled with sweet dreams and sleep tight
No one ever knew those things were never true
Loudest sound of silence
When I can hear my blood rushing in my veins
Or was it my heart beating even though
I wanted it to stop
Maybe they were the voices in my mind telling me
"Go to sleep and never wake
Nobody cares and
Someday you're gonna die anyways
Make it quick ,make it fast
You won't feel a thing
Just glide that blade against your wrist
You won't feel pain
And past is past"
It's rather tempting,it really is
But id never accept that offer
No matter how good the deal is
The silence of the night is a good persuader
But I'm not a buyer
And I have better things to look for anways.

"See, here's the thing,
I don't think I give a ****.

Anways, can you pass me the creamer?"

**** me... what a long title...
     anways...
i'm sitting on my windowsill, thinking: **** knows what...
  then it starts raining...
        i mean, its the springtime ****-down moment...
akin to an operatic crescendo!
           i swear the nights were warmer in april...
anyway... i'm downing my third bottle of czech beer...
outstreching my hand to catch the raindrops...
looking at the sky, saying: bruised, like the colour
of plums... and i'm catching these raindrops
with my outstretched hand...
      reminding myself regarding what i said...
ah... yes...                sunny...
                 that's what english humour does to you,
you become satirical... or just plain obnoxious...
       ridicule prone...       yeah....
                                            "sunny";
what a load of dangling ******* to muster,
  akin to the bells of st. paul's, dangling with their
ding-dongs like uvulas in the ****** throat of man...
        where's the choir of tonsils?
       and third parties, regarding the said "utensil"?
             it's ******* down, equivalent to an indian monsoon...
and all i can come up with it: oh look... it's "sunny".
ugh;
    the english are certainly stoics...
                       with such miserable weather, in spring,
who can blame them, not being pessimists.
  how else do "write" it?
                   oh, **** me, imagine existential books
written by the french, "borrowing" the spanish:
       inverted question mark:
                                                           ¿ego?
no, seriously, how to they speel.... spell it?
                          cheque? checkmate? just checking?
right, inverted commas... you need two?
                                                    so it's not a case of ditto?
chequers?
                     qua sirs?
                                                  checkers?­
it's still a mystery to me...
    it's ******* down, and it's late spring... and all i have
is the very english "optimism" of a one word answer:
          sunny!
                           yep... that's how it goes around here...
it's raining... but all you end up saying:
                                        oh look! it's sunny!
                     god, this is becoming really abysmal;
i'm starting to think that, slitting your own throat...
     isn't really that much of a bad option... it's the only option.
then again, the heat oozing from a place like texas
  or, nevada...      i'd be mad enough to cut my testicles
off, and start bashing my head with them, from the heat.

off for its own business

the pipes are still working, this is always a good update,

I have my soldiers cap on, or perhaps a fedora,

anways, at least at least at least

sometimes personal amusement is the best therapy

like how I keep my foot just a few inches away from where the spider chose to carry on about his business

as if he might decide to pull back on his decision

as I do

over, and over again....

well, probably the longest relationship i ever had,
so we're doing it with a ******,
on the bed, on the floor, in the bath...
and then she suggests an ingenius plan:
i'll take the contraceptive pill, and you take
that gimp-for-your-****-rubber off,
and then you ******* into me, because i feel
like i need to have that experience.
sure thing babe.
                    oh, by the way? it took me
about three dates to get an ******* in suggestion
of trust...
             what's with this: men can get an *******
prompto! on the first sight of **** and a ******?
i'm not a robot, i can't objectify you straight
away... the ******* my case...
        prostitutes use cream to oil up,
          i need to oil up on a meaningful conversation...
talk milan kundera with you, or share
a similar taste in music... listen to your fetish for
certain pop songs...
                       anways... few months in and
we're ******* in her st. pestersburg apartment...
        so she not exactly a soppy story of
                            the matchstick girl with no shoes...
and she proposes to me at the same time...
   i didn't even get a chance to bend my knee,
buy a ring in secret and surprise her...
                            nope...
         that classical **** didn't happen...
               how often does that happen to men,
i.e. when a woman "proposes"?
                     i'd say one-in-a-millionth's chance
of it happening...
                                so the unearthing of the nag hammadi
library, and the st. thomas gospel and
how you'll enter the kingdom of heaven by
turning male into female, and female into male...
          **** me... that caught me by surprise...
i didn't even see it coming...
                 and then... boom!
     we're not married, she breaks up with me,
gives me back our engagement ring, she chose...
                and then calls me up: i'm pregnant...
        and it's july...
                              isn't it too early for christmas?
i thought we had an agreement?
                    i have *******... a ****** isn't
much of a bother...
            no, but i don't want to explore latex suit
fetishes...      fair enough...
             i'd love to, but **** me...
           thanks for suggesting i read some bulgakov
while you continued to play your video games...
god, i have a fetish for juxtaposing memories,
   like looking into a prism, or a diamond,
or sketching rodin's statue the kiss from several
angles at tate modern, before some idiotic lady
imagined an interpretation, and wrapped ropes
around the statue... so only the most "important"
part of the statue were exposed... but not the actual -

if i profane with my unworthiest hand
this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Your hand is like a holy place that my hand
is unworthy to visit. If you’re offended
by the touch of my hand, my two lips are
standing here like blushing pilgrims, ready
to make things better with a kiss.

good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
which mannerly devotion shows in this,
for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.

        ok, shaken pear... we get the picture... amen;
which will never be a frenchy with a *******.

but **** me! i just graduated and i need to get my
footing!
                          i was 21...
                        thank **** i gained british citizenship
and she had a russian passport;
  +, what with her turning all schizophrenic on
me...        what do i know about "hearing" voices?
i was sweating on a roof, roofing, as you do,
                 and it's like:
         what i love about this self-indulgence?
          **** never gets boring, however many times
i recollect it...
                                    i can turn into a proust,
or a tolstoy, simple on this sole act in the theatre
of my life...             obviously i might bore some people,
but, ****, i'm not even yawning, or in want of a yawn...
just recently i became acquainted with the acronym
                         mg...tow?
             mig... tau?        soviet MiG-29? mikoyan?
        gurevich? RSK MiG?  towing what?  
                      that's english for you,
it's not like the french deconstructionism akin to derrida,
much simpler in english... craft acronyms!

i wear rolling stone shirts from h&m
because hot topic scares me
and your scent still lingers there anways
sweat, with a touch of cigarettes
unqiue, special.

only yours
always yours

americana is the style now
but do you remember my all black days?
they come back around whenver
i get a sip of you

only you
always you

message me back!
if you want to, at least.
i'll spend my wait time thinking about ways
i can shoot a pea in my nose
coin flip
which nostril to choose
up up up,

only up
always up

the walls whisper when you leave
remincising in the ays you entered me
in and out and up and down
rag doll style
legs spread out so wide
i felt all 6'2
feet and inches of you
so when you (inevitably) left
there was nothing
but the scent
of sweat, with a touch of cigarettes