i live next to an englishman that objects to laughing
in the night, i can't contain it, i can't keep it canned,
for all the cruxes, jealousy hasn't
been swept aside by a tsunami
into the unconscious -
sure, i can be courteous -
    communities are weaved from
reciprocating a desire for such a lass;
what do i get?
      nervous oliver sparrow -
              and i can't stop being fidgety -
this new norm is what breeds extremism -
mi6 is all-over my package,
    rarely does a men get to live twice,
and with a second dosage does he get so much
burnt bacon feathers, because a second life
regulation said: only between 9-to-5
and with work colleagues -
                thing is: if i actually sit down and
eat some food with you, i have respect
for you.
            bonsai tigers inherited lizard eyes
and see ****, i mean: not much if it doesn't
**** and twist attracting the eyes to
map out the orion constellation.
                   and i know what sort of society
breeds the charlie ha-ha-hab-dough Aztec sacrifices,
   i basically say ******* listening
to beck's feather in your cap -
          i joined the john cleese ministry -
it's goose step and it's swan's archy-barchy -
         it's a raven arched blade that's also a spine...
for all their graces, birds are greatly blessed
           by being humbled on the trot -
              birds are the best experience of seeing
a humbling... and indeed man: his thoughts akin
to wings... tied down by the tonne-load of limbs
          and pianos, and harps, and hammers,
and road-signs, and all manners of navigations...
so if we're jealous of birds having wings,
  so if we're jealous of birds having wings...
      i'd prefer to watch a 1000 priestly ravens
congregating onto an altar of a loaf breadcrumbed
  and littering a walt whitman patch of talk...
        once airborne...
             a ******* bunch of teutonic messerschmitts...
yes, blame the epileptic for the piccadilly circus of lights...
       and a red light district that's hardly a chance
to meet a woman insomnia-bound to her genitals -
   floral patterns aflutter anywhere?
            that sort of Oxfam i'd gladly pay towards...
not some populist mush poetry...
                 i'd write a Swabian ode to her pair of
nighty-nights that never do...
                  in those sort of scenarios i never have
to get an ego-******* inversion...
          my ego has no need for valentine's day,
anniversary day, christmas day with the family...
it basically means my ego doesn't need to be *****,
protruding... there's no need for any
existential architectural establishment...
      and you know what first impressed itself
on my mind when i took that damnable coach trip
for the first time to England?
    the film Philadelphia... starring tom hanks -
losing a toy soldier...
                               i'm not gay, i just think
that feminism has grossly exploited the madonna-*****
complex of women... and i can't solve that,
  that thing belongs to women, not me...
    it's hardly a need to mea culpa myself all
the ****** time... apathy ferments a lack of pathology,
and this is how i stand: corpus erectus.
            should i stand differently? i'd have
a heart's worth of an oyster.
                        anway... apart from Hamley's toyshop
on Regent's st.,        there was the first sight
                 of a double-decker bus,
  and then... the continuum of the moody grey skies...
          moody blues... moody greys... apparently
there are 50 shades of it...
                       yeah... murky grey or how god became
lazy and said: no purple, no red, no green, no blue,
           no rainbow... just grey.
                    grey really is an anomaly within
the context for the existence of colour...
   it really does lullaby the eyes into a melancholy,
but this anglican melancholy could never be
scandinavian... there's a wasp impregnated in
an asp on the tongue of these isles...
          there's nothing sadder than an angry melancholy...
lo and behold... i'm fathering it... having acquired
the language that's not really mine to begin with.
   the alternative story is
        a really hard working mexican in dire straits,
smuggling himself into america, working his ***
off in a convenience store, forgetting spanish
forgetting native mayan...
               the comparison? he gets a nice house...
i get a poem, like this.

i'm scared to speak of her
it validates her existence
***** her from the crevices of my mind
and places her on this piece of paper

as if she's on the same level
as some work of art.
she begs
to be shown off,
bragged about.

she's usually more subtle
historically she
shrunk my waist
and my legs
and my arms
and my strength

but she's ******* gorgeous
people love to see her
mistaking her for
health

ha.

she demands the affection of others
and worst of all
convinces you to do the same.
reinforcing every choice
that led you here

do you realize
how many choices that is?

every glance in a mirror,
bite, meal, event,
run, walk,
exercise in general,
photo, social media,
shopping, outfits,
the way that you sit,
feeling parts of your body,
checking,
and rechecking,
and rechecking.
all to make sure
they fit her ridiculous ******* standards.

she's unreachable
until she kills you
and even then
you still won't be thin enough.

she doesn't stop at thin, either
she's permeated my confidence
stained it,
trashed it. to be honest.

she's not even real
but my god does it feel that way
i hear her
allthegoddamntime

i've starved her for years

that's not true.

i like to think i have, though.
pretending to be stronger than i am
i'm faking it but still
not even close to making it
out okay.

i've breadcrumbed her

i haven't starved the way she likes since ninth grade
but i've become """health conscious"""

i eat
but i eat healthily.
i check ingredients on almost everything in the supermarket.
i don't cook or bake anything
that didn't come from a health food blog.
i run, i hike,
i still sometimes google my calorie burn

every morning, every outfit, every window and mirror,
every shower, every photo,
every time i ******* think about it
i check my body

i check my body
so much
that i don't even know how many
times per day that it happens
constantly
measuring and reconsidering my self worth

so, no,
i'm not starving anymore
i haven't been for years.
but i still feel like her prisoner

and i keep feeding her

and i work in ******* therapy
i know i have control
my helplessness is an illusion

i'm just
so
tired
of
fighting
this
endless,
exhausting,
ridiculouslystupidcomparedtosomanyotherthin­gs
battle
with her.