the humble sloth sees no morning and no worm in the sun -
nor the chittering of a few eager sparrows,
either -
             he sees everything square in
rhombic - squinty eyed, sorta:
should i bother it, or will i wait long
long enough till it bothers me?
that's me, right there, a young man will
idealise women, until he finally idolises
them in the naked form at-moist
sensual... and this will go on and forth,
he'll pass the corridor of a few
teenage pregnancies, because there
was no *****-Nilly & the Eager-******
scenario for him to scream and moan...
until dawn.
                      the natural contract is there
and it will knit & pick out the most
useless lions... until a few lionesses start
to congregate and do what the lion
does... every lion's statue akin to man's
is not even in a state of contemplation...
strange how man glorifies life and sacrifice
and indeed sacrifices the worth of life
by burning incense, and selling goods,
and running around the world
for a worth of a scalpel's worth of
a barber overdoing it... calling the forehead
a man's chin, and bluntly stroking it
until a dentist can take part in the wreckage...
might i say: i am sometimes like a sponge,
i read a bit of e.e. cummings and act on paper,
i don't plagiarise as such,
i merely focus on how one might repeat -
he said, she said,
       and return to: nonetheless, it said
for both of you: without a neuter pronoun:
she'll say eve, and he'll say eve,
    he'll say apple, and she'll say apple,
and you're still both, both! going to sit on a
******* chair... deemed obscure for
the sistine chapel, but indeed worthy to
scribble the lesser findings of graffiti into
a classroom table, like GD GV M GD CCK...
       so i i dabble a lot, in much of what
really is testing the young men who begin
with misogyny comparisons of genitals
at Billingsgate... and later try to find
one and only monocle to a bowler hat and moustache...
that train? long gone...
     so let us find people like me...
who idolised women, who made them divine in
supposed grace, and... well... eventually
all babies look similar, as do old people...
women chop of their locks (unless
they want to be deemed Merlin's brides)
   and the fat embodies them and they all turn out
alike... we all think heaven is the pinpoint -
    governed by an aesthetic democratisation of
all our faults... i just don't trust a world to be
wandering a forest of oak, while in the background
man settles matters of what dwarf eye of the beholder
should be asserted above the immortals' arrogance...
         but there i was... idealising women...
what a horrid affair...
     the moment you encounter woman
you already know she eats, she farts, she snarls
and she stares... after all: what woman is a woman
who isn't building a cosy abode?
            the moment you begin from a fascination
with women, that you state your anti to a misogyny
well... try wiping your nose with paper
   and even bothering debating feminism with anyone
except a homosexual... you haven't got lunch,
you have this seemingly 1970s film from Polish cinema
that states that feminism is equally transcendent
to encompass Aristotle in the present age,
       as it is not encompassing some frivolous
   ancient Greek joke... why women have less teeth
than men... i guess they hide them... then they
practice felatio... n'es pas?
                    i have a wriggly worm, she has a
hollowed out bone to fill with juices of the marrow...
     then she's practical enough to call Aristotle
an autistic astronaut... i say: give the woman! a time-machine!
         why? she has no sense of humour,
or no historicity concerning humour,
    or how there are necessary fluctuations...
men these days tell rapes jokes...
           because the one joke they are afraid to say, is:
at a ceremonial altar, with the punchline: i do.
               i do is hardly synonymous with the more
appropriate: i will.
                i do is a stagnation coordinate:
how can i do all of that if i say i will do such things
only account of mere ceremony? surely
the chaplain gets paid... but what do i get?
alimony checks, court-hearings and how
        i have two testicles, she has two *******
  and we debate the 2 to 3 ratio of d.i.y. holes
     for inviting sinister sergio to do the plumbing;
cos the ******* cobwebs got in the way by way
of leeching on the purse.
              see where misogyny comes from?
not getting an Aristotelian joke... or basically not
getting an ancient Greek joke right...
because off they go! mistaking dualism as a dichotomy...
   you start idealising women, you encounter
a woman and ****! the dream is gone, and out
pops shaggy and ******-doo...
                   and if you retract from idealising women?
you begin with Billingsgate and genitalia...
me? personally? i always thought of marinating my
chicken thigh in a warmed marinate of yoghurt
and tandoori spice - mix the two: you get Coronation
pink... all fluffy and unicorn and wonderful...
           idealism can be hard to shake off...
unless of course you tell either Americans or Russians
how finicky things can get in the bridal-chambers
of Essex on the Grecian isles of Cos,
   or Ibiza (I-beef-ah), or anywhere where there's
contrary speed-dating shakiness that's bound
to be representative of Essex, once upon a time,
when great music played a key-role in merely
utilising all body parts when dancing, i.e. snogging,
and lo and behold... when satan averted his
eyes composing the two serpent composition,
he looked into the mouth of man and a mouth
of woman, and found no resemblance unto his
original investigation: speak no ill of tongues:
for the tongues of men are merely ill-fated
         against themselves: for they revel in
other parts of their anatomy bearing the sting
and quickened step,
   but whether it's politics or uniting two tongues
in a dance: they're sluggish about it
ever becoming fruitful quickly enough to
            sediment into a snail's shell worth of
chattering teeth into old age, for the slug of both
sexes' tongue, having no such allowance,
         and subsequently left wriggling into their
daily trough of the competitive: first come,
first served.
                   but then man want's clarity!
if i idealised women, have i not become a gimmick
to such idealisation in the first place?
              how can i display this with all but words,
well, i can, all the more simpler...
                 by idealising women i have conceded
to a contest that has brought me against my fellow ***...
              and all because by having idealised woman
as a concept: i cannot see any of man's achievements,
i cannot see any achievements worth striving for
   in what could be translated as creating a reverse
idealisation of woman, in that other men might idealise
me, to later idolise me... all saints were fools in
idealising jesus, which is why he's strung to a crucifix
made of termite-wood... the minute they hang him
upright on mt. golgotha the crucifix collapses...
                        how could he be an ideal if
  the obscurity of righteous judgment be so-far removed
from the people? is this the construct of the pharisees
appealing to the reason of the greeks to save them
from the roman "oppressors"?
         can this really be the case? just because the greeks
had so much more to think about, and so many more
things more interesting than the romans to think about
that they would have rather written the "new" testament
in greek?
    i am indeed graced by an incompetence
   of having begun with idealising women, experienced
a woman, and thus begun idealising myself
    to a status of idol, or a moral example of plagiarism
worthy of imitation...
               does a crucifix imply a metaphor of
marrying a difficult woman? how many poetic
angles has a man have to write to rob these filthy
philistines of taking things too literally
      and provoking Islam?!
                      when it comes to the old testament
poets only exploit the book of genesis...
   but with the new testament... it's almost like
this need to create a poetic attack on the established
order... and when the book of revelation appears
as the exodus-equivalent book...
       we get: a democracy of poetics...
           which accounts for escaping the health
of the body, and an inherent illness of the abstracted
brain: the mind, and then that becomes
     cubed and encompasses nothing quiet
once more able to take literalism mind's experience
of the world: back into it.
             sheltered man of civilisation can take
a painting more seriously, and then explore it in
his dream factory, than the man pledged to the land
with no galleries, and instead given a canvas
that might swarm with tornadoes and give him
absolutely: no luxury to dream.
   dreaming is a luxury... the last remaining luxury
most people have these days...
   i don't think people can be artists by simply
dreaming... i think they're luxury hobbyist,
       call them the ones standing in line
            as Joseph's Travel Agents... 7 years in Tibet
     (lean years).... and 7 years in a district of Beijing -
where have the "blind" prophets disappeared to?
      and why do so many seem blind
      and blindingly obey to the prophets of "sight"?
nonetheless: frivolous questions...
                 i idealised woman to the extent that
upon encountering a woman: i could not find
an ideal to suggest idol worship for other men...
or create a continuum of dialectical embedding
or the sight of following the cause toward becoming
a sacrificial lamb: whether under the bachelor's
ideal of becoming a martyr - or indeed
                      the idea of becoming a martyr:
bound to old age... and woman - for where did
the wooing of man recede to?! farting into an armchair
and arthritis... much aplenty about that much
could be said about me too: solo.