well... technically every ******* is an abortion,
i have it all the time, but when a woman has it,
esp. a Russian orthodox rich girl
it's time to call the Mamelukes
because "a mongol horde is invading",
there was nothing legally binding me
to alimony payments, no marriage
certificate, but my friend,
you meddle in other people's private life,
think you're the man with a career
in law but end up staging
your little: the judge, the jury the executioner
in your bedroom? FORGET IT!
you're just a lawyer, a scavenger,
you don't get to play the game 'who's your daddy'
so easily... you think you're allowed to provide
the architecture of a courtroom in your bedroom...
you're wrong.
take your little orthodox russian *****
with my ******* son and live a long life...
i asked her: i don't mind using condoms,
she said, ******* into me, i'm on
contraceptive pills... two apartments
in St. Petersburg and getting a degree in Edinburgh
you think she's poor? doubt it,
i'm not going to be a ploughing work-horse...
and forging your attempt to placebo the pills with lies...
all that feminism and still the russian
girls think they're killing a human being...
but like i said: the bladder and the ****
develop outside the womb, well brain too,
but the **** and bladder are more important
for the *****... what you're aborting
is just as much a tadpole as a fishy stink;
is your argument caused by the fact
that you gave the Star of Bethlehem to Jesus
and not Joseph because of Mary's fancy
for a centurion? it has to be! way-hey mainstream,
give it to the kid and you get Freud...
god i hate Freud... not because he's a jew,
it just made the whole being born a neurosis,
you need test-tubes, surrogate mothers, IVF,
two Elton Johns to not feel a stigma...
even if the world is harsh on you and you end up
living with your parents... mother *******!
if they all adopted the Caesarian technique of giving
birth there would be no Freud;
well say goodbye to Darwin with that...
obstructing the Caesarian intervention with Genesis quotes
will still produce heads sticking out of vaginas
and by god that's no Michaelangelo.

don't harangue my life with care for pity at woman's idiocy, not having adopted Caesarian birth as universally adequate and prospering her, to instil this barbaric guilt in me wondering why women, of all mammals had no natural anaesthetic produced when giving birth... **** your little guilt-trip argument! Caesarian or no argument!*

to be robbed of a glorious death, and be given an
inglorious birth, esp. when women were given an ease
with a Caesarian birth diplomacy... what's there to retain for man?
ardency in labour? old age? i too was robbed of what
Caesar described as the ideal death: the sudden one...
am i to wait for my sickbed...
if i only chanced the thrill of life
within one sunset and sought no night
to encompass my life as worthy compensation
of nothing.
a life lived to the bell-tone of a replaced
uvula, no care for charity asserted...
in that one momentary exception of all life prior,
to have lived it, and hence entombed,
readied for the element acquiring me to
further its signature... as sustainable...
i'd rather die a painful death that live
a comfortable life: pain is eased with its short-lived
establishing awareness when the glory prior is "prolonged"
ascribed to the fates akin to Achilles... and indeed pain is
merely pain with its prolonging on the sickbed...
counter heroism, so defeatist;
how many times am i to be robbed? to thus experience
such shallows of thieves with cheap constantly
expedient thievery? i've had enough to concede to a juggle
of fates and fortunes! one smooth stroke of the ace
rather than the many axe-hackings of the neck
of ****** Mary. bothersome agitations via pride, honour
and braveness, only if they do not happen,
and should they, they'd be undertaken, but to no quest
of celebratory non-enactment, i.e.: farting rather than *******
prior: to be given a wave of the standard acupuncture
of infantry: as guarantee of mythology; and a nobleman
on his horse without a stirrup prior to the *** intervention.

In a strange mood - see/write art



in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^

in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.

knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.

a *****, well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.




^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell


Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me

If I expect to be a born
again christian, I would
be hoping that they got
rid of the fish, unless,
that is, my mother was a
Mermaid, in which case,
a Caesarian section is the
only other option I could
consider, now that I am
100% Herbivore, avoiding
******* completely,
even on Mardi Gras, when
Cath O' Licks, have a Papal
exemption on Fat Tuesday.

Dante four-hundred-years-later
when it was too late
to consider contemporaries;
and more about encrusting an
English class wit Irish nuns.....
who are we to judge?
the Dire Straits of sensibility....
as a bet: the one true fame
is posthumous cha cha choo
in Buenos Aires' tango and tiaras.
we all said lefty Hendrix and Morrison
in a tongue of Gobi tongue accented for
a rue worth a caramel's worth of yo yo;
maybe i too the tongue-tie buff
in search of the encyclopaedia,
and the higher status Orff tornado...
and wept to catch culprits like slingshots
in the wild west.

St. John, the Evangelist, wrote the book of revelations,
the Latin world immediately thought
it was aimed at the Hebrew,
but the masochistic lacerations of the Jews
left intact, hardly slave-worthy, hardly imaginative
to build a Coliseum, instead worthy of
the hanging garden of Iran and the pyramids..
skyscrapers of Manhattan with only one room in
it, and some ***** trap passages to reach the riches,
like at Giza, when one hoped that one
sand people left the Koran for another sand people,
an it was all Brothers Grimm fairy ending: happily
ever after... the book of revelation
chapter 13 verse 3... how did i survive a brain
haemorrhage and revive a fully functioning
skeleton so quick? ask Rasputin,
no, i'm pretty sure Rasputin would care to mention
the poisoned *****... level the bastion square of
former William conquering, the Bastille echoed in
history like a footprint of a peasant standing ground
to what became downfall, and subsequent harvest...
an Austrian woman undermined a shy man
by giving out metaphors of cake...
she understood less when lionel logue was
worth that banknote of cinematic endeavour...
Stephen "shaky" Parkinson ploughed the lot...
saints like rats i close numbering,
one atheist attacked the woman of Calcutta,
another atheist attacked the man of Wadowice...
i would like to think that prior nationalism of
my forefathers meant something, in the least
ensuring i stay in the lands of potato and *****...
i was given the chasm of childhood's decision
having not clear basis for rationality,
as necessarily escaping what i wished eternity to be:
a bike ride of 60 kilometres in summer,
and hardly anyone wishing to diffuse my balances...
poetry is a cryptology, once it encounters symbolism
of sedated phonetics it comes across philosophy pausing
at Egyptology... the triage, tri, angle, primed 90
heading toward the crown or a rebirth of not acknowledging
the prime leisure of caesarian and reinserting the head
to wobble into the longest Nile of cluing divisions
as based on lost imagination: science has simply evaporated
chances of imagination - scientific imagination is reduced
to schematics - concrete arithmetic procedures
and paying attention to nothing while playing games
hardly resembling the japanese square and the karaoke culture
readying only teens to buy the crap...
imagine being an adult easily paying rent,
having a marriage, a dual life as a homosexual e.g.,
having left school, and mastered life with fancies
to be later equivalent of a G.C.S.E. grade in your personal life...
the book of revelation does not address the Hebrews:
written by Greeks, it was written for Byzantium,
that the Arabs clarified Aristotle sooner than Byzantium
is this obsession with bureaucracy - st. john
was also a mr. smithy joe-joe... the greeks lost the plot,
the book of revelation addresses greek naiveness,
it doesn't address Hebrew stubbornness,
given that: every greek would nod to avoid being
member of the Holocaust, while every Hebrew would
nod to engage being member of the Holocaust...
but still the Polish question... who were given neither
reparations by Germans, nor were included in the
Marshall Plan... but were given a "de facto" system
of economics that was "bound to fail", you'd need
one Pole to be a pope, to be later a saint for this to be real,
for the great dispersion... ever see a Polish girl get spat
on her face by her "master" dutch boyfriend when
speaking civilised tongue about her ambitions?
GERMANY WELCOMES SYRIA... that's Poland's
care for receiving reparations from Nazis, point no. 1.
point no. 2, Israel is mentioned in Eurovision
and in the European football championship...
oh come on... get comfy in your promised land!
the irony is that Australia is contesting a voice from too!
a torn apart revival? it's hardly a revival if the
lettering didn't disappear and wasn't replaced by arabic,
thank us for your allowance of earning money,
digitalising us, toward a perpetual analysis without
care to synthesise anything unusual that wasn't already
unusually analysed to this needle-point of
a unit of tsunami synthesis - comparably a year denied,
zeroed, convergence of the algebraic trinity with
all three unknowns: x, y, z - the book of revelation addresses
the foolery of the greeks, so much wisdom prior,
and yet so much foolery and laziness kindred to
the holy text of the hebrews under the prophet's name
Malachi... Muhammad has the leverage, being
a prophet-merchant, rather than a prophet-pauper -
bogatemu wszystko wolno.

Brexit has broken water
but despite reaching the
gestation period, it appears to
be in breach of contradictions
and most likely the solution
will be a Caesarian Section,
which, at this late stage is a
high risk gamble that could
see the defoetus in a Corbyn.

I have mistaken you, for the great wielder of language, that in the times of Caesar my father, my hero, the castle builder in mid-century medieval Spain, he was not. Painting mustard seeds and his mistake, bulbs of garlic for warding off the blood-suckers, I don't think it was his intention, but he could paint potatoes the flavor of want my sister and I so craved when she and I and him, revering in our trident throng forged language before a fading Tuesday night.

A painter is great rarely, but occurs in small, adequate attic-like spaces, empty squares upon squares, readied for the taking of language. Art might be the purveyor of its own bright useless entity, bright ripened similes squeezed out of the Dutch into the Latin vernacular our father failed to remember while poking him at midnight to rile him up to bed.

It was a mistake, the one my Godfather made when he started studying French with himself. No ranking professor can rank himself into his own pedagogy. Language might have lost its roots, maybe it even lost its qualities of being official.

"This is the office of the president."
"The President of the United States?"
"No, the president of the DISH Network."

This is for me, not any president I serve. You could have learnedly observed the words my father would spell to me, each individual vowel and consonant given their own power. However, not my mother or sister could undertake with adequate prowess the tenant of speaking as such, and their tongues suffered as their palates poorly undertook their flustered attempts to enter our philocalist resolve for Caesarian language.

Sadly now, as I think of reading. I think of your fingers and what you must certainly claim to be such grandiose proficiency, your digits and dactyls bring a melancholy hoop of unpleasantries to my eyes. Your mistake has been writing as you speak, and speaking as the free-style spoken-word "artists" attempt to do, in a horrifically insufficient and inarticulate way. I know your mistake when I open myself to read the Associated Press, listen to what Capitol Hill has to say, even coming down from the end of the bar it is a sick knot of undoing that I so wish any children we have will never be privy to.

Except on this Monday night where we can still commit our lives to one another without becoming the indigestible alphabet that has evolved into a toxin around us. What chance does poetry have if sentences collapse in short-dialogues? What will become of our hands? Will they forget the feeling of a pen or pencil in their grip? Certainly, those short notes and scribbles of cursive my mother left for my father, sister, and I will take themselves into antiquity with cuneiform and chalk, whether in Spain, The States, or another place, they have stormed out world with writing and grammar mistakes. He who must pretend to be understood by taking up the thesaurus to talk, will never have the qualities necessary to write without totally ******* it up.

stem cell words
from the cellular wall of the
poem birth canal
narrows, twists,
even double helix's,
doc-prof diagnosis
with perfect, absolute uncertainty,
denotes the presence of
stem cell words

"all your writes,
gestating make-believe,
word smythe
premium cocktail concoctions,
gospel soul post-viewed
rocked and roiled
still and always,
unflinchingly personal

singing and simulcast
the unique
internal combustion,
that removes the pollution,
of your
unflinchingly personal..."

mother necessity
delivery of a
Caesarian cut-them-out

says me
cut, excise them,
take them,
them newborn-baby stones
give them
a good home,
my DNA upon them,
my only Jacob blessing,
that they get
goodly tented taken

let them spawn
more and others,
will love them
better just for knowing
even never seeing them again,
still and always,
whatever they
write on,
still and always,
I'm in them,
they will be,
unflinchingly personal,
even if signed by
another's name....

Constant worry.

Mothers know best,
and that is why their
unofficial motto is to
be in a state of constant
worry. My mother has
loved me from my very
inception. Through the
Caesarian section birth,
breast feeding, first words,
first steps. First mistakes.
First successes. My mother
has loved me.

My weight is the top concern,
my grades, nay my future,
is second.

But she believes in me.

She believes in me to do
what is right; not just for
me, but for others. She
believes in me and knows
I can do anything with
motivation. She believes in me
because my mother loves me.

She believes in me, and my
mother loves me, because of
constant worry.

Constant.

                                              ­     I am my mother's son.
                                                     My mother loves me,
                                                   and I love my mother.

                        Because I am in a state
                             of constant worry.

prayer is kept for the poor, a mere thought
is kept for the rich, but the rich hardly "think"
to mention the "name",
   the poor pray, but hardly
think about "him",
while the rich "think",
but hard;y pray about him...
ego-*******-maniacs that they are...
i find that mere thought
as acknowledgement is always
besides the point...
whatever point was ever to be
made in gesticulation of a prayer...
i only believe in him
not in the sense of perpetuation,
but as the case less celebrated
in service of scolded celebration,
and more: a framework of
the objectivity of justice given...
none of this human subjectivity of
justice servitude...
a truer objective jurisprudence...
      than this subjective bologna...
i can't stomach that bollocking...
  it feeds me the taste of *******
wrapped in shrimps...
and i don't like that...
there's absolutely nothing north korean
about it,
          there's no salutation,
no siegl high....
    no roman caesarian ave salute...
            i have no prayer romance
with a deity, i have a case of law on
my hands, and giving my secrets,
i'm as omniscience as the omni-almighty...
as ever -
          mort non est enigma...
death is no secret....
      the only secret is life (in) itself -
           omni enigma est vita per se...
and all i said unto myself:
make sure you drink into the third hour
past midnight...
   i'm 20 minutes short...
  but i'll make it;
that said, the poor pray but never think
about a god,
the rich? they neither think,
nor pray to a god...
they just love the jest antagonism,
        and by then: neither praying or
thinking come into play...
       what comes into play is the atheistic
mirror that only abides by the rich
to question:
     is there more to this mort qua nox
than what is already governing
the doubt? well, we all should be so lucky
as to spot the judases in our
accummitive momentum: who finally said:
enough of of bargaining with
fake promises! let them taste
the origins of the promising fruit, in miltonic ash.
       once upon cartesian,
when one upon a time (again) caesarian...
     then again ego as fetus,
   and the womb as a collision course
        between theory upon theory upon
theory once more,
       and it's called a "miracle"...
                 miraculous to have made
the statement, and not sanctified the guillotine
instead.

trafficking ideas:

sad first,
angry: much much later.

i'm leaving  a trail of unfinished poems behind, half efforts (almost)... oh no... i'm not having a dissociation meltdown of a second coming, i'm pretty focused, ah... it's like what Nietzsche said about writing the most content within the fewest number of words... i was never a fan of maxims or aphorisms... i know why i'm writing unfinished poems, or rather, why i don't want to finish them... i rekindled my relationship with marijuana / Afghan hash and i stopped using synthetic components to induce sleep, i.e. painkillers / anti-inflammatory drugs (same ****, different cover)... maybe that's why... or the fact that for all my efforts in writing? i have yet to reap any rewards... on the monetary front... ergo? no proper incentive to continue with a seriousness... or the fact that i started living again and it's a life of postcards, nothing worth celebrating let alone writing about, but precisely! the "petty life" grosses the best yield in terms of being scribbly-fertile, as i am...

i still can't understand it, i woke up in a daze...
i'm still pretty dazed...
if i am a man... unlike what Harold Norse mentions
with regards to him not being a man...
categorically, outright, Harold Norse exclaims that
he's not a man...
well... un-categorically me: if i am a man
(it's a bit like writing ich kampf rather than mein kampf...
i struggle is a continuum "bias"
rather than an ownership stressor,
i struggle is indefinite, i.e. when pronouns meet
the articles
while my struggle is definite, i.e. my coupled with the
as oppose to i coupled with a)

anyway... what's your name? Alina... how old are you?
22... at first i thought i didn't notice the plumpness
of her young body... i pretended it wasn't a familiar
sight of when i was 21 and she was 19...
full *******... although... she asked if i minded
her Cesaerian cut on her tummy?
no, of course not, that's before she didn't see me
standing with my back facing her and my "clipped wing"
scar of a shark-bite laser on my shoulder-blade...

i could tell she was pregnant... the ******* were slacked
or rather: tortured by a baby's suckling...
i never had a girl so petite before...
it felt ****** weird... i looked like a monster
after i climbed out from out of the shower
and started to dry myself while she started to undress herself...
when i put her hand into mine it
disappeared i should have cut off my index!
exactly! my index finger rather than my pinky
in order to give her a chance of pairing up with my hand...

raven hair, all the **** pretty features...
but... i must be a ******* outlier or something because
the whole affair started off well...
finished? even the prostitutes are changing...
she doesn't want to do this, clearly she's not the type
that likes ***... of all the ones i slept with pretty
much all of them enjoy ***... borderline pornographic
acting styles, but it depends...
i'm a paranoid p. so i get to play that game
of hide it or fake it quite a lot (oh thank god
i didn't qwerite quiet)...

all those men gurus online... young, fertile women...
yeah... if you want to have children...
but ***? maybe a 21 year old is more relatable to a 19 year
old given it's a different atmosphere
and you're both young... but a 36 year old man
and a 22 year old woman?
i'm not going to go through some *******'s worth
of a mea culpa as to why i didn't ******...
sure... i had an ******* at first... but then?
i switched off... it was borderline necrophilia...
i swear to god ******* a 22 year frightened little creature
is borderline necrophilia:
i don't care what the pornographic industry shows you
when there's this petite girl and some Hulk...

first encounter, upon a second encounter i'll need
to break her mentally, she'll have to give me her
lips to kiss... for starters she'll have to not watch
some much ******* TikTok videos and pay more
attention to me... how i will do this, i don't know...
well... i devised one way of doing it...
i'll have to come in my casual clothes,
expose the Karl Lagerfeld in me...
a tree wearing a baker-boy cap blah blah...

in that one night all my desires hit a ******* wall...
she was the first one that jumped at the opportunity
of starting ******* in a ******* position...
what was before me was the equivalent sight
of first seeing the cover of Marquis de Sade's novella
******: Hesperus, foreward by Janet Street-Porter 2003...
the aesthetic of a "tortured" plum of a woman's body...

no confusion concerning the apple of Eden...
the larynx of man and precisely for no reason should
there be mention of both the rib
and the phallus as somehow death and devil respectively...
even if i had any ******* envy, i cured that with
dissolving my former beard-envy...
but even with my desires men i felt beside content...

reframing: some hours later, it's a Friday night
and i just mixed some dark *** with some whiskey,
not a bad combination for foraging new music,
i thought Kula Shaker threw in the towel,
what do i find? the opening track from K20...
infinite sun... boys really came with a song to topple
Govindam...
mind you: i'm already converted to the sub-continents
cuisine...
i even took it upon myself to cook like Indian women,
i.e. not follow white girl tourist trail-blazing
with strict methodology...
i'm not an absolute hell-raiser of spices in the kitchen...

obviously the standards are in place, the base:
cumin coriander (seeds or powder),
green cardamom, chilli, turmeric,
garam masala...
now it's up to me whether to add coconut milk
cloves, black cardamom... always happy
to use the bay leaf... all spice? hell... why not...

what was i "talking" about prior...
oh... i feel relaxed... type in SELINA18
and it will give you a rough estimate of who i ****** last night,
aged 36... i'm surprised by a body only 22 summers old...
but i couldn't: i could for a period of time,
she's too young, i look like a monster compared
to her, she, this tiny creature...
i don't have ******* issues: i don't need
to be dropping blue pills... i know when it's
a woman's fault when i...

but she was the zenith of my hidden desires
and, hey presto, no surprises: she failed me...
a tight firm *** and all the more eager to
do it *******... what's with this aversion
of the eyes...
and her smart-phone screen addiction...
another put off...
i don't think she ****** enough men
who have put her off... if i was so unappealing
to begin with:
having washed myself prior to ***...
as is standard... she shouldn't have gloated at me
while the other 4 girls i already ******
smiled at me with enticement...

i'll learn, sooner or later... by now i'm *******
intrigued! i had to **** myself off to pictures
of legs donning nylon because i'm not into
too much pornographic culture and all that liberaton
*** *******...
funny... when i was younger all i wanted
to become was a monk...
well: now i'm just a ***** monk...
pair-bonding and all that evolutionary psychology
crap is sort of beside me:
i have one fault: why borrow...
why would man borrow the ontology of animals
and incorporate it into an ontology per se...

i don't care if animals have a soul or not...
they sure as **** have character...
esp. the ones you pet... not the wild ones...
the wild ones are generic... replications...
"clones"...
              not the ones you pet... though...
£25 worth of Afghan hash and i'm still smoking
it... it's coming up to 30 days...

i need to break this girl...
    not in a bad way... i just want her to feel pleasured
when she's with me...
i'm not a necrophiliac...
   i'm certainly not a dummy-******...
i need to steal her kiss... i need her to look me into
my eyes...
otherwise? i'll just please myself...
but i can't imagine how it began:
young women boasting all their prowess on street
interviews: but in the bedroom: frigid frightened
little things...

i must admit... woman sexuality still has some allure
left in the "bank"...
it's rare to find, but it's all hope when found...
i just asked the five... well... the four...
whether i was a funny man...
some Romanian whispers and i just wanted to know...
i received jack-**** in terms of coordinating
replies...

maybe her Caesar's scar thought i'd be put off...
the stretch marks on her stomach...
i don't know what put her off...
her being put off instigated me being put off...
oh... i'm not angry with myself:
my "ego" is not "wounded"... i'm just thinking...
i need to be a monster another time...
next time i'll toss that 5ft1 body from side
to side like i am the sea and she's a helpless ship...

oh **** me... i need to break this *****...
i made mistakes in my life...
but when it comes to crafting a luxurious pleasure
from ***: there's no past there's no future
there's only a here and now...
she was silent, i was silent...
i sweated from the shift like a boar
being chased to chase the wild out of him
and perform the arts of the Eden barber shop
on it for the boar to become a pig...

Romanian girls... well thank **** they're not
English or the glutton-free--prone American accents...
i hate the American accent...
it's so nasal and raspy... absolutely: totally:
uninformed about the affairs of men in the world...
when American women start peacocking
their accent on the train... i switch off...

what, a, strange, looking, creature, lying before
my arching over her with my clenched knuckles
giving myself grit and the proper function
of the pelvic piston... weird...

the last time i ****** someone much younger than
me... at 36 and she's 22...
wow... i just couldn't help myself from
tearing apart the body size difference...
i became a monster...
literally... if the female to male dynamic works
in the favour of females
in the insect realm with spiders and mantises...
**** me: in the realm of mammals...
we're going back to ******* basics...

the shift started pleasant enough...
i was paired up with cerebral palsy
Martin for the night... we talked about the "weather"
an ****...
funny moments came...
even the punters were looking at us in a weird
spotlight when i was left with no armour except for
giggles when i was picking him up...
Martin: dear dude... come on... you're going
to give me a second hiatus of pain of a hernia..

so i showed him a profile picture of one of the girls
we're working with...
i showed him the picture...
then told him who she was: the daughter of this
most ugly looking "dude"...
there and then i watched him "catch wind"
a whirlwind... he folded like a pancake...
he twirled saying **** me on repeat
before falling on his ***...
i had to giggle a bit while picking him up...
yeah, i told you, Martin, that she was a stunner...
a 10 out of 10...
the sort of girl you'd make sure that Guns 'n' Roses'
November Rain was the last song you ever heard...

what came next? i wasn't expecting my coworker
to almost start nibbling on my ear while
whispering into it some horrid gossip...
well... that's me ******* off to the brothel...
as i sat across the whole five lot of them...
all of them smiling...
am i? that special? or ******* spastic-fantastic...
i just finished a shift... this "work" is not challenging enough...

fair enough: getting your ear nibbled at like
it might be an oyster about to getting gulped down...
so i went to a brothel...
i always thought: if you see a fox or a cat
in your squandering ways doing
the best of keeping sanity by automatically
vomiting in the Ancient Roman sense
of easing the passing of judgement...

there she sat with a pretty face...
a pretty face for a prettier goodbye...
an even prettier hello..
22... Alisa... if not Romanian then at least Turkish...
body buys no body
and there's this headache within the confines
of the heart...

but i'm not going to blame myself for a limp-****...
if she's only 22, she still needs to learn from
inexperience...
she needs to **** plenty more men before she
***** me again and i'm up to her standard...
it felt like doing a "thing": all prosthetic...
she was so much smaller than me...
of course i didn't ******...
how could i? she was disengaged...
she forgot how much fun *** could be...

what astonishing lies we tell each other...
just in order to pretend to not have
told them before...

22... i tried engaging with her:
she was more engaged with TikTok videos...
i tried to be tender with her like
i might ever be with the flesh of an orange and the peel...
of course i didn't ******...
she just said: do you have to drink?!
but i like drinking...
do you have to be attempting to be so disused...
so absent-minded? that you have to
watch Chinese propaganda snippets?!

i don't mind climaxing...
she's only 22... she asked me: do you mind
the Caesarian cut on the stomach?
while i asked her if i could smoke a cigarette...
i showed off my own scar of a clipped wing...
do you mind?!
i can't ****** if what i'm dealing with is a girl
in her 20s and not readied for
the flea and flesh market...

but that doesn't bother me...
enough of the night is available for all of us to somehow
wish we had the *** lives of rock stars...
i just recall being blockaded
before leaving the brothel...
some other punter was coming in...
wow! the moment i walked in all five of them were smiling...
yes, i trimmed my beard... come Saturday and
i'll torture my hair... i'll come ln Tuesday
and i'll wear my casual worn...

what a pristine body... such a tiny... almost porcelain
indignant "sorrow" of
whenever under-performing...
my fault?! my fault?!
         *** is a case of what happens: both ways...

just because she's smaller than you...

in theory contra: through experience...
younger women are a turn off...
                           they are unruly with their bodies
that are only geared up for reproduction
and not geared up for bedroom fun...
they are stiff... they are toughened with
expectations...
                         just as bad as virgins...
what?! i'd rather **** an experienced *******
with saggy **** in her late 30s
than a ******* in her 20s with the most pink-peachy
pair of ****... but with no clue how to have a quickie
with a man...
what?! the ****** revolution happened for
no reason? i can't, just blatantly state the *******
facts?!
like **** i won't... i will...
but i'm not an explorer concerning the sort
of people associated with getting bored
with standard ****** positions...
have *** less = enjoy the ******* more...
simple, no?

tight ******* ***... my god... but she switched off...
i too practice the Ancient Roman rite
of passage when it comes to regurgitation...
whenever i'm constipated or ate too much...
i ***** in an automated mode...
i don't even need ******* down my throat
to instigate the throwing up...

so i've been following up on some counter-culture
material in the "manosphere" for some time...
inter-****** dynamics of "things"... really?
that infamous term: c.c. i.e. ****-courasel?
seriously? turns out...
i don't feel like doing the sort of work
that the men "at the top" perform in order to
get such access to "****"...
me? i just want to sleep throughout
the night, with synthetics,
i just want to listen to some good music, man...
seriously.... i want to scuba-dive with
a thrill of what happens when water or gravity
**** each ohter up...

rought ***... hard to find... not with an inexperienced
22 year old who has just given birth...
has stretch marks and a scar of giving birth to prove
leaving her youngling with her grandparents
and her ******* off to England to work as a *******...

i too wanted to age with someone...
tend to a fireplace...
drop acid and have an aquarium: certainly not
the original proposal i received,
i.e. grow old and watch the television set...
**** the t.v.!
my brain is already fried from all
the interactions i'm having:
i need someone with *******
cerebral palsy to make for a stimulating
conversation, for, ****'s sake!

no, men are not visual creatures...
men are auditory creatures too...
if there was no Picasso there was also no Mozart!
i watch ******* on mute:
if i watch it... usually i just flick through
legs exposing themselves in nylon...
at work i'm suddenly **** and a threat to
the other "alpha males" because i'm bilingual:
i find it funny, they find it funny...
it's all funny-funny...

i don't need to ******* with a woman
and later smoke a cigarette of Afghan hash to
find a wormhole for my heart to sink into
and twirl and...

hmm... and... what was this end of and?
me feeling guilty?
            wow for every other wow to come
in a row and for me to give
two ***** and commas for it to boot!

no!
you give me an answer
within man!
in ****!
i want an answer within
man,
i have no concern for god,
i just want the answer
from man;
i don't answer to
ex **** - out of man -
i answer to in **** -
i am the troublesome grin,
the last expectant "cool"...
the sufficing said: nothing.
only in **** will it suffice,
ex ****? call it
             a trigger warning,
or a hammer...
    a lazy tool, of
once god, then ego...
                  then hyper -
once ego, then god...
              but it was always the truth
of the truant...
   in man contra outside of man...
there being a god is still
  a question of:
mind that i pray, or mind that i think?
how easily does thinking seem
about a deity, that it takes to
procrastinate 5 times a day...
            what belongs in man,
is so much different from what "belongs"
out of man...
                   that was never a man.
in man contra out of man...
  the caesarian birth of gods,
     the eased **** of hera:
with daughters juno & eileithyia:
last the jargon, first the juiced
um, um -
     the gargantuan graeae of
fiddling with an eye -
                          in man a god -
out of man a god, and a lack of man
to uphold both man, or god...
     in god a man:
the readied malnutrition of time:
a temperament of temporal
   insignificance...
    the universal death toll...
                  toward the serving last,
first, become,
          a clarifying ordeal of
                                        "truancy";
what the hell does it matter?
      it'll just become another
"meaningful" escapade into another
  tabloid sphere of "journalism";
these days farting seems more meaningful
than writing a piece of "journalism":
which means there's no reason as
to write an excusing word of either:
oops or sorry.
                     caring more to hear a pair
of penguins wet-clapping.

beyond good (nor) and evil (either) -
there's but the medium
of and, and, and;
there is no "beyond",
let alone "good",
"or", "evil" -
only the continuum
of the confiscating
confusion, of the criterium
known as history,
with no logical beginning
other than a wheel,
rather than a straight line...
and that dreaded word - and;
ipsum et cetera;
or as the arabs would tell
you:
   much easier to stomach,
having the complete
****** palette, and having
the social norm of being
able to **** your first cousin;
and yes, the romans built
their society upon surrogacy,
on fostering children;
but what of
the antidote when inventing
the caesarian anti-biblical
method of giving birth?
now? residing in the squalor
of what's already an anti-science
movement.
i do not wash my hands
because i do not care,
but i wash my hands clean
of the current affairs,
simply because:
    i do not believe in passing
my genese, as the only
worthy cause, for my thinking
to encompass.

AstraZeneca,  BigPharma,
           BioNTech,  Sinopharm,
Moderna , Pfizer,
              Sputnick,  ZyCov-Di,

The Immaculate Conception
is a trick of deception because
all were conceived incubated
gestated and delivered (albiet
prematurely by a caesarian)
just in time for 2021 as people
were loosing their 2020 vision.

Added to that being Lockdown
Winter and a general depression
of the manipulated masses who
have been made to succumb and
will therefore be queueing with
up rolled sleeves begging to be
saved by BIG PHARMA who is
watching them at all times via
the anode and cathode ray tubes
which 99.99% of households have
therefore the opiation is complete.



Ps.

The author has no cellphone, no
microwave, no dishwasher, no
television, is a vegetarian, reads
The Guardian, supports organics,
votes Sinn Fein and lives in fear
of the current Irish Government.

Throwing stones at a
doll's house is futile.    

This has been proven
by previous (little) men.  
            
Matryoshka's external
appearance is an illusion.

Obese, aged, incapacitated,
perception is deception.

Crimea was a caesarian,
the Donbass an abortion.

Kiev and Odessa are both
close to their gestation period.

Zelensky joined a parade of
puppet mastered parasites.

They all misread the passive
rumination of the Moss Cow.

Versed in the art of silence and independence,
he quietly hosts the soul gnawing parasites
which devour him from within
only leaving crumbs of his being.

He is broken.
He is heavy with multitudes of untold tales,
so he seeks Caesarian experts
to deliver him from the burdens.
"Be strong, be a man" they say,
and he goes.

At home,
the hanging clothes flutter in excitement.
They whisper to him,
"Come, join us on the line to paradise."

Fifteen years ago in the U.S. a
woman shot herself in Wisconsin.

At the hospital, they discovered
her pregnancy. The doctors in the
emergency performed an urgent
life saving Caesarian to save the
foetus as they thought the mothers
wound was too serious to survive.

Natalie Rupnow, (the infant) grew
up, bought a gun, and went looking
for her Mother ****** anti abortion
mum who tried to **** her in the womb.

What have we/I learned
from those who want to
make Palestine palatable.

A west facing Riviera of
where it was said that an
Empires sun never sinks.

Location rotation vacation
prime site developments
rubble house constructions.

But Lady Gaza gestates, no
abortion, no caesarian and
no miscarriage(s) of justice.

What we/I have learned, is
endurance resistance and
persistence Al-ways prevail.