I am ready
to ring your rib

around my wrist
in triumph—

the faintest of relics    
enliven me. My lips

still layered
as in the night you lost them.

I hope to hammer  
your heart

& stuff its soil
in the sutures

of your skull;
I want to call that

the shadow to
kintsugi;

I want our memories never
to seep; to set

them up for decryption.
Unloving is a study—

consider an archaeologist’s
tentative hands

demystifying an artifact
once treasured for its secret

& leaving no spots
behind.

Kaitelka was in the Equinoctial Aftó, she bathed but always oriented herself as an Argonaut star bathing in the Aegean while waiting for the ******* of Áullos Kósmos. Between both Aulos and Citara, she modeled the auletic- citaristic, in glimpses of her Psychic Trisomy.  In effect of the existence of an extra chromosome in a diploid organism 158, for a number of chromosome fifty-four, instead of a homologous pair of chromosomes. From this position she was limiting her chromosomes of normality in the genetic proximal when entering the bay of Skalá that she was waiting for her native, where the art of navigation danced in the nitrogenous water that brought her from Skalá; from Eleios-Pronnoi, about 39 km south of the main city on the island of Argostoli, in southern Kefalonia, on one of the Ionian islands of Greece. From here, mimetic was thrown towards the art of the unknown sea, collapsing and disoriented by its territorial similarity, and maritime per se of its Otolith that brandished it in dual places of Ionian-Dodecanese geography, following the semiotic songs of Leiak that emerged from the auletic to infer Ballenid genera, which acted precisely between the island and the Bay of Patmos with the same name as Skalá.

Kaitelka's Vernarthian tenor carried her behind her with another Ballenid, this one carried the Demiurge Ezpatkul, with his prominent Augrum or Gold teeth that rotated on the backs of all the borer beetles, being Scarabaeidae that delimited towards a dialectic, and paraphrase of a qualitative satirical one, especially in the form of Vernarth's sub-mythological subgenre. To commend all the hypotheses of this whale, it sang with the native cephalization ultrasound, where it continued to harmonize media in its cranial cavity, and in the muzzles of its larger fins that transmitted waves of parapsychological regression towards Vernarth, parodying the transparent sendal ballads that it made. with his transit through the water, however, not having members that strengthen his controversial cetacean passerby by waters of a melodious literary language, such as a great inspirational propeller, and satires that host greenhouses in most of the jubilation, related to rudders that furrow his verbal poetry, easing restrictions, and possessing the genome that was deprived him in his gestation, of a maternal expropriation victimized with fears of an end, and Apocalypse hungover by the sea and freshwater. They piloted their heart valves, mere and Dantesque with Zeusian buttress spauto, muddled and bundled in their bombastic myocardium like omitted ships without ever lifting anchor and setting sail, a very brief tulle of water satirizing formula additions, and a piece of dull wood on its spur that was It bore like a whale, it was carrying its weight in a literary category where there is no way to test it. Without hindrance, she laughed alongside the breakers in the manner of a belligerent tendril in thick keel skins, dramatizing him and perhaps delaying the investiture of Vernarth's Himation Proskynesis, peering jocularly and foreshadowing his encounter with her. Her chains were Caucasus icebergs, demystifying seasonality by residing linked to a single Down Whale destination, ******* with her dorsal to exhale genome rearrangements with Cinnabar, refining hormones and stereotyped whale chromosomes.

The concordance of the Satirical subgenre, and the polarized gender correspondence inanimate Kaitelka, usurping the intentionality of the sub-mythological drama, in two roads of Skalá that appeared to lose the standard of their ears, in tragic representation versus the comedian staging, harbinger of an interlude between two areas that struggled to have it directed towards three comedies that plunged into three tragedies, missioning the furrowed features of the ideals of survival, with preceded parables of the psychic-linguistic being, due to its canonical supernatural modality by blending itself with disciplined domains. Of a rhetorical poetics, rectified in religions that grant Orphic and messianic structuralism; foreshadowing the hymns of Orpheus in the Bible, and metaphorical in revealing divine truth, accessible only to spirits worthy of it. The purpose of metaphor in her poetry has the deciding function of the ineffable of thought, through simile, comparison, or image.  Song and poetry, song and prayer, prayer and ritual forming an inseparable phrase of meaning in it, impossible to differentiate in the biblical psalms themselves. The penultimate of them recalled number 149, being a hymn destined to accompany the dance; "Make melodies for him, with drums and lyres." It is known that the classical instrument of Orpheus reaches the level of the sacred in biblical texts. Psalm 150 contains an orgiastic ending to a symphony, in the description of the instruments that accompany the word and the voice that praises God, with sermons from Kaitelka blooming from an oceanic being and printing songs of the subgenre, without blemish of sub- mythology and the unconfessed proceeding. The comical exaltation of him recreates aspects of great joy, for those who feel vibrations under his belly in his orphic water, portraying semis or semiotic cathartics of their own trisomic roots, in an effort to decode drama, for intermezzos of the mythological subgenre. Borker with his sword Mythos interpreted the story of Kaitelka when he told her about the melting of Horcondising, seeing in them friendly glaciers that included her within the storytelling of provinces that sensitize the culture by rebirth on spherits and plasma hematocrits, for an apologist that admits inanimate corporality actor. Its genesis is Bereshit, "which names and does not start", from the undervalued parashot of the gods and kings, commanding them ibid to the inter-dogmatism that it contributes in its credit reserve, in large consortiums besieging colonies by the southern seas of the Borker  Nótos. "Evil tears their veins heal their goods and relegate the forgetful in the tradition of existence alongside the demiurges, incontinent to their ills that enjoy making creation sleep, soothing it in innocuous myths that are often more than a truly supernatural!

Helios went out to the road by the west and not by the east, in the nascent instant of the ectoplasm that revealed micro satires that led to the station of the hero who lives hidden, behind the proscenium of cultural and religious intimacy, Kaitelka plunges a few meters below the Aegean where he was already arriving, and he can realize that he did not see marine species around him, only beams of light that distorted his view of those who flatter him on a descent? Underwater a mythical mission wailed on dry surfaces, and the phenomena of the underwater stones were relaxed before any reflection of the veracity of a myth of expression in the mouth of a fish, brushing against systematic hermeticisms of what was infinitesimal. All this dialectical journey towards inevitably alternating molecules of his genome, to re-establish himself in his hybrid status upon reaching Skalá, here he would have to use his two neurochemical brains for a mortal instinct that does not die inside the mouth of a whale but in interrogation. …?  Based on Leiak's sexagesimal nanoscale extension, endowed with a fractional comparison that collects mythologies within them, for the uncertain truth. The only burden of etiological myth in Kaitelka is a consequence of her suffering, which is offered in psychic trisomy, for being **ized by three chromosomes, disorganizing her reality as a specimen that unfolds as a congenital disease.

Kaitelka says: "Who am I and where do I come from? I am reaching the floodgates of my lord Vernarth, and I can see that I am reborn in his astragalus and honeysuckle, which tell a story ****** under the tripod of Herophila.  Authoritarian truth that will bow before the pig to become, smelling here the tragic essence in truths that are hidden in symbolic denial"

Kaitelka is instituted a few miles before she begins to navigate in a zigzag, trying to condense forces for the origin of her ethereal, with sarcasm techniques that the self encourages to plunge into diluvian tears and moan in the scenarios of uncertainty, in the judgment of pouring out real myths, transposing its flow in the destination that is flooded in imprecise gestures and between cries with super sounds that lifted it on the swells, and these, in turn, were shedding the mystery Masken by raising water concentrated in onerous polymorphology. With joys and hilarious meltdowns on the mountains, she approached everything when she reached the pleasant Skalá, escaping from the cosmogony that bound her ungraciously on the light water, overflowing towards the very origin of a Vernarthian deity, in pasts and futures that do not intersect in the radial of its origins. The sky proclaimed laughter and mimicry gestures that adhered to the vitrifying phenomenon of past-present pashkien images, ready to lightning that heals the invalidations of walking on disturbed waters, a dipsomaniac leitmotif in early Christian justice. Kaitelka sins irascible, violent and proud, urgent and judicious, but conciliatory despite carrying a cross and a harpoon on her back. She will remain Kaitelka Down, but Patmos will arrogate her Thracian gift from her Orphic origin to her, for purposes of radial preeminence in the Ballenids that hoist sacred sites. The adventure prescribes a univitelino twin, but when she goes beyond the hirsute destiny of her Iliad, she begs to go transforming into a rainy sphinx on the thick bronze roof when the coins are broken, towards a seduction stop that is enthroned in the gloom of the minotaur, in the numinous hands of a daffodil and on the face of the Epsilon. Or crawling in mitral of valvulopathy with the carriage messengers, with the swans or pigeon birds; perching on a wreath of roses and myrtles that surround her red bozos. Almost always appearing undressed next to her escort, usually more than multiplied towards her, with the amazement of her animal consorts, which are dolphins, and Thracian pigeons, a priori of being covered by the Pythia of Delphi that is migrating in murky triumphs of the Achaemenides in Gaugamela.

Now she scripts her story,
to comprehend a broken promise you led her to believe.

Left stranded she sits with empty wishes,
reality shifted and demasked the charade performed.

This truth weighs down harder with each passing hour,
demystifying the future she thought known.

Trusting their situation,
she had fallen prey to the captivation,
from this illusive trance she wakens,
and realizes she was mistaken.

you're not alone
touch the ransom note
i have learned to become un-lost
the art of demystifying the weird ways that you can become kidnapped by yourself
you peel your layers
leave the doors open as if this world is not cruel
danger is a middle name that your 3rd grade friend once gave himself
things are different now, the stars
                                                        don't
                                                                ­sink
                                                            ­          in
                                                    ­                    a pool of
                                                              ­    d  a  r   k               
                      it was once so terrifying to imagine
what lays underneath and above
but you sleep inside of it, always have

Where have I been?
sulking 'neath the humming raving flood lights of the den
miserable beneath the beer moon under shoddy starlight of the smoke covered cavern
dismissed my troubles to the functioning of a universe that is not my own
and waving fearlessly as my legs trembled to the functioning of several dancing hopeless ones
smiling as the sounds filled my ears and all at once I saw each and every face searching for the same things
trembling as I reached for one more fix inside of the place that I have not known
and demystifying the secrets of one single forgotten truth
now back to the nest in which I take slowly one branch out each month for the purpose of forging a new home
and sad that there is no more hopeless safety in the net of youth
yet hopeful that once when the sun rises it may grant a song I have heard in dreams

Kaitelka was in the Equinoctial Aftó of Áullos Kósmos IV after geomancy was oriented as a star Argonaut bathing in the Aegean while waiting for the ******* of various sectors of Áullos Kósmos. Between both Aulos and Citara, she was modeled with the aulética-citarística, glimpses of her Psychic Trisomy. In effect of the existence of an extra chromosome in a diploid organism 158, for a quantity of chromosome fifty-four, instead of a homologous pair of chromosomes. From this position she was limiting herself with her chromosomes of normality in the genetic proximal, upon entering the Bay of Skalá, which was waiting for her native again, where the art of navigation flourished in the nitrogenous water that brought her from Skalá; from Eleios-Pronnoi, about 39 km south of the main city on the island of Argostoli, in southern Kefalonia, on one of the Ionian islands of Greece. From here, she mimetic, she turned towards the art of the unknown sea next to Wonthelimar who endorsed her with his favorite, collapsing and disoriented by their anti-gregarious territorial similarity, and maritime per se the Otolith that brandished him in dual places of Ionian-Dodecanese geography, following the semiotic songs of Leiak that emerged from the aulética to infer Balénid genres, which acted precisely between the island and the bay of Patmos with the same name as Skalá, to meet everyone and be a participant in the construction of the sanctuary.
Kaitelka's Vernarthian tenor carried her behind her with another Ballenid, this one again carried the Demiurge Ezpatkul, with his prominent Augrum or Gold incisors that turned on the backs of all the borer beetles, being Scarabaeidaes that were delimited towards logic, and paraphrase of a qualitative satirical, especially in the modality of the subgenre, and sub-mythology of Vernarth. To commend all the hypotheses of this whale that sang with the native cephalization ultrasound, where it continued to arrange means between the middle and in its cranial cavity to the percentage of the world map, with the muzzles of its larger fins transmitting waves of parapsychological regression towards Vernarth, and parodying the transparent cendal ballads that he did with his passage through the water, despite not having members that strengthen the controversial cetacean passerby by waters of a melodious rhetorical language, such as a great inspirational helix, and satires that house greenhouses in most of the jubilation, akin to rudders that I furrowed in his verbal poetry, easing restrictions, and possessing the genome that was deprived of his gestation, of the maternal expropriation, victimized with fears of omega, and of Apocalypse hungover by sea and water candy. They piloted their heart valves, mere and Dantesque with the Zeusian buttress spauto, muddled and bundled in their bombastic myocardium like omitted ships without ever lifting anchor and setting sail, a very brief tulle of water satirized aggregates of their formula, and a piece of stony wood on their spur he braced himself like a mammal, he was carrying his weight in a literary category where there is no way to test it. Without hindrance, she was hilarious next to the breakers in the manner of a belligerent tendril with thick keel skins, dramatizing him, and perhaps that would delay her in reaching the investiture of Vernarth's Proskynesis Himation, some looked out jocular and foreshadowed to meet with her. Her chains were Caucasus icebergs, demystifying seasonality by residing linked to a single destination of Balénido Down, ******* with her dorsal that exhaled rearrangements of the Cinnabar genome, clarifying hormones and stereotyped balenid chromosomes.

The concordance of the Satirical subgenre, and the inanimate polarized gender correspondence to Kaitelka, usurping the intentionality of the sub-mythological drama, in two Radas of Skalá that appeared to lose the standard of their ears, with tragic representativity versus comedian staging, heralding an interlude between two areas that struggled to have it directed towards three comedies that pounced on three tragedies, missionizing crossed features of the ideals of survival, with parables preceded by the soul-linguistic being, due to its canonical supernatural modality when it was mimicked with disciplined domains after of a rhetorical poetics, rectified in religions granting orphic messianic structuralism bis of the equinoctial aft; foreshadowing the hymns of Orpheus in the Bible, and metaphorical in revealing divine truth, accessible only to spirits worthy of it. The purpose of metaphor in her poetry has the deciding function of the ineffable of thought, through simile, or in comparison to imagining. The song is one poetry, and the song such a praying too, prayer and ritual forming an inseparable syntagma of meaning in her escaping from Arbela's zither, impossible to differentiate in the biblical psalms themselves. The penultimate of them recalled number 149, being a hymn destined to accompany the dance; Orpheus says: "make melodies for him, with drums and lyres." It is known that the classical instrument of Orpheus reaches the level of the sacred in biblical texts. Psalm 150 contains an orgiastic ending to a symphony, in the description of the instruments that accompany the word and the voice that praises God, with sermons from Kaitelka blooming from an oceanic being and printing songs of the subgenre, without blemish of sub- mythology and the unconfessed proceeding. The comical exaltation of him recreates aspects of great joy, for whom in his Orphic water, he feels vibrations under his belly portraying cathartic and semiotic of his own trisomic root, in an effort to decode drama, for intermezzos of the mythological subgenre. Borker with his sword Mythos interpreted the story of Kaitelka when he tells her about the melting of Horcondising, seeing in them friendly glaciers that included her within provincial storytelling that sensitizes the culture being reborn on its spheres and plasma hematocrits, for an apologist who admits acting corporality and inanimate. Its genesis is Bereshit, "which names and does not start", from the undervalued parashot of the gods and kings, ordering them from the ibidem to inter dogmatism, in which it contributes in its credit reserve, in large consortiums besieging colonies by the southern seas of the Nótos of Borker. "Evil tears their veins heal their goods relegates the forgetful in the tradition of their existence alongside the demiurges, incontinent to their ills who enjoy making creation sleep, soothing it in innocuous myths that are often more than a supernatural truth!

Helios went out to the road by the west and not by the east, in the nascent instant of the ectoplasm that revealed micro satires that led to the station of the hero who lives hidden, behind the proscenium of a cultural and religious intimacy, Kaitelka plunges a few meters below the Aegean where he was already arriving, and he can realize that he did not see marine species around him, only beams of lights that distorted the view of those who flatter him on a descent? Underwater a mythical mission wailed on dry surfaces, and in the phenomena of the underwater stones, they relaxed before any reflection of the veracity of a myth of expression in the mouth of a fish other than Theseus, brushing systematic hermeticisms with the gloomy and infinitesimal. All this dialectical journey towards inevitably alternating molecules of his finite genome, to reestablish in his hybrid status when arriving at Skalá, here he would have to use his two neurochemical brains for a mortal instinct that does not die inside the mouth of a whale, but in the interrogation after being swallowed…? based on the extension of the sexagesimal nanoscale of Leiak, equipped with a fractional comparing that collects mythologies within them, for the uncertain truth. Kaitelka's only etiological myth burden is a consequence of her suffering, which is offered in her psychic trisomy, for being bastardized by three chromosomes, disorderly the reality of her specimen that unfolds her as a congenital disease.

Kaitelka says: Who am I and where do I come from? I am reaching the floodgates of my lord Vernarth, and I can see that I am reborn in his astragalus and vines, which tell a story ****** under the tripod and vapors of Herófila. Authoritarian truth that will bow before a pig to become, smelling here in the tragic essence, and in truths that are hidden in its symbolic denial?
Kaitelka is instituted a few miles before she begins to navigate in a zigzag, trying to condense forces for the origin of her ethereal, with sarcasm techniques that self promote her to blink in deluded tears and moan in the scenarios of uncertainty, in the opinion of pouring real myths, transposing its flow in the destination that is flooded in imprecise gestures and between cries with super sounds that raised it on the swells, and these, in turn, were shedding the mystery Masken by raising water concentrated in onerous poly morphology. With joys and hilarious meltdowns on the mountains, she approached everything when she arrived at the pleasant Skalá, escaping from cosmogony that linked her weightlessly on the light water, overflowing towards the very origin of a Vernarthian deity, in pasts and futures that do not intersect in the radial of its origins. The sky proclaimed laughter and mimic gestures that adhered to the vitrifying phenomenon of past-present pashkien images, ready to lightning that heals the invalidations of walking on troubled waters, a dipsomaniac leitmotif in early Christian justice.
                                            
Kaitelka sins irascible, violent and proud, urgent and judicious, but conciliatory despite carrying a cross and a harpoon on her back. She will continue to be Kaitelka Down, but Patmos will arrogate her Thracian gift of her of Orphic origin to her, for purposes of her radial preeminence in the Ballenids that hoist all the sacred sites. The biological diagnostic prescribes an univitelino twin whale, but when she goes beyond the hirsute destiny of her Iliad, she begs to go transforming into the rainy sphinx on the thick bronze ceiling as she breaks in the minting of the coins, towards a stop of seduction that enthrones in the gloom of the minotaur, and in the numinous hands of a daffodil on the face of the Epsilon. Or crawling in the mitral and in her valvulopathy with messengers, carriages, and with swans or pigeon birds; perching on a wreath of roses and myrtles that surround her red bozos. Almost always appearing undressed next to her escort, usually multiplied in excess towards her, with the amazement of her animal consorts that dolphins are, and Thracian pigeons, a priori being covered by the Pythia of Delphi that is migrating in the murky triumphs of the Achaemenides in Gaugamela.

Rains cover   infinite glory
                     in their eyes  I see the gory

blood red axe on my neck

they seem to sing eternity.Rains forever come and go. In the ways they talk I must. Go.
Next year they will come I know washing these hills, as we lie supinely doted, in these hills that are coated with colours, demystifying sounds and odours of living.
   Hills stunted, hills demented, hills whose off spring unknown, give away fashionable truths. I live in their midst.
Their colours, traffic, people come and go. I must.

Unraveller of
invisible riddles,

demystifying scribe
of Faraday’s theatrics.

His, unlocking the
cage and waves of light

made Einstein special,
and the universe an ocean

of gravitational
waves, forever rippling.

I once had one
of the happiest nights
Recurring dreams
of justified universe
Fights I had
with my own mind
Getting the victor
In my own terms
Rigged the realities
Without harm
Imagining possibilities
Redefining norms
Of what could be
A dementia
And a spur of
honest moments
Demystifying hopes
And relations
Imagine, imaginations.

right... phew... not this time... i'm getting this off my chest... i have to... i couldn't possibly tell this to a friend, i'm not even good with stating this anonymously... but it would explain a lot of things... i actually see this in print, out of my own volition... it has to be done... i just remember that poem Philip Larkin...
                    they ******* up, your mum and dad.
                    they may not mean to, but they do.

i don't like science, or rather: i do like science per se,
****'s sake, i did chemistry to a university degree
level - first person in my family to even go to university,
had it not been the Blaire era in politics
with that tragic motto of: education, education, education
i would have gladly went to a trade school -
even though: i sort of did by working a summer job
as a roofer in the construction industry -
oh not tiles and roofs all slanting...
i'm talking industrial scale roofs sometimes the size
of half a football pitch... tar work, felt work, fleece,
insulation, gravel by the tonne-load...
  
                but i just don't like... scientific language...
the way people talk science -
this supposedly "higher" i dare even say "moral" superiority,
well... it is sort of moral to know something
is red: if it actually is red...
rather than saying it's blue... knowledge, i find,
can be constrained by a morality of: truth...
ah... philosophy on the other hand...
that's like when science ****** art...
   the freedoms within Ms. Sophia are seemingly limitless...

what am i getting at?
     i don't have *** that frequently... all the better...
or worse... because for the next two days...
when the night comes...
                 mind you... i'm asleep...
                         i get torn up by something that
hides in the night and beyond: in dreams
and the vast yawning vacuum of nothingness...

i can see it upon waking... walking into a dark room
where my mother and father are *******...
p.t.s.d.? we were on holiday
    they were young, i was young... only one room
available... one bed...
      i fell asleep, they went out...
i woke up to the noise of them *******...
   i was lying in the same bed mind you...
   and that i had the audacity to say something
to my mother as they finished and she cuddled me...

i'm not even going to go as far as calling it child
abuse... after all... i was a bit of a devil myself...
i started ******* when i was either 7 or 8 years
old, i do remember that...
we were playing hide and seek in a construction
site of a church and i stumbled across a pornographic
magazine...
    and...
              and... by about 9... or maybe 8...
so as a first generation immigrant...
   back in the day... a ****** lady married this
Jewish guy who had a massive house on Perth Road
Gants Hill...
    he had a market stall, selling cheap-***** t-shirts
which he used to travel to Manchester for...
he also owned a string of Rolls-Royces and he drove
them, rented them for weddings etc.,
   but... he also "rented" the entire house to immigrant
men... sometimes? 20 under one roof... sometimes maybe
more... and he lived in this house...
with these migrant men... with his two daughters
and his son... and his wife...
                       right... get the picture?
we used to live like that at the beginning...
    obviously there was also me and my parents...
crammed? eh... just a bit...
    was i abused? not that i can recall...
              well... one time me and this guy's son
were having a bath... together... yeah...
children... mother was standing in view of us
as she ironed some clothes...
    and? would you believe it?
                  i taught him how to *******...
i told him: there's this funny sensation once you've
done it enough times...

so i mean: if i was sexually abused as a child...
it was by either me or.... the myth of an incubus...
some magical ***** fairy godmother
that gave me a heads up... on what was to come...

sure... shell-shocked... after that incident of waking
in the same bed your mother and father are *******...
i had the opportunity to return the favour once...
some black woman picked me up in a pub
and since i had nothing better to do
  i thought: **** it... let's go...
trouble is... she took me back to the room she was
renting somewhere in Stratford...
i walk in... ****... a young girl and a boy sleeping
on the bed...
          what does she do? she literally drags them
off the bed onto the floor
     gets on the bed and... ha ha...
         she doesn't even allow me to penetrate her
******... she folds her legs so that it's an imitation
******... like... a bit like... what Buffalo Bill does
in the Silence of the Lambs when he hides his genitals...

she did that... i tried maybe one ******...
   and immediately the memory flooded in...
who's fault was it? who was more ***** that night
that they couldn't help themselves?
my father? or my mother?
              well then... i was standing before the truth...
or... about to do some pelvic push ins...
i stopped myself... i said: i can't do it with children
in the same room...
so we just lay there... fell asleep...
i woke up and this little bundle of sweet afro
was standing beside me... ******* on his smoczek
******-soother... or just soother...
so i picked him... obviously completely naked
and placed him on my torso...
and he... fell asleep... there...
                                            
maybe that's why i need the extremes of sexuality
by going to the brothel...
maybe i can only **** prostitutes...
i need to know: for certain... i don't want to **** on a whim...
i don't want some dating game...

perhaps this might be called an ode to Johnny Depp,
a sort of cherry on top...
i don't want to be hiding these details of my life
inside of me... i have enough cognitive labyrinth to
think through as it stands...
i like transparency, i'm a disciple of truth:
well... "disciple": an adherent of it...
   better me digging up old skeletons from my closet
than having someone else defame me or smear me,
straight from the horses mouth as they say:
or as i say: liars don't walk on stilts...
   lies have short legs...

why? it's about ******* time...
    it takes some courage to be honest... just enough...
but science can't explain the last two nights...
where i was apparently making strange noises
in my sleep... where i got out of bed
and toppled down a case of my c.d. collection...
i woke up and i was like:
   wait a minute... i remember playing back
that *****-flick from two days ago in my head:
meditating on everything...
   me, Khedira...the two mirrors...
   the *******, the brandy...
                the apparent non-existent ******...
weird things that go bump in the night...
   a horror-lust realm of entanglements and things
non-scientific...
       i had to explain to both of them:
i wasn't drunk... not really... i was high from the ***...

i don't understand how *** can become tedius
to some people... well... i can... they have it too often...
no wonder they have to find "other" avenues
to express themselves with latex and role-playing...
if you **** like a Teutonic monk...
you **** like a Teutonic monk...
           you transcend something that otherwise
bores people after having moved outside of
the saturation point...

two days ago i knew i had to make my move...
return the favour... she counted how many times
we were together... when i asked... this was our 4th
encounter... with this other *******
i was asked to pay an extra £20 to perform oral *** on her...
i knew it would be different with Khedira...
she was comfortable in the *******...
she didn't even have to **** me off prior
to *******... in between the change of rhythm
i dived in and slurped on a bucket load
of oysters...
    stuck me nose in it...
             carousel of tongues... seems i have more than
one...
   then back to *******...
then diving back down but this time ******* her...

it was coming... i knew that expression on a woman's
face... it happened to me before... with Ilona...
when i was 21... but then i couldn't believe it...
i thought she was faking it...
    it's not like an ****** in pornographic movies...
exaggerated almost extraterrestrial...
the spasms... the ******* spasms... recoils...
like i said previously:
   i'm of the school of act that says:
it's sometimes more pleasurable to give pleasure...
than to receive it...
evidently i love eating ****...
       probably more so than getting oral *** in return...
which would place me in the Gomorrah camp...
no... i'm not into whatever ***** was up to...

       to hell with it: we're over-sexed as it is...
we're living in a time of libido-insomnia...
                         fight fire with fire...
                                better still... bring some cooking oil
and a deodorant spray can...
                     i'm on the side of: counter to what's currently
the state of social-engineering...
no problem... i'll be your "****" your "pervert" your:
"stranger" your outlier...
if Walt Whitman could celebrate himself...
and be his unabashed gay-self...
   gay-pride? right... sure... no problem...
                    let's try this for starters...
   i'll parade my affection on paper...
             and since so few people read... i'll just slip past
the nets of censors...
   i'll dig a trench and employ covert methods
to get my stance to stand in full view: of those who are
willing to ingest it...

it wouldn't be the same if i had long her like i once
had... back then she could have the fantasy
of being eaten out by a woman... and a man...
morphing: androgynous circus...
but with short hair... ah... so much better...
the way a woman can sort of grip your short hair
and with such adamant want
try to invert the process of giving birth
by showing you into her... and since we're all
born like the fall of Lucifer: head first...
eh... merely sticking your "poker" in her while
retaining: keeping... eating her eyes with your eyes...

obviously i read the Kama Sutra...
slapping... pinching... biting...
       that's all part of the ritual...
                           it's nice to hear the following:
i love you...
   i don't think i can forget you...
              not after you bit my upper lip...
she was clearly insinuating that i perform oral ***
on her... all that tongue waggling...
feverish tongue of lust....
   an array of onomatopoeias...
                 the crows might have been croaking...
the woodland pigeons could be cooing...
ancient reptilian morphs...

    seriously... it's unlike any "conquest"...
the antithesis of Don Juan seducing a nun...
   because... what the hell made more special than
all the other men she slept with?
to be able to... what day is it today? Saturday...
long weekend... diamond jubilee and all...
   Sunday, tomorrow... she's going to text me tomorrow
and tell me when she wants to meet up...
yeah... i actually managed to convince a *******
to a date... i was looking up hotel rooms in Barking
only yesterday... that's roughly £70 for an entire
night...
           obviously i'll take her out for dinner...
buy a bottle of decent alcohol...
  strawberries... brandy or prosceco?
probably both...
                   lemons? maybe...

because i don't do it by the hour...
                 i'm like a diesel engine...
    i need that reminder of the 7 hours during the night
when she had about 4 *******:
my last night in St. Petersburg... ah: those white nights
of St. Petersburg...
how?! how did i manage to pull this stunt off?
i moved from paying her for ***
to paying for her to spend a night with me in a hotel
room... well... that was quick...
only after 4 encounters: i guess the oral *** i performed
on her was the deal-breaker for her...

it's also good to know that:
i'm the good sort of mad...
          yeah... we talked... i lay on the floor with my head
resting on a make-shift pillow of my shoes...
smoking a cigarette... laughing...
   then we washed each other in the bath...
            i was drunk on not being drunk...
***-starved and then: outlet... boom!
              everything starts making sense...
to hell with relationships... i wouldn't go as far
as to want to bore myself with
sharing a life together:
              well... maybe... but then the *** wouldn't
be ***...
   i wouldn't go as far as the Muslims in terms
of covering the women in sadistic attire...
****'s sake: at least they could make the niqab
out of white linen... or cream linen...
       but men and women shouldn't sleep in the same
bed... obviously **** in the same bed...
but sleep? i tried that once...
every single night... half of me was numb for having
fallen asleep hugging her...
  i need my own bed to sleep in...

hell... if society and culture is selling me the fantasy
of Pretty Woman... starring: you know who...
Richard Gere and Julian Roberts...
well... i'm not a business man, i'm not a lawyer...
i'm a humble "poet", i spew words...
i regurgitate them... i'm a "pooet"...
    why not ask society... so... this is good? yes?
then you hear dating horror stories...
and you're like: i'll be Pontius Pilate...
    i'll wash my hands clean off these affairs...

it's that simple... people want to play ball... sure...
i'll play ball... but this time round:
i'll be making the rules...
the last time i tried to tango with a girl
she was misplacing her feet...
   i kept on standing on them... mea culpa mea culpa
oh where is my mea culpa?!
enough... is... enough...
   reiteration: but it has to be a reiteration
in Deutsche: genug ist genug!

i've seen enough, i've smelled enough, i touched enough...
funny story...
me and this Irish lad were talking before my encounter
with Khedira... he had a balloon and a flask of
laughing gas on him...
we talked... he thought i was an undercover
journalist... Oxbridge educated...
i think i was laughing more than he was:
even though he was inhaling laughing gas...
he had this funny Celtic name...
almost feminine... a name a bit like: Nikita...
i told him... i knew this girl once...
she said she was: not naive... she was Kneev...
but her name was written as Niamh...
go figure... i told him: i'm not English...
i persuaded him: your people are inspired...
to preserve themselves... a bit like the Welsh...
who still retain their mother-tongue...

he was willing to share some of the laughing gas
but out of politeness he refused to share
the balloon with me... obviously i agreed with him...
he talked about a thumping sensation
to his head... like the brain was trying to
get out of the skeleton by routes outside
the realm of mummification...
     we talked about *******... i was like...
the first time i tried it was when i was 35...
reluctantly...
   because, like i told him: it really doesn't do anything
for me what too much coffee and nicotine
already does...

his friend came out after having ****** Khedira...
well... she's sure as **** not a ******...
lucky me... the "omega-male"...
i'm not here for conquests... i'm here for postcards...
wish you were: i too, wish this was Venice...
jealous? n'ah... let's play the game right...
i'm not here looking out for timid virgins
or for that matter mouthy under-aged girls...

i just hope that by writing this i can have the "audacity"
to have a calm night's sleep...
i seriously can't be sleep-walking
throwing down things, groaning, moaning
in my sleep...

        two days ought to be enough to let his lustful
demon incarnation wrestling with me, pass...
maybe if i ****** on a regular basis i wouldn't
be drinking as much...
   maybe i'm finally sobering up to the idea
of *******... maybe i've saturated what has
become very real for me...

i'm pretty sure that the Ukrainians were happy
when **** Germany invaded Poland...
well then... the Ukrainians are fighting Russians
as we speak... and i'm thinking about a second schism
in Islam... with a Turkish *******...
the best barbers in the world...
and, i suppose, the best prostitutes in the world...
the Russian girls are overshadowed...

ha ha... even she said that men are better cooks
than women...
she told me to slow down on the "invisible" macron
hovering above the A in laa'vash...
oh... it's this Turkish meal...
black peppercorns... sea salt... chillies...
rosemary... white wine vinegar...
i forget the rest... cheddar... actual lavash...
thinly sliced beef...

          that's always nice to find... a man... within a woman...
within a sentiment left by a woman:
men are better cooks than women
because women "think" they know how
to cook food... we agreed...
no... they don't... i told her about my worst
dinner... cooked by my grandmother...

i initiated ******* / chewing on a piece of chalk...
wrong temperature... doubly-butchered...
it's the sort of meat that makes your teeth
click... click... chewy ****...
chat chat... chuckle... meat that makes
your teeth stick together...
and i said to her: you can readily replace CHat...
with a SHeep of a slurp...
   juicy meat... juicy everything...
  meat like juice of a pomegranate...

by the end of the encounter...
i asked her: are you happy?
yes... she replied...
fair enough... so... now don't worry about me:
whether i ******* or not...
obviously i wasn't...
         i knew that i didn't know that i was
barking at the right tree... dragging a Trojan horse's
worth of a libido back into my bedroom...
i was about to erase about a 200 cohort of men
in her gallery of exposing her ****...
lucky me... night-terrors...

               science is: too... demystifying...
i don't like answers... philosophy doesn't like answers...
philosophy does the question-bits...
according to Heidegger something is either
question-worthy of worthless...
i'm in love with German-thinking...
        England has provided the economic side of "things"...
but in terms of "thinking"? let's just say
yes to English comedy... i will not digest Locke...
no ******' chance in hell!

funny that... mann von schreiben...
man of letters...
     English thinking is too pragmatic...
me? like a German...
how do i "solve" a "complication"?
i over-complicate the "complication"...

i have to pity the day...
i beg and i beg, and i beg
for the night to relieve me...
            i pray for the night to come...
i'm most aware of undetailed things
when i find myself surrounded by people that
are asleep...

the great Biblical deluge?
like the great Swedish deluge of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth?
wasn't there an ice age moment
when the ice melted?!
                 too much journalism... not enough
poetic imagination in the people...
      
i "think" i'm just about done... yes...
Matthew said to Conrad: i think you are.

Can I know you?
What I see is a hand
that slams and scatters
dust, children of a world
left alone and battered.
Is this the life that you breathe?
or is it just my inferior logic?
This this would seem to me to be
your power play to take away
and intimidate with the flame-
Fire breather verses artless offender.
No contender could hope to withstand,
least the child you hold in your hand.
Ask, "Who do you say that I am?"
As the platform begins to turn
rolling over voices needing to be heard.
"Don't let us go down to the pit
where your fires of vengeance are lit
let me live.
Let me live.
How have I come to believe
that this is the fire you breathe?

I fight the heat!
If you breathe out life
I bleed out my frustration!
Immortalized
in these wounds of hatred.
it would seem to me
that this breath is a fire you've wasted.
And doesn't that just make us the same then?
I would look to the fire
to light up solemn spaces,
but it's behind the flame
that you've hidden your face and
the lie that I find:
that the fires refining.
But it just seems to me now
that the fire is dying,
demystifying.

And I can't sit with this,
surrounded by shadows of stranger faces
as your fire begins to dim.
I am left alone in the silent places