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Third Eye Candy Jun 2018
The mug stains leapfrog a linoleum asphalt countertop, sunbathing in the breakfast nook.
A magazine proofreads a hole in a bagel. Scanning for clues to the whereabouts
Of a Jewish heart. Beads of Oolong tea archipelago from a resting kettle
All the way to the 'good ' China. A cup on a pearl, laying flat… ear to the ground.
Listening to the stories only Formica can tell. Deciphering the steam
Rising from a steep. Curling whiskers into omens, embroidered upon a shaft of light
Heaven sent. Postage dew. Gilding quaint luxuries, tucked in a cozy roost
Smelling of oak musk and slow roasted dreams, evaporating before memory may lay claim
To the riddles of Morpheus. There’s an aire of Return.  
It molts in the bacon fats hovering in the strata unique to kitchen islands lousy with active volcanoes that shuffle in stocking feet and terry cloth bathrobes. Restless and foggy minded.
Looking for the keys. And...
Chewing a thumbnail. Staring out the window. Where there used to be a car in the driveway. But the officer flagged a taxi. Explains the migraine, like a Vulcan; stoically flipping switches in a fuse box wired to a vague recollection of a soiree.
All the while holding a pitchfork and today's horoscope.
For irony and street cred.

{ But out of cream cheese. }

Concurrently... This part of the house still has the rustic naivete of a celibate beatnik picking teeth with a signature pen presenting an Hawaiian girl with a vanishing skirt; blinking in and out of Vaud-villainy, like Erwin Schrödinger’s Cat. A kind of hole in a barge with an ornate cubby; loitering with sugar cubes and a bendy plastic fern.
Like the foyer to a room, still under construction.
      A busy little metaphor, lounging around the east wing of a humble abode… like news clippings in a mason jar… it’s superfluous handle threading a ceramic eye.
Like a stainless steel joke under a refrigerator magnet, pinned to a plate in your forehead. As any lamp-shade with ambition.  
      Playing to a rough Cloud, hung over an ashtray; that has seen Better Days - envy the baroque occlusion of monotony and routine, merging a hangover - into morning traffic. Replete with modest gains.
And Horizons that stab bleary eyes that would know a gypsy
By the weight of her purse…
     When the day begins, it gains a foothold by the spine of an overdue book, reclining adjacent runcible spoons and antique kitche. As a bathroom light squeaks between a door and a frame.
As ancillary and precise as a beacon for a blindfold.

Like turpentine palming a brick. And Wagner.
Tryst Aug 2018
They sit atop a low wall kicking heels,
Pyjamas draped in bathrobes pulled-to tight
To ward Antarctic winds — Nearby the squeals
Of blues and twos betray the mortal plight
Of some ill-fated soul — A fog bank peels
Up from their glowing embers, for in spite
Of coughing blood and dragging drips on wheels,
Collective will has long since lost the fight —

And did they think as children at the flicks,
As war was sold with glory, did they think
As Bogart raised a lucifer to his lips
How Tinseltown might guide them to this brink,
And just like Fleming’s catcher tempt them in
With candy coloured cartons and a grin?
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
BeforeTV

Before TV,
When we were together,
Before growing apart
From father and mother,
We entertained ourselves with song;
All the sisters and brothers.

We gambolled in the backyard,
The clothes line was our zip line,
We fell soft, then hard.

We somehow got a hold of skates,
Not knowing what they're for,
So we took turns,
Laced them on,
To skate on cement floors.

We raised a high jump,
Skipped on the driveway,
Double Dutch and Speed;
We strung a line for volleyball,
Nailed a hoop below the roof,
Played soccer in the hall.
We paddled ping-pong on the table;
Our household freedom
Made us as grateful
As animals in a well-kept stable.

Some winters we'd flood the back,
And shoot and slide until the cracks
Turned to puddles,
Then I'd sail popsiclestick boats
Over oceans,
To distant folks.

On the frontwalk we tossed our stones,
Landing on the moon,
And hopscotch til we went for soup
And soda bread and **** milk.

If we had a ball and bat,
Chances are we'd not come back
'til the sun went down;
And then,
When the stars came out,
We'd *Hide and Seek,

Til the last one'd shout,  Home Free.
With dirt and patchwork dungarees,
We went in
For good-night tea.

Weren't we the normal family?

Then we got our first T.V.

After T.V.

We were landed,
Not gentry,
And we started channelling
U.S. T.V.

We weren't polite like Cartwrights,
Nor guaranteed Lil' Joe's birthright.

The sisters locked on Patty Duke,
Then dressed the same
To get the look,
So they ditched their Wellie boots.


We'd lie on the floor,
Stuck like glue,
On Sundays watch Ed's Big Shoe.
We didn't know the sun had left,
Our eyes were on the TV set.

The Cleaver boys still got dessert,
Though leaving green beans on their plate,
Left ice-cream and sweet chocolate cake.
We'd stare confused, yet salivate;
Such treats and food we'd never waste.

The Douglas boys had single beds,
En suites, bathrobes,
Hair on their heads;
Pillows and open windows,
And locks on doors,
They weren't co-ed.
We slept, at least, two to a bed,
Four to a room, two bedspreads.
We slept on mattresses with stinging springs,
Torn and traced with stale *****.
In the hot and humid summer,
In bathing suits
We'd swim in slumber.
Our small window couldn't open,
We roasted in our four walled oven.

We watched Lassie and Gomer Pyle,
Green Acres' Arnold had us beguiled.
We didn't get Father Knows Best,
His gentleness raised our regrets.
Lucy and Ricky, an odd couple,
Were always getting into trouble,
Like Fred and best bud, Barney Rubble.

Were these the models to emulate,
To blend in North of the United States?

These families had open conversations,
Shared their thoughts without hesitation.
Mine were full of consternation,
And alien, like My Favourite Martian.

We grew in a foreign land,
Beached like the cast on Gilligan.

Surely, we were Lost in Space,
Separate from the human race.
No gyroscope to set direction,
To separate fact from fiction.

We weren't stupid,
We were astute;
We weren't the ones on our TV.
We were a singular family.

Post T.V.

We numbered ten at the start,
Then aged and drifted far apart;
We can't gather to watch TV,
As we were once wont to be.
But I remember Ernest T.,
Throwing rocks to win Charlene,
And arrested by Sheriff Andy.
We laughed at all the silly doings
Of Barney, and Thelma Lou's wooings.

I send e-mails and textual banter,
(One brother still likes writing letters),
Reminding me of our early days,
How TV censured our innocent ways.

We never were small screen.
We emigrated to Canada from Ireland in 1957. A brave new world.
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
iPad Love

4:49 AM, and by the light of the silvery moon
and our iPad screens turned down low,
we snuggle side by side, our fingers glide so softly upon each,
each of our own devices, this technique,
it could be an app, teaching how to caress a human being.

No need to tell you in sound, out loud,  
how you turn my heart upside down,
I'll just post a note of appreciation on Facebook,
you will see it faster, and besides, you got your earphones on and
could not hear my sweet nothings if I screamed them in high definition.

The newspaper arrives on the electric "doorstep" -
no longer will do we venture outside in
pink bathrobes and curlers, or boxer shorts,
a legal gesture of neighborly disdain.
Americana, losing another icon, as well as  
insuring the unemployment of thousands of newspaper deliverers,
boys and girls, on bicycles, their first job, now obsolescent.

Your feet, so cozy and warm, touching mine,
the sensation, lovely and fine, duly recorded in a poem
that on my iPad I scribble, as my typos disappear, out of sight.
your ear, I nibble, something you hate and I love,
but electronically, it's done with no fuss or muss, and
I don't even have to move!

Sadly, I can find no app that will bring the warmth
of a cup of coffee to my night table, and the gun metal casing of
this invention is chilly, but still Steve, with almost God like vision,
you brought us closer in ways prior unimagined.

So baby,
shut it down,
turn me on,
make me warm for real,
glide your now practiced fingertips on my grizzled cheek,
whisper a phony "ugh,"
cause I know, you will read
this iPad love poem
and cherish us for evermore.

Nothing, something, even as thin as my iPad 2(!)
will come between us and the holiness, the uniqueness of
the human touch.

2011
david badgerow Jan 2012
my life is beautiful, not realistic.
yesterday, i arrived on neptune
wearing big boots and dignity
the horizon was a nightmare of question marks
and gloomy witches;
i escaped from the religious enema and
pegged a choir boy on my way out.
i am no longer a pygmy goat on a foolish leash,
i take my paranoia seriously.
my journals guide me to a ruptured corpse,
never censored.
i have the ability to be given away on a whim,
but i am becoming a famous soldier, an intoxicating
ghost of dogma.
my dreams are beautiful, not realistic.
hallelujah, the hobos are wearing bathrobes,
the ****** pillheads are anointed with ****** and sewer cleaners.
i see a goblin grave advertised by
luscious lips and fishlike shoulders.
the texture of my dream is kaleidoscope and silver,
haunted by a fat sherriff who cuts the throat of the jukebox queen.
i have a personal god, and on her i bestow this passionate kiss,
i have a favorite enemy, with no goals and without ambition.
im sorry, i don't know any happy songs,
only the movement of her young sensitive thighs and
a nymph with an hourly rate.
i am a buffoon with a blugeoned harmonica and
weapons of sugar.
my life is beautiful, not realistic.
Marcy Nicholas Jun 2010
In the morning,
she’d go to her sewing room again,
half-dressed
in a full slip, nylons, and black pumps.
Over her arm, she carried whatever dress or suit
she would wear to work that day.

She spread out the clothing on the ironing board,
sprayed it with fabric sizer--never starch--
and pressed
each seam and dart
and in and around buttons, cuffs, and collar,
placing the tailor’s ham here and there
when necessary.

In other houses,
mothers still in cotton bathrobes
made breakfast, packed lunches, and set out clothes
for children and husbands.

Those children and husbands
never saw what I did:
A woman up early,
ironing with steam and sizer,
one of several outfits she had made herself,
while holed up at the sewing machine
so that when a husband
came home drunk again
she could excuse herself from their bed
--to finish cutting out a new pattern or
to sew every last button hole of a blouse—
until he passed out.
Again.
2009
Zack Feb 2013
Your hair is just like your feet.
It never knows which direction it's going in.
And the only thing bigger than your brown eyes,
Are your little arms when you hold them out to your sides
Reading "Pick me up!"
You can't talk yet, but I hear you say so many things.
We named you Faith.
Which is ironic because it's something
This family is lacking.
I swear all your brothers hate each other
I'm one ***** on the neck away from moving out
And your parents are one sigh away from saying
"Let's just call it quits."

You're not even one and we've cheated you out your childhood
Like when a man cheats on his wife
We didn't really know how much heartbreaking we were fixin' to do.
It's unfair.
It's unfair how you're the only one who still smiles in these hallways
In the hallway, there's this big gray smudge that covers the wall
From when my baby brother decorated it with Crayola's
And my mom spent a week trying to get it off
But she never could.

In my opinion, that's the best ******* family portrait we are ever going to paint!
It's proof history can never be erased, no matter how much try to get rid of it, or ignore it
It's a ******* to the perfect white walls of a "perfect" white family
The dark smudge on the walls is the writing my parents will never see
The fact that it's still there after three years is proof,
That you can never stifle a child's creativity.
It's the worse excuse for a family portrait
But this house sure as hell isn't perfect in the inside.

I rather come from a broken home than be in one.
I rather remember this house when it was at it's best and leave
Then live a day to day reminder that it's never going to be that way any more.

I swear the last time my brothers and I got along was when I was five
And we pretended they were my puppies and I would feed them scraps form the table
Kids do weird **** sometimes.
Or when we'd walk around in our underwear and bathrobes
Pretending to be jedi knights with toy lightsabers
Walking around the house like it was our planet to protect.
And pretty soon I'm getting on the first rocket off this planet I can find.

The only thing that holds me back is that I feel like
I'm cheating you out one less older brother.
Trading my sister for an education and a paycheck.
A reality check.
That I can't be a kid forever.

But promise me you will try.
Promise me that whenever I come home you always will
Still have your arms outstretched wide open
Promise me you'll make mistakes and draw on walls
And explore your own planets
And that you'll be okay exploring them without me.
Promise me that when you're old enough to understand this poem
You'll write me back.
Promise me you'll be patient with mom and dad
Even though they seem like they aren't
Trust me. They're trying.
Trust me.
We named you Faith for a reason.
Emma Siemasko Apr 2013
The cedar chips were being spread
in Oregon City when you went to Grandpa’s.
The coffee shop is open, gravel on the drive,
sheets speckled with lobsters carry you
in sleeptime while in Boston mine is feverish
without your mouth, reaching out.
I dream of abortion at a waxing studio,
diving into bowls of cereal, checking
every room--
I look in closets.

You’re not one for dreams-- you salt notebooks
with navy marks, dripping pen onto pillows,
the world a sweet heuristic I cannot know.
You make me live quiet. I stop
screaming and pulling bird feathers. I gather
tea cups, pull chest hair, carve a warm nest
from soap suds and candy.

My poetry was drawn from angst,
from drunken dream light, eggs frying
on hot pavement, a galloping horse. Now,

I want  
a pen carving
patterns of earth into our skin.
I want kisses and puppies, shrimp cocktail,
birthdays and bathrobes, a walk
in the snow.
july hearne May 2017
there's a man inside of me
that forgets he isn't a girl
he cusses when he
wants the touch
and not the blow

he writes letters
to invisible people
in disappearing ink

here but not here
there but not there
you are going through something
like the atmosphere

i dress him up sometimes
in sunless tanners and jangling bracelets
i pierced his ears, not to hide him, not to doctor him up
but to make him more audible
because if he is going to keep on talking
he might as well be understood

there are problems
he probably likes the sweatstains
more than the bathrobes
(but no one else likes either one)
he is too concerned, but he cusses through it
as if no one will ever be on to him

i talk in his voice sometimes
just because it sticks around
sort of like how you can't shower off
the smell of last nights *****
come morning

not that i drink very often
but i talk just like him
i stink just like him
according to those
who are long ago and far away
and remembered as if they were ever close
because my other voice
just sounds fat and lazy and useless
Connor Dec 2015
Round candle circle
light bounding wall to wall
dark vinyl corners and alcohol spews
from the dry lips of young people talking about how
the power has gone out.
There's Bossa Nova and a floral couch and conversation
decorating the room
cars hurdle on in the black, ferocious nighttime and I'm cold.
A GREAT PINK BIRD
Plastic and commited to a vow of silence hangs from the ceiling curved
like a beautiful woman, some of us are in bathrobes, a stretching tentacle hits the brain an incense smell
bubbles foaming in the core
a wicked liquid!
names are being called!
drunks DRUNKS DRUNKS
Drums DRUMS DRUMS
Literary minds taking puffs from the mechanical grapevine
center of this room now foaming
and a flute rises in sound
!L O U D E R!
The painted fruits have arrived!
Including the drag queen and the one who slept soundly in Saint Malo
(who currently reads from a flaming newspaper)
Smellings salts sharpen people's noses, an instantaneous rush and
nauseating sensations, SNAP OF ENERGY/
Which has disgusted Imogen and been repeated by everyone else
curiously.
The lights came back on hours ago.

India is on the mind,
talks of Varanasi now that it's previous inhabitants have moved to Spain, another step in their vulnerable but accepted state of mind
and journeying to find a definition of self
(Which I am going thru now)
The girl who held a flower sweetly bloomed in Alaska,
The girl who dances alone in an isolated cabin up island who still occasionally drives to the dentists office 45 minutes away in a small town I used to call home,
The martial-arts teacher/meditational healer who recited W.C Williams with me on the bus in July's romantic ash.

Where is
it?
Where is
what?
I and you and we
What to do
Where to do it
What times might it call upon us
It (this)
The current and present interval of morning
hours where my face aches from (trying) to sleep funny.
No, really? where's it at?!
Birds rise from a wintry treeline, a stranger waits at the bus stop,
I'm freezing out here the next morning and predict much the same
till at least March of next year.
Bones are blooming around me, youth to swell and
love to feel
we're peeling petals
and shedding subjective gold all over the linoleum
but don't ask me who made it I can't tell ya nobody can, later on as a windswept forest road covered in loose pine needles and fir branches
hits the eyes
I walk home and listen to a man imagining his own private orchard.
I'm reminded just then that Albert Camus once said that everyone has (at one point) experienced or will experience the realization that everything (all of it)) is simply absurd, and always has been. We either choose to accept the world, and recover from an overwhelming Nihilism, or decide that it's not worth continuing our lives.
But after a sight like this I'm also reminded that
sometimes even you or I could be beautiful.
MATERIALS
-     2 Individual human beings (1 female, 1 male)
-     1 empty room
-     2 Chairs
-     2 Sets of bathrobes

INSTRUCTIONS
1.)     The two individuals who are chosen for the performance must be completely unaware of the concept of it.

2.)     Establish the chairs as if they were facing each other.

3.)     Tell the two individuals to change into nothing but their bathrobes.

4.)     Tell the two individuals to sit in their corresponding chair.

5.)     With the exception of killing each other, the two individuals are allowed to do anything they want, as long as they stay within the vicinity of each other.

OTHER NOTES
-     The event should last for and be no less than three hours.
PJ Poesy Jan 2017
Trembling storm door
thwacks destruction and
love of warm blankets
keeps us cuddly cozy

Pardon my saying
violation inglorious heralds
at our stoop
Now being time for our
recoiling

Observing current circumstance
shall we dress ourselves?
In church clothes
or bathrobes do we streak
to chapel of the day

My likeness in you says,  "Yes!"
We've twiddled toes enough
We shan't wait much longer
Tyrant floods come
Poised indication tells us
our love is rakish
and rallies are arising

Who knows where  this storm goes?

All I  know is,  I want you now
The time may not seem right,  but with a storm upon us,  will time run out?
mark fishbein Jun 2018
She is lost to her shopping
Rooms of shoes to be worn once or twice
Instantly bored of her sunglasses
She needs new bathrobes today.

The masses bleed for compassion,
Babies torn from a mother’s breast
Screaming in foreigners’ arms
O soft spoken beauty
This was your Evita moment
To spread your magic fashion smile.

If you could shed a tear
On your high Slavic cheeks
And wave your wand! All,
All will adore you!

She chooses a curious graffiti
To wear on her coat
To meet the children
Freed from their cages.
Her stance is quite clear;
But the last angel who said
“Well, let them eat cake!”
Lost her head...

Her 15 minutes are up-
The Third Estate brands her the *****!  
Just like all the arrogant queens  
She now hides from the world  
And surrounds herself with
The carnival filth
Who merry make
In the hunger games.
How utterly contemptuous can one person be? Welcome Melania to the hall of fame of the world's ugliest souls.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2022
no, today it wasn't Danielle, it was... Denise... she's the cousin of Mona... Mona is away in Romania... this plump plum of a beauty... i've been with pretty much all of them... i'll be running out of girls to **** in this brothel... i'll need to find myself a new one... today it was Denise... my god... love at first sight... ol' raven hair very much in the vein of Khadra... eh... Turkish, Romanian, Turkish-Romanian, Romanian-Turkish... she told me she had gypsy blood in her... my god... i go: WILD when it comes to Roma girls... i don't understand ******... why he figured: only the steel-blue-eyed blondes are the best thing going... well... they are... if you start diluting black boy genes with white blonde girls... i look at black men and don't have to wonder why white girls might find them attractive... it's a bit of a shame that i don't find black women as attractive as white women finding black men attractive... call me crazy but it's nearly impossible for me to find an attractive black girl: attractive i.e. to my liking... but i understand the interracial aspect of white girls... i need some dilution... after a second generation of interracial breeding either white or black will pop out... but second generation? what neo-Egyptian copper-necks are... very curious... so it was Denise the Gypsy today... it was Marie the other day when i was underperforming... Louise, Sandra...**** knows: it might as well have been a Casandra... i don't care...

some men put forward the question: is the lemon worth
the squeeze?
oh my god... is it?! Denise was your typical woman...
some parts of her body better than the others...
just like your atypical man...
her ******* were sagging... tiny little creatures...
but her ***?
once a year i admire horses... the assess of horses:
just before the Grand National...
that *** turned me on like a blonde *******
a Hindu doing that: ******* in light-bulbs dance...
oh hell yes...
the lemon is definitely worth the squeeze...
any Roman ******* the "menu" is me being brain-frozen
or are least brain-fried...
there's nothing better than coming from a shift
having stopped over at a brothel for a good ****...
you relax... you: sigh you ah!
mind you... it was a stressful shift at the Wembley
stadium today...
i had to intervene with these 40+ year old "dudes"
picking a fight with these idiotic 16 years olds...
i was thrown in the middle of the confrontation...
the 40+ year olds were adamant: these 16 year old colts
should have been standing on the fifth level!
yeah: and they should be drinking when underage...
help us help us! they're putting us in choke-holds...
help help!
fear is wild-eyed... one of my fellow stewards almost
had his fingers dislocated trying to break
up one of these skins trying to choke a colt to death...
screaming: i'm going to ******* **** you...
technically i'm not supposed to touch anyone
but i had to step in and calm everyone the **** down...
it's hardly a massive hard-on on my behalf trying
to intervene... but when you have to...
you take the colts to one side... protect them by "hugging"
them to the side... while talking to the skins
making a big ******* fuss...
luckily no one was hurt...
well... to an extent...
but i don't need that sort of stress...
i knew i had to decompress...
i travelled home (well, to the brothel first) with a bunch
of fuckless and faceless men...
me? i have no moral obligations: what comes,
is the same as what goes...
but i was stressed out...
by A. today's shift and by
B. my previous performance at the brothel...
i hate under-performing...
i was missing at least one of my aphrodisiacs,
i.e. tiredness... i need that more than anything...
i was coming from home and i drank
a little bit too much cider...
that's another aphrodisiac of mine...
perhaps i don't know my self (reflective)
all too well but i do know myself (reflexive)...
i.e. my body... i know what turns me off and what turns
me off...
KLEKS-KAKASHKA... a **** that's also a little ****
that's stored in my **** for an entire day...
to have *** i need to be completely emptied...
i need to **** anything remnant,
i need to **** the last remaining ****-flinging ****
out of me...

oh but there's nothing better than finishing a shift...
stopping over at the brothel...
getting your brains minced and listening to
the echoes of your footsteps at 3am...
the foxes are roaming: you just ****** Gypsy queen
of the underworld...
i realised something...
upon encountering regular ***...
i really... i really just need to have a regular access
to food... drink... a shower....
so i can pamper myself...
hmm... seeing pointless male drama of emotion
surrounding sporting events: intervening in them...
and regular ***... oh... *** is part of a necessary
existential diet... you can't live without it...
maybe that's why i try to limit my interests...
there's one video game i play...
but it's an online multiplayer game so...
since i abandoned PS1 narrative games...
Tenchu... Final Fantasy VII... Metal Gear Solid...
i'm rather fond on this: waiting for an interaction
gaming dynamic... i wouldn't pick up chess
even if you asked me: pretty please...

but a great **** requires me to write this little snippet
and then roll myself a DOOBIE...
a spliff... after a great **** like that i "fear" it's necessary
to smoke some marijuana...
come on... a Roma girl?! ol' Raven hair?!
saggy ****... but an *** like a cross between
an orange and a plum...
love at first sight...
i like women who feel it necessary to moan while
performing oral ***...
and this one was different...
her cousin liked to perform with her eyes closed...
Khadra wanted to perform with her eyes open
and looking into mine...
Denise kept looking into the mirror...

i wasn't trying to perform... not after last time:
under-performing... my mind was swallowed up by
a giant squid of irritabilities...
i went limp... *** is complicated...
but imitation ******* allowed me to sweat ol' Marie out...
Gypsy love... Bizet...
i finished early because i ******* felt like it was
necessary and we just sort of lay there...
caressing each other before one of us pretended more
than the other to fall asleep...

what, a, beau! i seriously don't think there's anything
necessary for man to appreciate beside
good food, shelter, and a good *******...
ah... but this one didn't give up her lips up so easily:
she didn't! cheeks! jawbone... eyelids and ears...
but not her lips... well... some women just need more
convincing than others...
i'll steal her lips the next time i see her...
i don't need anything more!
i'm rather content...
as we parted two girls were already in bathrobes
saying: bye bye while i kissed Denise on the cheek...
well yeah: bye bye...

the lemon is most certainly worth the squeeze...
but... as a man...
you really have to have very limited interests to
have an interest in women...
you can't be a comic book guy...
you can't exactly enjoy movies... apart from
the Godfather Part I... you can't...

hmm... women....
  what a splinter sub-cell of curiosities...
esp. if she's the one initiating tenderness...
akin to: don't kiss me on my lips...
just my entire face...
i did that "little " quirk of pretending my
index finger were the holy trinity:
of: hour by the count of the father,
minute by the count of the son...
and holy spirit by the count of the second...

the pains and aches of a ginger...
not exactly a Roma gypsy "queen" of: pristine ***
and: hmm... um um ums' ...

over the years i've built a strange lactose intolerance...
yesterday was a pristine day:
a shift at Wembley getting into a scuffle
trying to break up these bulks of men
in their 40s trying to choke to death these group
of colts... i was in a sniffing's worth of distance
seeing it first hand: how football makes people
truly irrational... as he was choking the poor
boy he was screaming: i'm going to **** you...
obviously i had to intervene...
one of my colleagues also got involved...
almost had one of his fingers dislocated as
we tried to calm the situation down...
break up the feud...

technically i'm not licensed to touch members
of the public, to rough them up...
thankfully i have acquired pretty good talking skills
with a good enough language of the body...
i inserted my hand between the two feuding parties
and separated them: the older guys started talking
with excuses about how they brought their own
children: one was a football coach for the young
blah blah this... all because the younglings protested
when asked to sit down...
they were clearly obstructing the view of the game
of the people sitting behind them...
as young boys do... they started their hysterical fits
about how the world ought to be X
and how people : esp. in relation to older men
they ought to be treated in an Y sort of way...
i had a burning thought in my head:
pooh-bear... that's not how the world works...
i grabbed this other boy trying to get him to calm down...
i put my arm around him and led him away...
again: we were supposed to get some support
from licensed SIA security guards...
we didn't get the response team we need
but we managed to somehow calm everyone the **** down...
but... i felt stressed...

thankfully she was there to do just that...
prior to i hovered around the brothel...
tweaking my body for some casual *** with a stranger...
i know my body well enough to know what
makes me perform *** and what doesn't...
i need about three aphrodisiacs...
tiredness from working...
i need to smoke a few cigarettes...
and i need to drink at least 6 units of alcohol...
that's either one strong dry cider... 500ml at 8.2%
and then two sips of whiskey...
or 500ml of 4.5% of a sweeter cider and 4 glugs
of a whiskey...
and i need to clear my head...
anything more and i need to ****: i get a ****-block...
the last time i got a ****-block it was because
i didn't measure my chemistry tools properly and
Khadra was there and i didn't choose her
and i heard her walk into the next room with another
client and i didn't hear much pleasure exuding
from her *******... no wonder i switched off...
but nothing equivalent to anger could have gripped
me from under-performing...
i performed in a different way...
after all... i did manage to get her sweating all over
her body as i sat on the edge of the bed
and she sat on top of me and she enjoyed the music
of my choice: whirling her pelvis in what's
imitation ***...

i'm only writing this because i know what under-perfoming
during *** feels like...
it's a lot different when you don't over-think it...
i know how that too much exposure to *******
can create a sensation during *******
where you don't actually realise that you're
the protagonist and not a ******...
that much i know: you have to repeat to yourself:
this is me, having ***...
no... this is not me looking at someone having ***...
this is me, having ***...

and i have to admit... i landed my zenith of "fetishes":
a Romanian gypsy girl...
she said so herself...
                        maybe that's another thing...
whether looking at pornographic movie materials:
always with the sound off...
some of the classical Italian stuff is dubbed anyway
by voice actors... so it makes little difference...

its a bit like the reverse of what happened to
Vilma Banky, Mae Murray and Norma Talmadge,
i.e. the actresses who didn't make the transition
from the classic Hollywood silent movies
to talkies...
                    with ******* it was sort of reversed:
in classical ******* from Italy and France...
you had to have vocal actors impersonating
the onomatopoeias of moaning from the seen actors...
who continued their careers...

after all: i did start in the classical sense of buying
magazines of **** women at an early age...
most of the guys were already sifting through
free online material... i thought it would be necessary
to actually find that void of "shame"
and share the grey-area of sexuality of what's
a purchase of a magazine... no *******...
take any Walter Sickert ****, for example: as comparison...

only today i felt the consequence of such a fulfilling day,
whoever tells you that *** is not important
is lying... not when you have it on a regular basis...
you finish a shift from 2pm through to 11pm...
you buy your aphrodisiacs already carrying one
in the form of tiredness... you mentally prepare yourself
to not get a limp **** during the act...
you take to the back alleys and try to fuse yourself
with the shadow and the night...
you walk up to two chicken shop workers having
finished shift... one of them looks at you
and tries to appease you because you look intimidating
enough: while carrying two pizzas he turns
around startled and asks: would you like a slice of pizza?
and you, in your most friendly voice reply:
no, no thank you mate... but thank you...
why? you don't want to have a full stomach when
having ***... you want to be hungry...

something else was added to my ritual...
i told myself once that i would never go back to smoking
marijuana...
well... things changed when the Queen died
on the 8th of September when i went to the brothel
and met an Afghan "Jamie"... who gave me a decent worth
of bud... would it be the same quality as in
Amsterdam? i did wonder...
lucky for me i performed that night...
i was drinking on the way back...
then rolled myself a joint...

   i went to bed and in my mind: i was glowing...
my heart was something abstract with no relationship
to the science of cardio medicine...
i felt this emptiness of release in my chest...
there was no heartbeat... just a heart turned mouth agape:
sieving through stars and the death of stars...
i suspected this for some time:
black holes, i.e. dead stars...
are 2 dimensional objects in an otherwise 3 dimensional
space... but you can hardly call the universe
a 3 dimensional space...
i've seen it simulated: in the original Tomb Raider
game on PS1... i used to stop Lara at the ferns...
those two dimensional ferns... 2 dimensional in
a 3 dimensional labyrinth... as you walked up to them
and started twisting the view... the ferns would twist...
turn... i imagine black holes to be like those ferns...
but... spinning really quick...
almost imitating the grandiosity of what was once
present... they are black "holes" but at the same time
they are hyper-anti-gravity of spinning
i think they are black orbs... not holes...
i think the whole idea that they are holes is wrong...
i think they are holograms that spin very quickly
since... well... does anything orbit them?
hence: they have to orbit around themselves...
OnwardFlame May 2020
Remember when the world
Was running a hundred miles a minute
I remember when I needed weekly numerous
Moments of self care
Massages, face masks, baths
Singing and crying out for me
Rest rest rest rest rest.

Remember when the world
We didn't wear visible masks
But just masks covering up our insides
Thinking our productivity, more money
More accomplishments
Would raise us on up to the top?

Remember when the world
Had us clocking in hours upon hours
Like forgotten chalk
On the side walk
Long forgotten by the child
Once summer time drew to a close
Thats how it feels
In the world now.

Remember when the world
Had less to bond over?
When our classes, all our divisions
Told us how different we were
And we couldn't seem to feel empathy
For anyone other than ourselves?

Remember when the world
Was up and running
As fast as lightning
And no dream seemed impossible
Less bathrobes, more driving?

Remember when the world
Didn't have a moment to recoup
To bring us to a mighty halt
And though I know, I can feel it
We all want it to end
I hear the voices of my friends
My CoWorkers
Slowly growing drearier
And the reminder rings like a bell
But not a forceful bell
Dinging and singing of
Get back to it, hop back in
But a bell of
Nothing will be the same
It will indeed, all look different

More rest
More clean air
More encouraged distance
More time


And for that we will all be better.

— The End —