captured in the psych ward, new year special




it’s new years eve and ron bought along his punch bowl and a few sushi dishes

as well as party sandwiches, to make the people in the psych ward have a good atmosphere

for the new year, and this year charlie chaplin man was going to read all of his poems as the

entertainment and the nurses did a lot of work so the patients feel calm enough to enjoy

charlie’s show, so medication time was before the show and even charlie, because he was worried

he would yell very loudly if he didn’t and then it started

ron said, ok guys we are going to have a mini new years eve concert run by this man charlie chaplin

charlie said, welcome and happy new year and my first song is   The schitzophrenic


You see I am sitting at the mall
I am having dillusions of people teasing me, and I wish this will all stop, oh please, just leave me the f..k alone
And then I hear voices that aren't really being said o hear Jon killed my best friend named Fred, the thing is I have no best friend, oh year
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
From the first diagnosis till the day you reach 45, you see if i take medication it can be controlled yeah oh yeah
I am schitzophrenic
Then I went to see my psychiatrist and he told me, to try and get a life, I told him I was blackbeard and John F Kennedy, he just threw a smart *** comment my way, I thought that comment was rude and ******, yes it is hard to be liked when you do
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
Yes it's easy to do, just let me hang out
You see with my medication it can be controlled, ooooh
I am schitzophrenic
You see I get paranoid when I see people around and right wing governments want us locked up
It mighty hard to have this illness and I cab say this
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
Do it once and you get all hooked and after that you feel like a geek, cause your a schitzophrenic, and also with medication it can be controlled
Oooooh I'm a schitzophrenic
Yes, that's true

charlie said, that was a great song and it’ll get you started ya know, the next song is maybe later


maybe later, i will get what i want

maybe later, i will rediscover the beauty

of being alive in this great world

it’s just a long-awaited journey

from beginning to end

and i will try and enjoy the moment

in the psych ward spotlight

i say, please slow down, your moving too fast

please almighty one, let me live long enough to give

a poor old soul a home

they don’t want a bench and they don’t want an old burnt out hall

it’s not fun for me

to look at these big buildings

with hot shot business types, when your not one

it’s enough to drive you mad

please make me except it could be later




the next song charlie sang was standing on the inside looking out, a song that explains what we are going through


standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

in the psych ward trying to get better

you see i was visioning i was in glenelg bay

but instead you get doctors saying how are you enjoying your day

i wished i was well and enjoying my life

instead of being in here wasting away

then i called out to almighty god

and the best i can get is a man who claims he is jesus christ

i said, no, were you nailed to the cross

and he said yeah after i rode in on my horse

and i said wasn’t it a donkey you ran in on and i was

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

in the psych ward trying to get better

i was getting bored, so i asked the nurse

to give me a pass out to the cafe

because i was starting to lose my mind

and when they said no i let out a little wine

i said please please please, mate, this place is driving me mad

the inmates here, smell really really bad

so the nurse made me a banana smoothie and i said thanks

and took it away to my bed, walking past every room before mine

i even tripped over a piece of fishing line

then i sat down in my glenelg bay apartment sipping my smoothie saying

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

in the psych ward trying to get better

dinner time came and i had fish and chips

it was ever so discusting, ya know like hospital food

i opened my orange juice and gave it one almighty sip

and i ate my chocolate mousse, yeah it is as tasty as

when dinner was over i went to the TV room

to watch the news and home and away

then some dude came into watch it with me

and he said, did you know i was GOD, i said, no

as i sat there thinking i was

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

in the psych ward trying to get better

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

in the psych ward in the psych ward

in the psych ward trying to get bet-ter


charlie chaplin after that song was over sang his small poem titled a smile has nothing on us, here goes


whether you let out a big smile or not

you could add it to your melting ***

what you need is a great big melting ***

big enough to take the world and all it’s got

every thing that you can eat

my rundown car is really neat

the coffee urn is piping hot

boiling whether you like it or not

but your smile comes through and through

like a fresh flower, blooming every day for me and you

i try to smile all the time

cause  it’s very fun to do

i like smiling, cause it’s fun



charlie then announced his next song saying spare me, because when your poor you always say spare me. here goes


spare me some money for the bus

spare me some money for the bus

spare me some money

so i don’t look like such a dummy

spare me some money for the bus

spare me some cutlets for my tea

spare me some cutlets for my tea

spare me some cutlets

and some vegetables

thank you very muchlets

spare me some cutlets for my tea

spare me some wine to go with that

spare me some wine to go with that

spare me some wine

so i can feel so divine

spare me some wine to go with that

spare me some chocolate for after that

spare me some chocolate for after that

spare me some chocolate

so i can have what you have

spare me some chocolate for after that


charlie then said, my next song is every day is a day of disappointment because being here really *****


Every day is a day of dissapountment

One day as I was walking down a busy street, saying g'day to everyone who u walk past, then I went back through the park and I saw so many walks of life, from the beggars asking for money and the rich refusing to give it to them, and it all sounds so crazy as I walk through doing nothing like that, after that I felt a bit peckish, so I went to the take-away to buy myself an hamburger with egg and bacon and there was this weird looking fella standing at the door, greeting each customer with a smile, he didn't really work there, but he will never be told to leave, cause he ain't a threat, oh no, then after that I went to the grocery store to buy enough supplies to last me for a week, or maybe more, I could hardly know, then after that, all that shopping made me a bit thirsty, so I went to the sports club and drown my day away, with a ice cold fosters lager or a ice cold can of VB, after that I will get so drunk o could hardly stand up and my friends drove me home and they also walked me inside, just to make sure, I don't collapse on the front lawn, you see, your day seems to go from good to bad, if you make the wrong choices and that makes every day, a day of dissapointment, after that horrible night on the *****, I got up and had a hangover cure, consisting of two raw eggs and worcestershire sauce, yes that sounds so very tasty, yes I love it and live by it, it really makes me feel like I can have a party in my mouth and everyone is invited to spend about a year or so, at the local sports club doing one thing every single day, and then after that you won't seem like every day is a day of disappintment for everyone on this earth



charlie then decided to pretend he had a best mate named albert waldron and back then albert gave him lyrics to a song, here it goes



Alfred Waldron looking back, oh yeah



You see I was a great footballer, man
Yes, I was so ace, but it was a long long time ago
About close to 1 hundred years
You see I payed in South Australa
And I played footy very well, and after the match
I would go to my car, and get my BBQ an start cooking the snags
Yes, I loved that, it was really really cool
Everyone thought I was an average cook
And they all came over for some meat
Yes, I even had some nice cold beers
Yes, I think thats so very cool
As I cooked the meat, the other players were saying
Come on mate, cook us some nice beautiful Aussie snags
I also played cricket, for South Australia as well
And I even took my BBQ to the cricket for after match food
The only way you can do that now, is if you just stayed local
And some days, like at the footy and the cricket
Every player got very vocal
I was a real Australian guy, who loved to play, footy or cricket
And I loved the BBQ at the end, yes it was so esquized
Yes I had the muscles, and I have lots of those
Everyone enjoy eating a snag a sausage
And then an egg and bacon roll
Since that footy life ended i felt cool


ron said to charlie just one more song because people are yelling and we can’t control them, but charlie we will have the midnights fireworks for you, ok



charlie said he has got his fresh old legs going wild here it goes


they will dance

they will run

into the midday sun

they will race

warm embrace

be a bit lazy

head to the pub

go to the shop

to buy some clothes

angels coming down

worshipping the town

playing football

driving cars

around the good old town

having drinks with the guys

fresh flowers for sale at the shop at SHOPRITE

SHOPRITE SUPERMARKET

CUTTING ALL THE FOOD BILLS YEAH

spiders coming through the window

to destroy all mankind

makin g lamb for dinner

nicest you’ve ever seen

i said i will stay home and watch my mate, mr bean

yeah, your fresh legs go wild

when they do all these things

and before the end, charlie got the entire staff and patients to sing auld lent zine at 10.00 pm

because everyone was getting tired and cranky
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne!

Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne!

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu’d the gowans fine,
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot
Sin’ auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl’t in the burn
Frae morning sun till dine,
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin’ auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie’s a hand o’ thine,
And we’ll tak a right guid willie-waught
For auld lang syne!

And surely ye’ll be your pint’ stoup,
And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne!




ron and charlie were helping each other clean up while the other patiens were being injected with ******

from yelling too much and after the cleanup was done, charlie went to the TV room to watch the fireworks

that were on at midnight on the TV, meanwhile, ron clocked off and went to the pizza hut and went home to

watch the fireworks on the TV thinking, today, ron made charlie a happy man, by letting him do his concert

it wasn’t till midnight but they can’t do that in the HDU.

He sleeps in evergreen trees
tying his long beard to a branch
and there he dreams of rabbit stew
wishing to snare one per chance

His emerald coat is perfect camouflage
so he lays on his shinny gold buttons
thinking of mint tea and chocolate cake
after a feast of lamb cutlets and mutton

This little greedy plump fellow
with stripy socks purple and yellow
will sing in his sleep to the birds in the tree
with a voice so sweet and so mellow

With nightfall's, he descends to the ground
making sure no human presence are around
and he speedily sifts through park litter bins
looking for cooking pots made out of tin


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

It would behoove my grade school bible teacher to know, that I have finally found Jesus. He sits alone at my neighborhood bar and in a fashion that is not unlike the line at a New York City Jewish deli shop, he takes questions. Ticket number 347, “What kind of man will I marry?” ticket number 7623,”When will the end of days come?” My bible study class oh, how they would shake inside their buttoned blouses with envy that I was the one to find Jesus, between drink, between cigarettes, with beer and peanut excrements on bottoms of his sandals. Handing out answers like pork cutlets to mouths that haven’t eaten in years because they have filled up on the appetizer that is stomach churning worry. The gutless and gutful sin of having problems without the hope of solutions that shakes believers so hard in the night they fall off their beds and land conveniently on their knees. They wake up in the morning with bruises and scratches, another problem but this time the solution is simple. A mixture of peroxide and cotton-blend Band-Aids, hugging tight stinging cuts until the next day when the Band-Aid is loose and falls off into meat grinders making sausage links you don’t even have the appetite for. I found Jesus in a bar. When I see him I remember Sunday school and how I stood up on the sweaty palm pulpit and yelled, “He is not real!” and now confronted with my falseness I wonder if I was wrong to try to cool off the fire in my belly that was unanswered questions by answering them myself. I took a ticket. I stood in line. I waited as the knot my grade school teach tied with my intestines tightened itself and pulsated with the influx of another beer and growing bowel movements that only made me more unsure of the source of pain in my belly. I watched as Jesus nodded politely in between admissions of sins and proposals of betterment like his neck was the waist of a Hawaiian ******* the dashboard of a Colorado trucker, or like aged fast-food wrappers that tilt forward with the inertia caused by strategically placed speed bumps.  Each nod, a mini-bow that seemed to contradict his devotion to his divinity and his authority over the bleeding kneed and hungry stomached servants. I am the last ticket before the last call and I take advantage of both. Being this close I can see sweat stains under his arms, my mother would say they are extra halos. “And your question, my child?” he says, and I think I should have been more prepared or at least not stuttered like the elementary school student stuck playing Pluto in the graduation play. “Was I wrong that day on the pulpit?” It was rudely put. I was embarrassed. He said, “Did it ease the hunger pain of uncertainty?” It did. “Then no, you answered your own question.” He seemed drunk at that point when he said that, so I trusted it as a sober man’s thoughts. Then I walked away full and knees unscathed.

In a misguided attempt to escape you
I fled to Nietzsche.

Weak
Inconstant
They are cats and birds
At best, cows,
he mocked.

I don't know about that
But I've never stolen glances at a cow
And felt my heart turn to ash
At the gentle devastation of its beauty
While praying that the mild curry in my mouth
Somehow shrivel up my tongue
And singe off the unspoken entreaties simmering within.

(And my affection for cows
Extends only to veal cutlets)

Today
Nietzsche and curry failed me
Tonight
It'll be the familiar embrace of alcohol
Until you fly back to Beijing.
After which
Are other substances and their derivatives
To deal with the fallout
Your transient smile
Wrought on my worn soul.

It would behoove my grade school bible teacher to know that I have finally found Jesus.
He sits alone at my neighborhood bar,
and in a fashion that is not unlike the line
at a New York City Jewish deli shop,
he takes questions.
Ticket number 347. “What kind of man will I marry?”
Ticket number 7623. ”When will the end of days come?”
My bible study class, oh,
how they would shake inside their buttoned blouses with envy
that I was the one to find Jesus,
between drinks, between cigarettes,
with beer and peanut excrements on bottoms of his sandals.
Handing out answers like pork cutlets
to mouths that haven’t eaten in years
because they have filled up on the empty appetizer
that is stomach-churning worry:
the gutless and gut-full sin,
of having problems without the hope of solutions
of having questions with silent answers
that it shakes believers so hard in the night they fall off their beds
and they land conveniently on their knees.
They wake up in the morning with bruises and scratches,
external hurts treated with
a mixture of peroxide and stuck-on-you band-aids
that hug tight their stinging cuts until the next day
when the Band-Aid losses its glue and falls off
when they land in meat grinders turning out sausage links
that no one even has an appetite for.

I found Jesus in a bar.

When I see him
I remember Sunday school
and how I stood up on the sweaty palmed stained pulpit and yelled,
“He is not real!”
and now that I am confronted with my falseness
I wonder was I wrong to try to cool the fire of questions unanswered
by answering them myself.

I took a ticket.
I stood in line.
I waited.
The knot my Sunday school teacher tied with my intestines
years ago tightened itself and pulsated
with the influx of another beer
and growing bowel movements that only made me more unsure
of the source of pain in my belly.

I watched
as Jesus nodded politely in between
admissions of sins and proposals of betterment
a gentle, deliberate nod
like his neck was the waist of a Hawaiian girl
on the dashboard of a Colorado trucker,
or maybe like aged fast-food wrappers that tilt forward with the inertia
caused by strategically placed speed bumps.
Each nod, a mini-bow that seemed to contradict
his devotion to his divinity and his authority
over the bleeding-kneed and hungry-stomached servants.

I am the last ticket before the last call and
being this close I can see sweat stains under his arms;
my mother would say they are extra halos.
“And your question, my child?” he says, and
I think I should have been more prepared
or at least not have stuttered like the elementary school student
one stuck playing the under appreciated Pluto in the graduation play.

“Was I wrong that day on the pulpit?”
It was rudely put. I was embarrassed.
He said, “Did it ease the hunger pain of uncertainty?”
He knew it did. So did I.
“Then no, you answered your own question.”
He seemed drunk when he said that,
so I trusted it as a sober man’s thoughts.
Then I walked away full
with knees unscathed.

you’re not adams apple

the  fruits from tree of the knowledge
of good and evil
in the centre of the garden of eden
in genesis

yet at you
the round oranges of this afternoon-town
i stare

and my pate gradually
becomes pregnant

the  wind that comes after
having a touch of your lips
puts the waging of its tail on my forehead

and my guava-leaf begins to melt

thus my hardware-business is going
into liquidation

the physician to the king is telling
it’s the symptom of an awful fever attended with
the morbidity of the three humours of the body

used… and used… and used…

your smile has not yet become
stupid

so from where the lamp-posts of the
town start

there are the cutlets  
and the bolster

they are not the only ones
to utter the last words
about the pill

i’m too
in this summer
trying to  decorate
the gate of my cage like wedding ceremony

if any silent dew-drop comes
to prepare and feed me
my birth-day frumenty

but i’ve no tongue
at all

all over the face there are only the eyes

and to the fate of my staring-at
has ever
so much blessings been available

I'm a tool pondering skyscapes.
Fondling a memory
Left behind
On sunset marquees.
It raced into the horizon like
A toad on the road.
A neon dream waving farewell.

Exploring mindsets:
An act in caressing
Bloodbath tesseracts.
A roundhouse rollercoaster,
Spinning at velocity of perfume
Hitting nasal perforations.

Core memories surface along spine cutlets,
No longer intrinsic
Doubt.
I'm settling for more.
A bathed blue baby is a moment
Too long to endure.

Hindsight is
A parson's lake passage;
A mad monster yet to be tamed;
A grain of salt to a fresh wound made;
Moments of grace from a fake great ape.

Blue morons slide
Into Mormon jovial footsteps.
Derided ice forestry into
King's cloaked ancestry.
Which makes family the
Opposite of attraction.

And yet here I am
Talking to you,
Eyelight through obelisks
In hotbox barricades.
Hiding behind
A past of newspapers.
Headline reads 'ONLY DEVINE'
'TRADE REIGN WARNS JEWELS'
'PRINCE THREATENS ECONOMY
... AND CROWN.'

Wipe the frown,
Draw the sword.
Don't be ignored anymore.

Housed in a walking stick
the King stuck a feather duster at the top
fancied his fourth wife and tickled his fifth.

Ten mutton chops later
a gourd of red blood wine
two scoops of brain cutlets
he was feeling better.

With a bowl of imported shrimp in hand
battered and buttered
with chilly powder ,a chilli *****
he was getting excited at the prospect
of knocking his seventh wife
but a flagging spirit ruined his *******
and he commanded the courtyard maidens
to dance like Queen of Sheba
on the High Priests entrails
as the music beat a violent end
to heads rolling in the dusty desert sands.

Done.
He counted the bowed heads
and picked the odd number out
to even his court ****.

The cradle of all creation was found ten yards
away in fossilised rock after five years of
guessing it must be around here.

Author Notes
Parody of procreation.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

for
we only
meet on Thursdays.
Lamb chops, veal cutlets
and back to separate worlds.

Had
I not
The slightest courage
Just to tell him
What he could plainly see?

Why
Had I
Bled so long
In a fruitful marriage
When I truly wanted meat?

One
Fell swoop
Of the blade
Lets my heart know
That some things cannot be.

TLACAELEL
            Two hundred years have we known only strife,
            Kept innocent of peace, to fortify
            Huitzilopochtli, our grand god of conquest,
            Who hoists aloft our death-denying sun
            And handsomely escorts him through the east.
            Such toil demands the selfless sustenance
            Of that most precious sacrifice, our hearts;
            Small, hot, red gems- we grant them gratefully.
            Our god need not stand waiting for affronts
            Or hissing disrespect to rattle arms.
            No, rather let us seek convenient markets
            Where our Blue Prince of war, when whimsy strikes,
            Might carve downed captives to refresh his plate
            And tie his bib with dead men’s winding-sheets,
            As if he strolled through cheap tortilla stalls,
            And clutched our legions for his currency.
            To this emporium shall we caravan,
            Procuring crocks of blood and priceless hearts
            By bartering to swap our solvent lives.
            Oh, let it be Tlaxcala, gentlemen!
            For if we pitch this depot to the north,
            The taxing hike to those unconquered tribes
            Should prove an inconvenience to our troops.
            Besides, the tough and stringy flesh of those
            Bare-bottomed grunts, rock-knocking savages,
            Must strike our god as stale as sandal-leather.
            Then let Tlaxcalans be his board of fare:
            Moist cutlets, fresh and steaming from the range,
            Shall furnish forth his sanguinary feasts.
            We must not waste these others totally,
            But make a handy pantry of this foe,
            For war- alone undying- must endure.

CUITLAHUAC
            Bravo. I’ll side with you to storehouse them,
            So that we hamstring their free trafficking,
            And thus declaw our sole belligerent.

TLACAELEL
            I’m pleased your verdicts are adaptable.

HUNGRY PRINCE
            Either to weaken or to waste this threat,
            You’ll have my armies at your hand.

TLACAELEL                                                   That's nice.

MOTECUHZOMA
            Now, Hungry Prince, let’s brace for weighty words. . .

there are ambitions, forbidden,
for words to cleave to,
to manage hives...

of the opiates that allow
prolonged loss of the dream,
a mother that persist
that listens to that band:
enigma...
but hasn't asked her son...

who are the: the dead can dance?

how weirdly we are
made central in this lesser crime
of the novel,
and somehow together bound...
i...
in that never asked for
a grammatical lesson...
how difficult you have made it,
to have to begin with...
like some pedagogy "expert"...
this your crime your new
"aushwitz"...

you have the basin, the lasp.
my infrequnted lapse
of attention...
the book club,
the antithesis of the better part of me,
when not watching
bricks become rigid for minding a construct
of a wall... subsequent topple...
such be letters that become words...
such be oriental syllables
that become words...
somehow, later...
neither... yet apart...

these have to be forbidden words...
since they are not prized...
beef or pork cutlets..

as i want to gaze upon the moon
with a drift of clouds...
and a stammering...
expectation of a tram...
to be my hour-long-awaited-to-be!

i want the pork-chops
with the *******!
i want the edible parts
and all things leftover cosmopolitan!
i want... i gorge...
for a Hagia Sophia and...
her first born: tuba büyüküstün...

winner or loser...
that all depends on what's concerned
with a win, or with a loss...
anything deemed a win:
but dissociated with a tuba büyüküstün?
is a loss... no dracula can salvage this
tabloid poo'em aside...

but i confess... to heace such beauty?
one must most certainly...
entertain...
auxiliary aids...
one can almost expect...
these expentation standards of beauty
to never incline themselves to borrow from
the Turks...
but dear god: they almost must!

the woman sun-kissing with her hair
is... almost a ****-meal-ready-mcdonald's worth
of ****... but this Istambul queen?
like i once said:
oh i'm sure the english girlies prefer
the pakistani men...
by the looks of it? it's true...
she can be petted to be...
groomed...
but a ****** ******* mother russia
will... not find 'em knocking on 'is door!
so? the pakistani leverage!
grooming gang prior to...
a would-be honest chance...
purge the labour!
honest labour!

no no... we can't have that...
and here's me thinking...
how the ****, will i find my own...
ethno-bride?!
i'm thinking about Ottoman harems!
as any legal-i.q. median man would!
torrent: '****... or a chant of re- re- re-!
there's the love of not being allowed...
and there's the love that allowed...
but otherwise taboo...
that: SPEZIAL talk concerning
the british and the h'americans...
one of them! i swear to god...
one of them is: naive spastic-mr-fantastic!

this is the part where you ask me...
so where's a william f. buckley jr.
when you need one?
that's also called... not speaking mandarin via
the DeLorean...
and no... no harlequin...
no ****-buddy-***-toy...
no neon quiz about the south korean
suicide rates being synonymous with
the lithuanian rates...

bauhaus: or: boor-cusp...
western notions of beauty...
everything mr. spastic-plastic-fantastic...
or else... buggering a niwab of a Q...

it's just a comparion...
once upon a time there were men that would
make taylor swift their beauty standard...
another bleached blonde *** note...
and if... harvey weinstein...
then alfred hitchcock... and those
hitchcock blondes...
"metoo": #joanfontaine,
#gracekelly, #novapilbeam, #ingrid,
#tippihedren, #madeleinecarroll, #carolelombard...

ease up on the blondes
for the gods' furthest fun-****
outside of heaven!
i don't see how... a tuba büyüküstün
could ever become a taylor swift... though...
a tuba büyüküstün is on par with a...
priti patel or a joanna mucha...

or i would be known as:
i'll pretty much **** anything that moves...
or... my standards are well below being on par
with a handicap...
they're just... realistic...
but even by the given citations...
this is me being expansive...

if you feel like you want to **** "something":
you're alaways awfully itchy...
you can't help it...
but there's no expansion on the narrative
for the prime impetus...
that's always lagging... or dragging behind
not having the capacity to fulfill the proper:
peacock...
it's a worse scenario to having to simply
0-base one off...

i'm a european man and i do not find
the european standards of transcendental beauty
to be bound to: a woman with blonde hair
and blue eyes and pale skin...
and speaking with a kentucky accents
of puritanical love...

for some "odd" reason...
she has turkic contort perfections of a...
physiognomy...
which makes me... her lesser...
caucasian...
that cocky-asian... or... whatever is left
available on the platter of...
i would... with my most awaited ease...
cut off my tongue...
as long as i would be...
given the guarantee...
to sip on oysters...
churn kingly prawns...
spit on well done beef...
and... slurp chicken *******...
done proper... with enough butter thyme
lodged in between the ******* and under the skin...

because? the next time a vegan comes into
my mental vicinity...
i will think...
the vegeterian gave birth to the vegan...
the casual meat eater...
surely he must have given birth
to the eucharistic literalist!
yes... the convert of the vegeterian to veganism...
is... thanks to the poetics of the eucharist...
the casual meat-eater...
the antithesis of the vegan:
the cannibal...

root fibre...
some muscle and the same worth
of fibre via the cartilege.

this world deserves an akin: you and i;
for every bad joke told...
there's an already worse moral lesson
to be... not told...
but most assuredly avoided...
which implies: to be learned...
the joke is merely the caveat...

and a caveat is not... a ******* canapé!

he doesn't text me
and I think
it's my arms
chicken cutlets
that need the fat trimmed off
maybe it's the way my belly rolls
when he's holding my legs up
even in his lust
he must see
my flaws
can he worship a woman
that's beautiful and round?
the figures on his screens
tall, tight, trimmed, and small
in the bedroom night
shadows purse together
like lips
mouthing no on his wall
but it's me
I'm the woman
bullying myself all along

I put my thoughts in his mind
and place my words in his mouth.

i contemplated ingesting hallucinogenic drugs for some time, ever since reading up on Don Juan by carlos castaneda... well... i used to read a lot of "useless junk" when i was growing up... the Tibetan book of the dead was also one; but i stuck true to my "self" and returned to Taoism after a period with the European philosopher... that's beside the point... i did buy a sugar cube soaked with LSD once, i was in Amsterdam a few times: i could have simply bought some mushrooms... but this one time i was sharing a hostel room with a very sensible Egyptian architecture student who liked to drink ***** alone and smoke marijuana and we watched in horror, as these two German chefs... ingested mushrooms and sat in a dark room... watching American Dad on t.v.; we both gave ourselves this quizzical look that strangers give when watching other strangers... we were saying to each by simply looking: so you're telling me, these guys have just made the biggest sacrilege of nature? they're not in the woods, in the sunshine or the moonlight, wandering about the forest, they're not ******* women on hallucinatory drugs and... the best they can do with them is... what the Riddler (from Batman) would have done to them? plug them to a t.v.: brain-drain them... make them watch a cartoon?! clearly these guys have already done hallucinogenic drugs before, they clearly have passed a threshold! let me guess... they had so much *** already that they must be dropping those magic blue pills just in order to not strangle a girl to death while she giggles that his Whittle 'Ichard is sleeping limp...

there are only two possibilities for me ingesting
hallucinogenic drugs...
option 1... my grandfather suffered from a mild
dementia... a dementia that made him lazy...
not the sort of dementia that erodes memory...
not the sort of dementia that would make him
forget who i was...
the sort of dementia that would strap him
to the flat and he would sit all the summer days
on the balcony before the graveyard
contemplating mortality and his life...
he was fully locked in his memory bank...
he would repeat stories from his life on repeat...
i too have a favourite stash of memories of mine...
if i'm not thinking about something mundane
like filling out an application form or what not:
i bask in memories... the ones i had no choice in keeping:
memory: that fickle creature will never allow
you to keep certain memories... a flickering flame
of (a) fading...
i fear old age more than i fear death...
death is a minor impasse...
made all the more easier without having ingested
hallucinogenic drugs... i close my eyes:
i open the parallel universe eye of the mind
long gone...
of course i want to become famous...
but i want this fame to reach me when i'm long
gone and cold... a mortician's beauty-corpse...
with the whole affair of my grandfather's passing...
i saw him in the morgue:
stitched up... "smiling": as any ancient does
with missing teeth...
pampered with the sort of chameleon make-up
artistry living women put on:
but men revel in once, dead...
i didn't cry... i was sooner to bleed from my head
when i bumped my head on the radiator before
i shed a tear... those dearest and closest to me
cried their tears: without summoning
bountiful rains for a harvest...
i must have waited months before i could
release the grief that allowed me to explode
my heart: but as grandfather said: keep your heart small...
i bled first before crying... my heart grew large
but suddenly it constricted into a pebble-sized curiosity
of my own worth's of: what's there to be curious about?!

and god himself... hmm!

Genesis 2:22
then the LORD God made a woman from the rib he had taken out of the man, and he brought her to the man.

let's play Harry Potter for a while...
i hate this legacy with a passion that i abhor
Sharon Fruit... it's a ******* itch for me to eat...
serve me a bowl of pomegranates or passion fruits this day,
everyday, everyday, for the rest of my life...
mind you... i hate sweet stuff...
i hate bananas... bananas and Sharon fruit are
my enemies...
with one exception... hangover...
watermelon cutlets kept in the fridge overnight?
i'm like: what water? do i need water?
can't i just gobble down an entire watermelon by myself?!
yes, yes: i can... and i do...
every time it happens: when i GORGE on fruit
i think of women... *******... thighs... ****...

i know for sure that the ****** is a disguise...
the actual entry point is closer to the ****
than the actual floral pattern...
most men aim for the floral pattern... prior...
no... it's like that urban myth about undoing a woman's
bra-strap... the entry point is closer to the **** than
it's actually to the floral pattern itself... enlarge a ******
and you start enlarging the insects...
and hell: behold! mann ist lebensmittel
man is food...
   oh but i like a good bit of food in reverse...
i like warm oyster ****...
i like slurping on something that's going to look
me in the eyes and O O... O...
i want to eat the double of my demands
for renting a body... i buy nothing! i... rent half an hour's worth
of a woman...

that's how i figured it all out...
i'm not thirsty...
i have a cat to own up to me deeds...
one rejection, two rejections: three...
***** please, now i'm going to prime...
i do hope i have enough ***** to perform euthanasia on
myself... i don't fear death: it's enough to see what
old age does that makes me quit mortality quicker
than the need for sprinkling salt on food that's being
cooked!

i figured the brothel out... i'm no longer a colt...
a young, man...
i'm a man in my prime... if 36 is not your prime
i don't know what could possibly be...
i have simple pleasures... women, su doku... music...
reimagining brick-layering...
women...
         women women women: more women...
i can't be a selfish *****-*** while all this hurricane
of hormones dies out...
i'm a fruzbrise! a ****-breeze! something...
solipsistic and also uplifting...
everyone knows that the smell of their own ****
is a membrane of exclusion: dictate...

it doesn't require me an hour to get what i want...
HALF AN HOUR is plenty!
not that i finish quickly...
but i'm not here for therapy...
i'm here for *******... love? long gone...
it died a long time ago... i'm here for ***...
i don't need an hour... an hour is too long...
half an hour is plenty...
most women don't like ******* for too long
to begin with: why? they are usually not amused
by long ***** and no ******...
it's a bit like taking a dog for a walk
expecting a beautiful sunset but... oh ****...
a cloudy day... i love ******* for too long...
recently i discovered that most women don't...
they want to **** like insects, or pigeons...
quick and easy... i never understood that...
i'd love to **** for 5 hours like i ****** Ilona
all night long...
      that's how it has always been...
those images of the death-crawl... maggots eating themselves
to fly-hood through the eyes... it takes time
to tender the floral-oyster of ****...
there's a need for a repeated slapping of pelvis
against pelvis until one of your has a plum tattoo
of a bruise in the ***** region...

*** is thirst, *** is hunger...
the more i'm woken to it the more... adamant i am
about it's position in the hierarchy of needs...
i could possibly be a Muslim if i stated that
i did a year long "Ramadan" of sexless-ness...
**** food: i'll scribble: EAT ME on my big toe and
start nibbling on it...
but give me a woman when i'm released from
my leash of hunger: and i'll either carve you a Rodin
statue or paint you a Picasso!
all those contortions of cubism that a woman
can easily hide while a man exposes
her crude: "put-together": "bits"...

it's good to forget about the youth that was the youth
of the youth that would: fall in love with the idea
of love... now? by the accountability of Shylock:
pound of flesh for a pound of flesh...
oculus per oculus (an eye for an eye)...
i like it that way...
       ruthless: i have to admit... but at least this sort
of ruthlessness leads toward a levelling of what:
once rough: now becomes smoothed...

no ******* DWARF on the most popular t.v. show
is going to somehow steal my banners of lust!
no! nein! nie! niet!
you will know sooner rather than later...
right about, now:

Genesis 2:22¼
then the spiteful envious Son of the Lord God looked with all his alchemical toys and from the woman he plucked her breast and brought the breast as an apple to the tree of forbidden knowledge.

did i word, "biblically" enough? i do wonder... yawn...
my mother suffers from a rare condition,
i'd guess the Chernobyl effect catches to a whole
bunch of us... less affected by the exposure...
my mother explained her condition to me...
her immune system is killing her...
she rarely coughed... she sneezes and she snores
in her sleep: like a locomotive about to be derailed...
i'm also a mutation...

i walk into a brothel with one song in my head...
Garbage's #1 crush...
i too have my "addition"....

it's an addiction for a freshly washed flesh: the scent of
soap...
never mind that...
i will **** this brothel to the ground...
even if it takes me two ***** at a time...
i sat across from three of them...
i wanted at least one to be honest and pick me...
they always say that it's up to me...
her name started with A...
Adriana? Ariana? Andromeda?
she talked too much...
she talked too much...
i has rock hard within the confines of precursors...

tomorrow i'm going to a Garage festival...
Essex... Basildon, of all places...
plenty of easy ******* to oogle at...
but not like the ginger-pretty-****
that was Garbage's lead singer: Ms. Manson...
i don't get it... there's the mythological blonde
but the realistic ginger...

i read books like they might be women
and i read women like they might be books...
i never get it right.. until a ****** type arrives...
but that's not enough... there needs to some strategy
akin to Marquis de Sade's ******...
his novella: his best book...
there needs to be a mother... a single mother...
with a child... a female child...
i couldn't possibly date a single mum with
a boy child... i'd be like a lion by then...
i'd "**** it"... single mothers with daughters
are a much more easier access than single mothers
with sons...
you wanted Darwinism? hey presto!

my god that last flow of events...
*****-*******... miscommunication...
i told her: oil me up... she "forgot"...
she wanted extra money...
after enough of the blow-job-jaw-dropping...
rodeo girl style... me arching over her:
she implored me to finish...
i had a stern mask on m face while i ******
her silly... arching over her...

i'm done with jokes... i'm in my prime and i'm going
to learn all the valuable lessons i can...
i'm done playing the cuddly-teddy-bear
of some thirsty male "companion":
the best company i kept with myself...
both reflexively and reflectively...
the only worthwhile interactions i could remember:
on a conversational basis were with men...
obviously the best interactions where words
were not used: where eyes spoke the language
of eyes and lips spoke the language of lips
were with women...
but? women are not my intellectual equals...
sorry...  it's an unlikely pairing:
a girl with toad eyes i would love to talk to for
an eternity is not... what i want to ****!

this one was lost in transit of about three tongues...
she told me she had recently had a BOTOX job
done on her lips... i couldn't kiss her but she would
gladly perform oral *** on me...
hmm... funny how that "mystery" works!
it was so obvious that the wisdom of the Kama Sutra
came into play...
sure... i wasn't "well endowed": no...
i just wasn't endowed enough to please her...

she implored me to pull out... she couldn't satisfy me...
she posited her legs in the *******
in ways most obstructing me from ******* her...
i felt a sly pinch of a cramp as she obstructed me
thrusting...
fair enough girl... i have a rabbit's ****:
and you have an elephant's ******...
clearly we're mismatched!
so? she finally lubricated me...
and ****** me off... while stressing the pointer
of *******: into her *****...
which i did... as she rubbed my head against her *******...

women... can't really love them:
but can't exactly hate them...
but you can most certainly do both...
and do both: most certainly simultaneously...
you best do the hating and the loving
simultaneously!

but why all the talking? that's what put me off!
she talked top much...
she wanted me to talk:
i think... no... i know that talking during
******* is the highest form of heresy...
it's a limp **** sort of heresy!
i had a *******... during the missionary spectacle
she asked me to stop: i stopped: LIMP BISCUIT...
what?! you told me to stop! no i didn't!
i pointed the index at her: yes you did!
no i didn't!

your **** is wide enough to fit two of us in!
no it isn't! yes it is!
why did you tell me to stop?!
you were taking too long!
well with a **** of that girth it takes much longer
to please you!
you not into running a marathon?!
what?
you only experienced quick ***, you never had
*** in St. Petesrburg for 5 hours...
while the girl you were ******* was also
******* an ex-boyfriend on the side
behind your back?!
no? well then... welcome to the "club"...

i'm going to **** all the girls in this brothel before
i **** them a second time and then try to find
a second brothel...
i'll obliterate the pain of idealising love and romance
with all that's readily available reality
of what's true and truest...
i'll **** every single one of them...
in half an hour gourmet sessions of a session
with some :

more harry Potter nonsense?
   oh... right.... there's only one genu=is "out there":
you ******* flip-cake.... pan-cake... you-VERCRUlitter-grass
the VERCRUX....

Here in the waiting room
it's beige and safe.
Nothing like the room
where I'll divide my trauma
into lean little cutlets.

When I can't take it anymore,
I'll watch the fish
living in the doctor's tank,
thoughtlessly ******* down
bright quivers
of lamp stripes.

la la la la...
la la la...
la la la la la, la la la...

formation of undead cutlets,
song?
  euphoria surrounding
a summer in Kiev...
  
        women best appreciated
when not chased as prizes...

then again...
           short-term drug addition
in the form of aqua ingestion
compared with the long-term
investment, and respomsiblity
of moulding the other...

i don't find addiction a naive step...
or, applying the hyphen...
dizzy is disease, is dißease...
but it isn't, anglohyphenscalpel:
dis-ease...
    simply... a negation, of ease...
less... morbid, wouldn't you say?

stoic heroism, or:
just enough patience,
to put up with one's *******
being pickled in a jar
filled with leeches,
   or the closest it comes to...
wrongly utilising sandpaper.

NAVROZE  MUBARAK TO ALL OF YOU

HERE COMES SPRING

Ah!! beautiful new leaves I see and a few buds too; spring is here !!!

Snow will soon start melting,  colourful flowers will bring in cheer !!!

When comes  JAMSHEDI NAVROZE, out come glasses of wine and beer;

Along side come,  Pullav- daar, patrani machchhi,  cutlets n kababs my dear

Wine, dine, dance n drama there will be all; meet will relatives from far n near !

Amidst these activities many,  will we have time to an Agiyari visit n pray; this I fear !!

Thank Ahura let us all, for the bounties granted n gear up for the coming year.

NAVROZE MUBARAK TO EVERY ZARTHOSTI ON THIS PLANET.

Armin Dutia Motashaw