I’m thinking about you today. Hard not to, the specialness of it all. Today you’re putting up of an exhibition. Some artists call it a show, but you’re quite consistent in not calling it that. I admire that of you, being consistent.
 
I was thinking today about your kindness. You phoned me as soon as the children had gone to school, making time to call before you left. I know you were drinking your start-of-the-day coffee, but it was a kind thought all the same, phoning me. You knew I was upset. Upset with myself, as I often am. It’s this being alone. Not so much as a cat to keep me company. Just my work, the reading I do, my thoughts of you, those letters I write, and my attempts at poetry.
 
During the last few days I’ve tried to write directly of what I’ve observed, not felt, observed. Like those wonderful Chinese poets of old describing in just a few characters the wonder of the seen rather than the speculation of the felt, avoiding all emotion and fantasy. I try to write in a way that holds to the ambiguity and spread of meanings the poems those ancient Chinese composed.
 
It’s winter-time. Yesterday we were expecting the first snowfall of winter, and it arrived late in the night making the morning darkness mysteriously different, changing the indistinctness of distant trees to become a web of silver lines, in the no-wind snow resting on branches, clinging to boughs and trunks.  I stood in the pre-dawn park in wonder at it all, holding each moment to myself, in the cold breath-stopping air. I thought of one of the Chinese snow poems I know and some of those different ways it has been translated. Here are three:
 
A thousand mountains without a bird
Ten thousand miles with no trace of man.
A boat. An old man in a straw raincoat.
Alone in the snow, fishing in the freezing river.
 
A thousand peaks: no more birds in flight.
Ten thousand paths: all trace of people gone.
In a lone boat, rain cloak and a hat of reeds
An old man’s fishing the cold river snow.
 
Sur mille montagnes, aucun vol d’oiseau
Sure dix mille sentiers, nulle trace d’homme
Barque solitaire: sous son manteaux de paille
Un vielliard pêche, du figé, la neige.
 
So beautiful, arresting, different. It holds the title River Snow and the poet is the Tang Dynasty philosopher and essayist Lui Zongyuan.  My snow poem First Fall, written last night as the snow fell on the wet street outside, as you were falling through my thoughts, softly, but not onto a wet street, but a distant garden we know and love, but have yet to see in winter’s whiteness.
 
And now today you’re driving to a distant location to hang your work of paper, silk and linen, full of expectation, every contingency and plan in place to enable the work to make its mark in a location you know, where people may recognize your name and will come to say warm words of encouragement, maybe a little praise. And at the end of the week when the exhibition opens I’ll be there, trying to be invisible, taking photographs if I can of you and your admirers and supporters, and thinking (myself) how wonderful you are, your lovely smile lighting up the gallery, being welcoming, beautiful always.
 
Only today you’re further away from me than ever. Around coffee time I miss your quiet explorative ‘it’s me , like a mouse on the telephone. The inflections of those words questioning the appropriateness of the call, meaning ‘Are you busy? Am I interrupting?’ It may take me a little while to ‘come to’, but interruption? Never, just the sheer joy that it’s you colouring the moment.
 
I think of the landscape you’ll be driving through. I’m imagining the snow-sky clearing and becoming a faint blue with the sun’s brightness clarifying those wold lands, those gentle folds of fields between parallelograms of woodland standing stark under the large skies and promulgating the long views gradually, gradually stretching towards the sea coast.
 
I like to imagine you are singing your way through the choruses of Bach’s B Minor Mass, but in reality it’s probably the Be Good Tanyas or Billy Joel playing on the CD player. Such a relief probably after those silent journeys with me. I usually relent on the homeward leg, but I crave silence when I’m a passenger, and I’m now always a passenger, so I crave silence for my thoughts, such as they are.
 
While you are being the emerging artist – but probably on your way homeward - I have taken myself down to my city’s gallery and to an exhibition I’ve already seen. I have a task I’ve been promising myself to undertake: copying an exhibit. I arrive an hour before the gallery closes. I leave my bicycle behind the foyer desk. There are more staff about than visitors. It’s gloriously empty, but the young twenty-somethings invigilating the spaces group themselves strategically near adjoining rooms so they can talk (loudly) to each other. It’s Facebook chat, barely Twitter nonsense. I have to block it all out to focus on the four pages and a P.S of a sculptor’s letter to a critical friend. The sculptor is writing from springtime Cornwall on 6 March 1951. The critical friend will open the letter the next day (when there were 3 deliveries a day) and the Royal Mail invariably arrived on time. He’ll pick it up from his doormat before breakfast in grimy Leeds, though the leafy part near Roundhay Park. The sculptor begins by saying:
 
It is so difficult to find words to convey ideas!
 
In this so efficient Cambria typeface that introductory sentence loses so much of the muscle and flow of the human hand. Written boldly in black ink, and so full of purpose, I read it a month ago, a photocopy in a display case, and knew I had to capture it. And it’s here entire in my note book, on my desk, carefully copied, to share with you my darling, my kind friend, the young woman I hold dear, admire so much, become faint with longing for when, as she crosses that gallery where she has been hanging her work (in my imagination), I am caught as so often by her graceful steps and turn.
 
I don’t feel any difference of intent in or of mood when I paint (or carve) realistically, or when I make abstract carvings. It all feels the same – the same happiness and pain, the same joy in a line, a form, a colour – the same feeling at the end, The two ways of working flow into each other without effort  . . .
 
Outside my warm studio the snow has retreated east and I’ve opened the window to hear the Cathedral bells practising away, the city on a Tuesday night free of revellers, the clubs closed, the pubs quiet. In this building everyone has gone home except this obsessive musician who stays late to write to the woman he adores, who thinks a day is not a day lived without a letter to her at least, a poem if possible.
 
I’d quietly hoped to be with you tonight, but you must have something arranged as I suggested twice I might come, and you said it wasn’t necessary. But I have this letter, and something to write about. Alas, no poem. My muse is having the evening off and I am gently reconciled to the possibility of a few words on the telephone before bed.

I would've loved to meet her.
The sweetness you spoke in her honor.
A gentle breeze in a month of freezes.
Electric, connective, explorative.

I would love to meet the next.
The sweetest of peas.
Only bluest when being overly fruitful.

Reflections of trekking tower of the familial tree.
Expectations of expecting in introspect.

Forgive me for being greedy, wanting to be involved in your life.
Forgive me for involving my love.

I shall let the resting rest, the ones that need rest to get rested, and give my mind and soul a rest.



Ifeanyichuku Okoro © 2023

Lovely skies
Dark with clouds and rain
Leaden skies
Lead, Pb, Plumbum
Flat diffuse light, photographer's dream
Latin 4 lead = plumbum
We plumb our psychic oceans' depths, as the sailors did
With lead on their sinker lines
We plumb our depths if we choose
When we are earnestly explorative
Reflecting, meditating, in our psychic plumbing
Pb: the ugly duckling brother of glowing gold
Au of the aura Aurum
Both are soft, malleable, unassailable, & so helpful
Gold like Thor the glowing hero, lead like Vulcan the sooty artificer
We have made one the hero, and misused,
Demonized, besmirched the metal lead
Is it lead's fault we have put it in our paint, our gas?
That we made it accumulate in our fish, like fools?
Without lead, your car would not start
Imagine going on your trips on a mule
Or trundling down the road in an ox cart
Do not denounce lovely lead
Gravid, protector, quiet engine starter
Gently available to you to plumb your depths
Before your chapter's demise
Leaden skies
Lovely skies
Gravid with rain
Keep me grounded, serene and sane

a voltage feeds my mind
like that of a brief rainfall
where there is an asterisks
of insignificant social commentary
whose reality pertains
to disproportionate events
whose commission
makes a profession out of trivia
which is no more ******* durable
than accumulated dispersion of adrenalin
that of a psychophysical explorative
exploitation of unrealized
perpetual fermentation
that seethes with the singeing smell
that accompanies its lie
those demanding untruths
that lock each and everyone
in a burning prison of panic
a prism of unfocused
visionary liberation perhaps to some
the realization of the cosmos
that lives within the poets interior
a mighty roar of space
waiting to be filled
with visions of future worlds
of future social commentary

Translucent, red traffic light
Belongs so comfortably
No one made a fuss over its colour
Just an instinct for the shade
The perfect pigment
No hustle, no alarm
Being the man who ponders this
Am I not allowed the breeze or the brevity?
Are we blessed to fidget the cigarette?
Cursed to be tense
I imagine a mellow, white man
Prancing on a set of traffic lights
Naturally pristine and silky
He plays in an explorative band
Rock and roll on scalpels
So smooth, that breathing
Not a single itch
I’m going to achieve such a feat
One day
I’ll be a queen *****

At first,
Love was captivating.
a beckoning temptress
with lips whispering compliments
and desires and promises.

And then,
Love was unbridled.
a stallion galloping across terrain
the wind in his mane
vivacious and carefree.

At times,
Love was insecure.
spilling tears and confessions
fearing scorn or withdrawal
twisting with pain.

Of course,
Love was confident.
beaming with adoration:
ostentatious jubilance or
a quiet security.

Strangely,
Love was alone.
ripening and explorative
discovering the importance of
Self before other.


Perhaps there’s no one True set definition
and those who try
to grasp for dictionary restrictions
ultimately fail.

Unable to get into the Monet show,
Too many people there, too many cars,
We spent the Sunday morning at Bowl Pond
A mile from the Museum, where no one was,
And walked an hour or so around the rim
Beside five acres of flowering waterlilies
Lifting three feet above their floating pads
Huge yellow flowers heavy on bending stems
In various phases of array and disarray
Of Petals packed, unfolded, opening to show
The meaty orange centers that become,
When the ruined flags fall away, green shower heads
Spilling their wealth of seed at summer’s end
Into the filthy water among small fish
Mud-colored and duck moving explorative
Through jungle pathways opened among the fronds
Upon whose surface water drops behave
Like mercury, collecting in heavy silver coins
Instead of bubbles; some few redwinged blackbirds
Whistling above all this once in a while,
The silence else unbroken all about.

“Monet” by Howard Nemerov from The Selected Poems of Howard Nemerov. © Swallow Press, 2003.

I've felt like a sailor a lot lately
An explorative scientist of sorts
Documenting my interpretation of life, into the void
The worst on these pages exist in the concrete world
But it's possible they could never be read
If a tree falls in the forest...
I mean
If a tree writes you a love letter in the forest
and seals it with liquid amber and pine straw
and buries it, snug under deep roots
Does it make a sound?
Can I tell you the truth with telepathy?
Can I hear yours?
If I dig a hole deep enough can I find the words you'll never tell me?
I'll close me eyes
and wait for a sign

You are not for me; I need to let you go. Lack of means in more than one way and prior relations have us locked in our separate positions.  If only for once more I could hold you to my breast like I did that one night you called my lips cherubim red and I did not squint. You have not known how much you were the sweetest thing that happened to me in that thin sliver of time we spent together.

We cannot stay. We cannot stay like this. Sometimes the need to see you is strong but I know an impossible affair, as well as endeavour. Sweet smiles shared on the phone summarily lifted the fog on the awareness of each other’s existence. All too familiar and yet a new sound your heavily accented voice was. We had not exchanged a word in months, maybe a year even but how we seemed to breathe the same air and kissed the same thoughts during these nightly hours we spoke. Resounding in the obscure vacuum that was, though cannot be called, a relationship. For this, one needs to know the other often enough, at least in the mind. It is suspended across the space and time we live.

Soon we have the opportunity to meet by chance but if I lived only for this moment I would be wasting my time. Furthermore, I have not thought to bring you anything but myself and maybe a small reminder of the country I live in. This is a little mock bird, supposedly a sparrow shaped thing, tiny mascot to a nationalist sentiment of sports themed victories. Its tail reads two lines to my not so national anthem.

This last night our voices met it was like rekindling lost hope yet keeping it in stasis simultaneously. How brave and nervous you sounded through that landline, surging all across the way through underwater cables. And we discussed all our difficulties and doubts as though we had been long lost lovers trying to rediscover each other’s souls in spite of our absent bodies, fearful to disappoint the other from our learned perspectives and life experiences. It was not long before we declared our love in hesitantly explorative tones. You were prepared to take it back again.

I want to change we way we are to one another. But now, with time passed and these thoughts and words are reduced to mere passing sentences inside a screened window. Mostly I know of no answers but when they do come they are ever so lovely and kind. And they shout your loneliness from across the sea that divides us.

I know that you are strong, stronger than I have known you before. Though you do not realise...

So I believe this will be our road not taken, despite the one night we embarked upon it in temporary foolishness. The best mistake I could have ever made.


© June 17th 2014

All that glitters never meant much to me,
Petals fall & fade, withering along with time like its temporary immortality,
Money joining suit in its temporary fervour, but never buying love as the Beatles crooned.

So let me tell you what does:

The look on your face when I've made you happy with a surprise or two;
The sound of your laughter reverberating through the air as I cowl in my witty silly remarks;
The mental connection that pleasantly astounds me with every thought-stealing line and mirrored gestures-humour-reaction-action;
How your words has awaken the inner dormant writer/poet and inspired to put my venomous quill to paper again;
How you make me feel beautiful, appreciated and respected, just the way I am;
Your empathy and understanding that chase the dark clouds away and silence my demons;
The way we make love with the glances we exchange in public like there's no one around;
The way we make love with our bodies, explorative archaeologists tracing each other's landscapes gently-sweetly-devilishly;
How you claim my arm across, intertwining with yours, caressing it as if it's a part of you;
When your palm holds my face lovingly while we exchange sweet kisses, nibbles and all;
Blowing soft breaths onto our goosebumpy skins, whispering how much we love each other;
Cheekily stealing smooches at traffic light stops which never seem to be long enough;
Resting your head on my sturdy shoulder as I cushion mine into yours, christening it with my lips,
As we serenade that BSB song transporting me back to 14 again.

And the realization pierces me through like truth always does:

That I would not trade any moment, any era, any wish, any desire
Than the one right now with you that has headily grasped me so:
A dizzying cocktail of drugs that is you.

Shalini Nayar
31.10.14
(c) 2014

The journey here was entrancing
and the state of semi-consciousness
induced by the wavering waters
has been stretched out to theme the weekend

Helped occasionally by smokes of something special
we’ve been coexisting in harmonious condition
of pure laziness

Our biggest achievement walking to Palm Beach
Which we lengthened creating circles around
Before realising it was in fact in front us
Since we arrived

Our companion Cecil has been guarding us
Whilst we sleep in the shade
And leading us on the way to the local fishing village
Where we’ve adopted the Ugandan pace of exploration
And have enjoyed the local tastes

Sessee sounds like we are walking through natures ****
The birds making out in trees are plugged into amps
Whilst the crickets chirp in competition
And the chickens cockadoodledo

The birdlife is vastly variable
and the bat in the bedroom an unexpected guest
Perhaps explaining the piles of roof debris upon our beds
But also accountable to the bugs gnawing wood

The dead frog in the shoe was an unwelcome companion
and upset the pleasure
taken from a lone explorative beach strole
paddling upon white sands in the shores of Victoria

But it was soon forgotten with a game of smackabum
and some drunken discussion
trying to distinguish Wafargi from Farigi
The Waragi has hit our heads

Needless to say next day our hurts are hurting
and we’re frowning at the fishy friends
accompanying us on the journey home
….nothing a rolex (or two) can’t fix though

Must be a leader, a go getter, a finisher,
must have wifi...
Enjoy coffee and tea
   more or as much as me!
The outdoors, adventure and explorative nature
    are mandatory.
Never curses or calls me names.
Must be fatherly material, with a wild side of child.
Must love God and Jesus.
Also have 3 passions besides me.
My future man shall support me and his dreams.
I'm really not asking for much, the "musts"
are top of the list!
The last wasn't all bad,
but
this list was created from his mistakes.

I have days of light... days when the sun shines with splendor, highlighting the majesty of the mountain range. A warm gusty wind barrels across the open prairie, sweeping locks of auburn hair across my face and touching my heart with the knowledge that I am completely, painfully alive.  These are the days when I am awed at how quickly love can blossom in one's life, and I hold this fragile, young, new love with hopeful tenderness. I stand captivated by this beautiful existence that I have been ****** into, and embrace the explorative adventure that lies in front of me. These are the days that tell me to keep on living.
I have days of darkness... days when any sliver of hope is so far beyond my reach, I cannot muster the energy to strive for it. Days that leave me yearning for all things familiar; the comfort of being surrounded by those who know every broken piece of me, sometimes better than I know myself. I am swallowed by a darkness so thick, every star is blotted out before me. And I stumble: longing to trace my fingers across the grooves of an oak tree I have carved into my mind since childhood. These are the days that leave me weeping in the shadows, pounding bloodied fists on a door that will no longer open to me.
These roiling emotions as different as night and day themselves. There are days that I am more alive than I have ever been; and days when death itself would be less painful. But through every single one, I cling to my only constant: and that is the goodness of my God.
Yes, he is faithful and just. I know his mercy endures across the ages, his steadfast love never fails. I am promised that his plans for me are to prosper, and not to harm. These are wonderful truths; but this is not what sustains me. The truth is,
He is worthy.
He is worthy of so much more than I could ever offer; and so the least I can do is give him all of me. Today may be a day of darkness, but I worship in brokenhearted joy, knowing that the light of the world dwells within me. I am learning to let that daylight out.

you will soon understand the point, or rather the worthwhile point of investing in the right places, notably books, and notably the essentials of solomon's music filled harems, for you will treat both book and apple alike, how can my contemporaries feel no void in their piracy, in their cheapness, and not expect their thieving to not catch-up with them... the whole lot of them would emerge as philistines, unless of course, they are dumb enough not to congregate on the plateau of genuine commerce, and feel that by stealing artistic outputs they can suddenly surround themselves with brick walls and call them the ursulas in the hermitage admiring artwork, while at the same time forging copies and remaining entrapped, a world whereby suddenly plumbers don't get paid! there's a reason why music companies exist, they are P.R. dynamics, you think that any artist would be lifted from the hades, on a mere whim, or mere admiration by a few? piracy of the content doesn't help, at least with these P.R. companies the crumbs from the table, but when people turn anarchic, the artists are eating ****, and the more **** they eat, the more people are left with nostalgic content, nothing new, nothing explorative, because the contemporary artists suddenly brake rank say to the people like the people once said to the kings & queens: *******! shove that 20th century content up yer gobs and call it sunshine!

i can't say that heidegger's L, VI didn't spur me on
to begin this dragon's breath worth of vitriol
and scolding agitation,
come on, what's this supposed "lived experience"
these days, what is apparently "lived"
is nothing short of the disorientating
"dasein" of journalism...
        we can't even live the basic facts,
always regressing toward an "evolution",
always starting with some sort of
"mutating" presence & adding a superiority
complex...
  we killed of the neanderthals... but kept the apes,
so there goes the "missing link"
argument...
    i wish we kept the neanderthals and
made bush monkey fufu with the apes,
at least we could have authentic slave archetypes
from the neanderthal class of humanoids...
but no, slaughter the **** similis,
and keep the biodiversity of the apes...
how does that work again?
    you're tell me we killed the missing link,
and kept the darwinian vanity project
of the "****" speculo (mirroring man) so we
can write "poetry" with respect to other animals?!
so let me guess, a lot of women wouldn't
really like the black widow spider / mantis
comparison... of course they wouldn't,
but we still make all the other compliments via
a "comparison"...
  why **** off the missing link,
  why **** off all the tarzans that might have
told us: actually, the origin of the eskimos
comes from japanese macaque...
so no: not everyone came from ibrahim nigeria,
you **** dollop of custard for a brain!
don't get communist on me with
a collective history, **** of a common origin:
you have your big "bang" theory -
like you'd hear a "bang" in vacuum...
          enough! of this clowning around!
i agree with this ****, the supposed "lived experience"
is a catchphrase that has become unbearable,
because the sediment of facts is gargantuan
that it's hard to break away from it,
there are no "facts" in the sense of a *lived experience
akin to: and i had my first kiss while i was
5 / 6, and she promised me what she
would never fulfill...
        that's not a "lived experience" event,
that's only hypothetical, a delusion, a fiction...
and at the tip of this atlas pivot pose is
this persistent, primarily insipid in persistence
darwinism...
       i don't live in a civilisation worthy of
no more credit, other than one that provided
the typography of a, zoo:
and darwinism is zoological psychologism
at best... came down to the alpha & the beta -
no wonder we have the alphabet sequence
that makes no sense at all...
        and no, i have no theological bearing with
this, i already equated god as a paraphrasing -
it's the humanism behind this coming-of-age
of populist science turned humanism onto
its humpty-dumpty head that bothers me!
for one, it would appear that thinking is no
longer qualified as being a lived "experience",
are we no longer living by essentially thinking?
evidently we're not;
hand on heart heidegger could not have
predicted his concept of dasein being *****
by the medium of journalism,
   in that journalism morphed the adrenaline
rush of being "there" -
         hence the necessary constant stream of
a global "narrative"...
        in all instances there was no "being" burdened
by a there, other than the being
burdened by a "there" - as common phraseology
suggests, e.g. in church witnessing an ex-girlfriend's
christening of her twins, with the person
sitting next to me exclaiming in a hushed
tone: you're not really here, are you?
   there's a "here"? i replied.
lived experiences my ***,
    after being bombarded with too many
scholastic secularism of hyper-factoid rainbow,
and the eroding of keeping personal memory,
after all that, and still the persistence of
this ****** trivia game shows where
"knowledge" is about storing information
and nothing but that, and why didn't the ancient
greeks, in their old age, worry about
killer proteins invading fat cells of the brain,
and "flexing der muscles for mental
gymnastics" ever worry that ol' alzhei mc. hammer
would be relevant?
     well, while looking at some of these
youtube view counts i start thinking:
  thank **** people are still *****,
so many children watching these brain-drains,
but to be honest these brain-drains can be
like stretching a rubber band, back into a puzzle...
but that's beside the point,
   everything i write is impromptu,
which reminds me of the title and content
originally intended... the sefirot...

   schematic!

  ultimately the keter = yesod = malkhut
(perfect calamity for a disatrous trinity)...
   and there is no person in the world, known to
man, who has achieved that... not even moses...

  then there are variations:

   binah yesod chesed (understanding the foundation
   of love)...

yesod chesed gevurah (the foundation of love is in
strength)...

binah tiferet hod (understanding beauty is in its
splendour)...

tiferet chesed chokhmah (beauty is the love of wisdom)...

yesod keter malkhut (foundation of the crown
resides in the kingship)  
  which is the antithesis of christianity...

chesed gevurah binah (love is the strength in
understanding)...

please make make me stop, but do you know
how many maxims you can obtain from
the sefirot?!

   let me show you the sefirot and you make
the other maxims that could contend with
the book of proverbs, and rest with
  what replaces the star of david; namely?
the hod of david,
   away from the jealous tip of solomon's keter.

                               keter

binah                                          chokhmah

 ­      gevurah                           chesed

                              tiferet

hod               ­                               netzach

                         ­     yesod

                              malkhut

p.s. netzach malkhut keter
         vs. netzach malkhut yesod

i.e. victory does not reside in kingship of a crown,
   rather, victory resides in the kingship
   of a foundation,

  and now i really love how that's
contradictory to what is but the remnant
of indoctrination, as the story suggests,
which is why these two books can't coexist
as one, it makes schizophrenic factories
all the more apparent,
   even in christianity, if you've assimilated
into a culture, but retain your "maiden"
tongue, your bilingualism is treated
like some mental disorder akin to
schizophrenia...
    again, only in england, me marx and engels
thinking up future horrors,
and it culminates in me...
  so... bilingualism is a psychiatric disorder?!
gentlemen! let's broaden our minds!
lawrence, bring in the syrians and libyans,
we need to teach some lessons!

i've done a full circle on my music listening habits, i've started listening to music i could play guitar to, oh man, that drop-D on almost all of the songs of System of a Down is mesmerising to listen to, esp. Aerials... it's right up there with smoke on the water and iron man... i even have a pretty decent voice when it comes to singing when no one is listening, it's surprisingly idiosyncratic, sort of rhaspic... ooh! ooh! i'm onto another google-whack... rhaspic alone generates only 10 results... rhaspic glue? 2 results... hmm... not to overcomplicate matters... let's just add a D... rhaspic glued... bingo! 1 search result: study number theories... great... i misspelled that first word, i was looking for something to the singing style of the dear, late, still lasting Chris Cornell... the message from Google reads:

It looks like there aren't many great matches for your search

nope... it's not that... i'm a google-whacker... it's a mild version of hacking... i like to find the needle's eye for a camel like me to walk through... because i do... and if i'm going to procrastinate it will be either google-whacking or solving a sudoku... ah... so no surd H in the word i was thinking of, i.e. raspic? ****, i didn't even realise there is a technical term for raspic: dysphonia... hell... it's not even raspic: it's raspy... oh... esp. with a "handover" from drinking to sobering up and a "hangover" from cigarette smoking... me singing is like me *******... best done so only the heavenly dead might want to see...

I.

strange occurrence at work, so i was given these nine stewards
who are a tight-knit bunch on the south stand of
the London stadium...
well... i say i was given nine, but Danni is a terrible
supervisor, everyone says...
who has ever worked with her...
she might have the qualifications to be a supervisor
but... i don't: and whenever asked i do the role...
because the greatest lesson my grandfather ever taught
me was how to deal with people,
i learned how to deal with unengaged problematic
youths by myself...
good training if you're going to go in the teaching
profession... i can see it now...
a fox in a hen shack...
obviously i'd love to have a wolf as my totem...
but you can be choosey... no wolves on the British isles...
plenty of foxes... fox it is...
and i can be a sly ******* if i really want
to be: i'll pretend to be naive... stupid...
ooh... ooh! "what's happening"?!
i know what's happening... i'm just figuring out
if the people playing games will figure out that i'm
also playing a game: their game and my own game...
i like pretending to be an idiot...
but when a chance comes and i can launch an
assault... i can be a merciless Rommel... Erwin...
i just play a waiting-game game...
it's fun... it's very much akin to a game of patience
when it comes to making wine...
or cooking a pristine curry...
like with Frankie, the girl i work with from time to time...
of all the colleagues she's the first one
i made personal references to...
she's also the first colleague i met up with outside
of work in casual clothing... i pointed it out:
a bit weird, not seeing you in a shirt / tie or a black
t-shirt...
it took me back... to the old days of...
"smooth-handshakes": i have £25 in my hand
she has a sachet of hash in her's... we shake hands in
public and the transaction is over...
she texted me last night: so... how's the "gear",
the dealer Adam wants to know...
i replied: well, i don't know... i haven't smoked it yet...
i'm all for delayed gratification...
i must have mentioned this already:
when i was younger i used to smoke marijuana to a level
of stoner, a stereotypical long-haired blonde "surfer boy"
type that an Australian girl would and did go out
with... i stooped to the level of binging on reggae music
and stoner rock and progressive rock blah blah...
an 1/8 (ounce) would last me a weekend...
then psychosis hit and i haven't smoked it for over 10 years...
a ******* invisible choir in a church
and a great wind that dispersed it... sad, sad story
(ha ha... back in 2007 it might have been
if nothing spectacular happened since...
but a lot has happened)...
but like i revealed to her: i need a smoking session
to be ritualistic...
i won't be delving into the mind that's high on hash
with the use of these two hands and a keyboard
and imaginary paper...
funny... when it comes to typing i'm very much
ambidextrous... you have to be... using a keyboard
to type... although... i once encountered
a general practitioner, old geezer... who used only one
hand to type, well... "typed"... he chicken-pecked with
his index finger the keys on the keyboard...
sure... some people go as far as use two index fingers
on both hands... me? i need to use all my fingers...
some i use more frequently otherwise i don't...
the pinky and the thumbs are especially favourite when
it comes to spacing and line-breakers and all the SHIFT
additions to a text... i think... i think i use the ring fingers
the least, mostly index, middle, thumb and pinky...
yes, the occasional ring finger: ah!
right hand ring finger is mostly used when deleting text,
and sometimes using the enter button
to give ground for a new line...

no, no one likes working with Danni, she's a terrible
supervisor, as most women when given
charge over young men,
instead of working with then, trying to gain them
she dismisses them and sends them packing: home,
not getting paid for a shift...
rifts of resentment... there are some aspects of
life that women don't understand:
their enlarged hearts are dismissive of certain
nuances... you can work with boys that
are not engaged with this simplest of works
concerning crowd safety, but you need to engage with them,
you can't just dismiss them!
i play into her thinking process that i'm
somehow her friend... she has already bought
the line and sinker... i'll keep her there...

i had to, for ****'s sake, take care of my staff
and her staff too, why?
who did she choose as a breaker,
Darwinism beckons, nature yawns...
a diabetic sick-girl who suffers from spells of standing-still
vertigo... i had to ask this sick girl to change her
function and stand in one place...
Danni? oh... she placed her in the worst possible
position... in a place where all the fans are rowdy
and constantly standing...
some people "think" they're thinking...
they're not...
i don't think they are being purposively
******* ******* but it just looks like this:
all-inclusiveness is not working out
as many have thought it might...
what are we talking about?
single men... tiger-mums in the East
and mantis-wives in the West...

how will a boss ***** relate to an unruly bunch
of teenage boys?
she won't! me? upon signing in i fist bump
or shake their hands... i recognise them...
men crave being recognisable, familiar,
constant... women? just attention-*******...
anonymously... or in passing...
men like to adapt to being recognised:
being familiar... women don't understand that
through their own self-objectification...
men are more prone to the: other's-subjectification...
a woman is self-objectifying
while a man is the subject-of-the-other...

i've watched enough people, i should know...
at a usual game i've built up this rapport with a few fans...
all the men are shouting out from the crowd:
hey! 5 bottle man!
a point of reference i should know about...
when this guy asked me for five bottles of water
from within the crowd...
he's referential point being: the subject-of-the-other...
women? ha!
they're like the solipsists of their youthful advantages
of looks... they are self-objectifying...
they are never a subject-of-the-other in their perception
of reality... they are not even an object-of-the-other
in their own mind's cravings...
could i ask a woman to dress up or put up make up
without her wanting to a priori the demands
or her own conjuring?!

but this one shift amazed me...
i had this breaker tell me...
'i'm not really sexist... but would you mind if i gave all
the female stewards breaks first,
before giving the males a break...'
i played it out... sure thing mate... you do that...
after all... the "new" gynocentric is the "old"
egalitarian movement, no?
let's see how this plays out...

              the old model worked according to: left to right...
or right to left... oh... not a spectacular specimen...
started talking me with all seriousness of
casualness... i hate my hair...
but you wear a baseball cap, mate, no wonder your
hair is matted... heard of Agar oil?
it's so much better than wax or hair gel...
but of course i didn't say it...
all the Asians with beards use it on their beards...
they carry bottles of Agar oil in their pockets to oil
up their ****** *****... i would too...
hadn't i oiled up before every shift...

sure thing mate... you do you "i'm not a sexist"
experiment by breaking the women before the men...

i'm just trying to figure out what i could possibly write
if i were in the vicinity of children that belong
to other people, how i could mould them with
the PROPER sort of ROT of explorative
tactics... hmm...

i'm getting a hard-on just thinking about it...
just the past two days i've been punishing myself
with a pleasure-delay tactic,
tomorrow i'm going to scoop the buds...
******* without *******...
my god... my hands are big...
no wonder i built up a beard-envy
and sort of forgot about a ***** envy...
the last ******* was sort of inhibited with her
pleasures... sort of uncomfortable...
half-way in and already the signs of discomfort...
big hands... mega business of jazz clapping...
well... that's life...

the KOMBUCHA mushroom people!
   shoe-g'ah!
rewrite everything in English phonetically!
come here, pwetty! give us a kiss!
smooches: yummy yummy!

but this guy "thought" he figured it out...
giving out all the breaks to the women
first, before the males...
i gave him the "substance" of "sport"...
work out? like **** it did...
one elder steward rebelled...
d'uh...
i'm taking into liking the Somali girls...
a Somali girl actually sent him back
to do things hierarchically...
from left, to right...
i'm a man... but i'm not a sexist...
seriously, mate, you're not a male...

it took a Muslim girl to teach you otherwise...
all smiling, smiles in slime...
i implored her: you know it wasn't my idea...
you know that he was just trying to get
his ***** wet in your ****:
not as literally...
she agreed with the most beautiful smile...
i'm starting to get turned off by white girls...
i'm starting to get turned off by white girls...
i'm finding the ones in niqabs and of a certain
ethnic "persuasion! rather attractive:
like one manager in the company
said the basics: black don't crack...

i'm looking at these girls and thinking:
butter melting by the power of the moon's rays...
how pretty they look...
i terribly want to **** them...
i'll terribly **** them!
these clues into nuns that Muslim women are
for a Don Giovanni...
these pretty petite Somali noses...
i bite i bite i bite i want to bite them
like cherries!

no wonder then...
i masturbated for two days prior to engaging with
the prostitutes...
i checked the proportions and non-proportions...
i'm done dealing with the ***-affairs of
stereotypical men...
i'll be ******* anything that moves...
married? not my problem!
seriously, not, my, problem!

mosh-pit carnal maggot fun!
well... if one generation sold us the patriarchal restrictions
being lifted, and what? we're to return to
a patriarchal system of "authority"...
you, what?!
i'm not going to live a life my elders lived with
full freedom that i'm somehow supposed to
inhibit, deny myself...

oh... i'm going to have the same as them: please!
no please?
then i'll **** the status quo!
simple!

the night crawls into a fruition of being limited
with being imbed....
two spiders for the worth of my hands....
i will die the most exotic pain
imaginable....
i iwlll surprise the "lost crowd".....
i will surprise the brothel...
30 minutes with one...
then as i am about to leave:
30 minutes with another...
and another... and another...
and another...

              one of those Lucy Letby trials...
only men are monsters...
my hernia and my Chernobyll
tattoo: the one she almost choked me
with... i survived...
i shouldn't have survived...
woman! agony to come!

i scratch my beard... i think: time is...
precious...
but women are very little inclined
into this dynamic.....
the world can burn!

death's trough: and pigs eat ****....
   best, kept reminder!

       well what a shift i truly wasn't expecting yout atypical
chocaletiers to come up with a game
of: broken chair frisby...
that yellow burning man pyro-technics was also
spectacular... but not even my mum would be
so concerned about my well-being as
this supervisor was today... what a terrible sloppy
mommy... i don't need to be protected
by your inability to protect me: i'll judge for myself...
******* busdy body...
i want in on the action...
    
i just couldn't wait for the shift to end...
i promised Frankie a review of the hash she sold me...
i told her:
i need to be tired from a shift,
i need some whiskey... i need an imaginary
octopus slobbering on my cranoum,
i need ***...

funny... the freely i have *** the more i'm detached
from it...
once upon a time i was all about pleasing
women... after they stopped pleasing me
i figured out: a **** it modus operandi...
time to be taken care of...
i think i'm so emotionally detached while having
*** that i'm borderline psychopathic...

not that i have any vanity project coming across
implying i might be hurt by
this condescending word...
no, rather the opposite: i very much enjoy it...

just today i stole another kiss from a *******...
she was so unwilling telling me:
you moustache is fiddly and it's tickling me...
but we kissed nonetheless...
she wasn't into ******* vaginally...
i felt growing limp at some point...
mental blockage...
it happens...
never again will i spend two days prior
jerking off without *******...
i know the "even horizon" of jerking off
and the moment when the head of the phallus
is being pierced via the ******* being
expanded: for men... anti-circumcision...
it's like being a ****** again and again: and again: and again...

she blew me, then massaged me with her long
fingernails...
oh... once she reached my cranium,
neck and shoulders... it felt better than the *******...
i was going limp... why? mental constipation...
it happens with men...
i was actually thinking about the furnace
of nothingness after *** after smoking some Afghan
hash... having grated into a cigarette on
a Rodin's take of ******* NUTMEG!

i ****, i love *******,
but i'm surrounded by people who don't like *******...
a terrible bewilderment...
to be alive is to love to ****...
who am i surrounded by? people who have attired themselves
in: progeny...
  people with children...
careless and carefree mothers of agony...

II.

i have to admit, it took me about 4 hours to wake up:
wake up proper...
each time i opened my eyes i felt myself
needing to turn to my side and fall back into nothingness
of that currency of switch-off brain
(let the body recuperate) -
a comforting numbness with a side dish of tickling
and fuzziness...
i woke up absolutely not interested in thinking...
for once... i wanted to absorb last night: fully...
frankly, i didn't want to let last night go...

O grand father time and the river that's your bride...
what a gloomy day... my perfect sort of day,
i'm so very fond of the weather of England,
more so the weather of Scotland,
island weather: my kind of weather,
gloomy, autumnal, the sweetness of botanical decay
and all the flourish of chlorophyll retreating from
the once bulging leaves of green...

wow... so that's what it feels like?
like that photograph by Richard Lam with the couple
who were knocked down by the riot police
during the Vancouver hockey riots
(Stanley Cup playoffs)...
well, last night it wasn't exactly like that...

west ham vs. Anderlecht... what a shift...
flares were thrown either side, chairs were ripped out
and used as frisbees... coins were thrown...
and i was on the edge of the tension...
me? never in a million years could have thought
the Belgians to be so triggered...
in comparison the Danish and German fans were tame...
phew...

afterwards like i said:
a magical combination of work fatigue,
an 8.2% cider and two or three sips of whiskey...
three cigarettes,
brothel... ***...
well... she didn't feel like having ***...
she felt like performing oral *** and looking
at herself in the mirror...
that's the first time i've seen it...
alternating from looking in the mirror at herself
and looking into your eyes
and then closing her eyes... a rare combination...
it's usually eyes looking at you
or eyes closed... rarely out of her own accord
looking at herself in the mirror...

and then? laying on my stomach the better part
of the evening: a massage... shoulders...
back... long nails digging into my flesh and...
roughing up my hair...
then? persuasions to steal a kiss...
yes! stole one... she was put off slightly by the tickling
of my beard...
but my god... those nails digging into my shoulders
neck and head...

another one i will give a book of poetry to...
raven hair work of a blue night in Venice...
then onto home and some more whiskey
and... that Afghan hash...
   two pinches of it being heated up... so... not much...

i just smoked a cigarette and opened my cigarette ash
tray (a jar that formerly housed pickles)
and peered in... what?! i only smoked half of the Afghan
hash joint?! seriously?!
i'm a light-weight... that 15 year break from smoking
anything has seriously did me some good....
me? last night? i was travelling across the entire
universe... i was hallucinating a darkness that was
a thinking-darkness that was heartbeat-darkness
a musical-darkness... i was travelling with the sort
of energy that could connect the dots between
gravity and antimatter...
     i was on the edge of a black hole and my heart was
dancing...
upon waking you have to listen to something
like Bruce Springsteen's Human Touch...

a touch of a woman... i'll agree with any critic:
i am a paranoid psychopath during ***...
i don't like being lied to during ***...
i have enough pornographic doubts to understand
that i don't want to be ******* an actress...
she might be a *******: but to hell with *******
actresses... even in their own words
they are asexual... prostitutes on the other hand
are closer to nymphomaniacs than actresses...

what, after the ****** revolution of the 1960s
future generations would tame the whole Pandora down?!
i don't think so... the Vietnam war had the best
soundtrack (period)... am i going to slow down?
no! but this Western Model that a man has to have a *******
horse cart and cottage to have *** is beneath me...
no! no! i looked into the Japanese model of
the Love Hotels and figured...
well... that's not getting any traction over here...
and since i'm only willing to follow the Laws of the Dogs
i.e. a dog only ***** if a ***** is willing to give...

and if prostitutes are the only ones willing while
the remaining women are interested in pair bonding
*******... i tried that... dates... clams and oysters
and spaghetti dates... cinema dates...
russian roulette of condoms and contraceptive pills...
i tried but i figured...
not even the whole dating app hook-up culture...
that **** passed me by, i was being busy in my 20s
unravelling a schizophrenia misdiagnosis
and reading up on philosophy...

                         imagine that... unlike Syd Barrett...
i descended into madness and... looks like many years
later i have emerged a pillar of nerves...
i'm calm during crowd riots,
i'm calm in the middle of one guy trying to choke
another guy to death while calming both of them...
and i can sit very calmly across 5 women that
i ******... oh sure... and i don't need that much
alcohol to have a brave heart... just a little...
and i won't flinch... i'll look all five of them in the eyes
and take my time before choosing one
of them for yet another night...
  
Western narratives morphing words like
******* into *** worker... "*** traffic" blah blah...
spoken by women about women
who actually enjoy having ***...
a female intellectual is hardly interested in ***:
true or false statement?
sooner rather than later i realised that i'm
more than just a political or a social animal...
i'm a ****** animal...

i like the idea of: an abstraction of people...
a sort of pedestrian abstraction... a quickie encounter...
a snippet of an entire other world that appears
and disappears as one might assume for it to be the case
in the macrocosm reality of time and all the people
in the world and the past and future to come...
but this... in a microcosm sort of imitating-the-host-of-god
so of way...

maybe because it's because of that Van Morrison song
Brown Eyed Girl... maybe, just maybe...
a well worn leather peeping through those eyes,
a body i could pretend to sit on
and snooze, or something like that...
it's just so much easier when women drop all their guards
and something casual can be achieved
without all that neuroticism of relationships...

i wish i learned this lesson when i was younger:
you can never love one woman,
well... you can love your mother,
you can tease your mother in a way that she feels
more like a friend than some authority figure...
and even if there's Lucy Letby when you were
born, attempting to **** you by somehow choking
you in a way that enlarged your heart
on top of the hernia and oh: if mother was in agony
giving birth to you you gave a second birth unto
yourself with equal agony:
no wonder that i turned to prostitutes for what
i really needed...
the medication of touch...

i'm not going to hide my intentions or for that matter
boast with "performance cues"...
sometimes it's long, sometimes it's short...
sometimes this, sometimes that...
but i'm sometimes a very impatient man
and i don't like being impatient...
even now: it would be pointless to merely focus my
attention on one woman...
a projected investment with Khadra that i ended
with buying her lingerie and not over-stepping
her demands to push further with 18-carat
earrings and necklace: let's be realistic...

of all the things i gave her, my bleeding heart of
poems blah blah...

point being, i just have Samuel Little and Jack the Ripper
on my mind when engaging with ***
with prostitutes... esp. when kissing them...
how could they?
**** me... not enough girls out there to ready yourself
for work in a nightclub and save up enough
dough to buy a mandolin and play it outside one
those girl's windows...

in a way i'm a loser that won...
a very limited number of pastimes occupying my mind...
reading, writing, listening to music,
cycling, walking, ***...
i replaced watching movies with the cinema of
my memory... surely if i were a bad man i wouldn't
want to remember anything from the past...
hell... if there's no afterlife i'll just relive my life
in reverse... i jump into the vehicle of memory
and unravel all that i have forgotten...
because i don't believe eternity could be spent
so idly as presented by either heaven or a hell stasis
of a realm...
i could fill out eternity given the dynamic of what
i remember and what i have forgotten
(not by choice, but by the naturally fickle selection
of memory, eroded by the pedagogy rubrics
of arithmetic and spelling, to begin with)...

Pianos are crashing inside my head as the yellow light of the city and the sun force me into an excruciating halt. An affectionate young man- who is now old, yet remembers the skin he shed- sighs about ****** premonitions through the medium of digital frequencies. A car edges its way to my side- my father tells me “we’re almost there”- the car is positioned in such a contrived way that should I turn my attention exactly ninety degrees rightwards, I would be obliviously vying for the driver’s attention. The thought unnerves me, so I encourage my divagated musings elsewhere. Why did my father tell me that we were nearing our destination? Did he meekly say it, with the meagre velleity of keeping me aware of my surroundings? Where else could my head go, but up?
Pedestrians, their knees adorned with snow trinkets, fall within my periphery. As our car fit itself into a fleeting crevice on the cliff face of concrete, I adjusted my vision into a volitional telescope, narrow and explorative. Among the constellation of humans lay writers in poses denoting propriety, cigarettes suggesting esotericism, and face begging for denial. Facsimiles of these characters dance between the ivory-laced walkways of the interconnected district. I am disgusted by this labile beauty. I am fearful that I will witness its extinction.
I crossed the indifferent street, sure that my haste wasn’t apparent, and therefore, non-existent.
“Disappointingly, the record store sat waiting, knowing of my excitement”, said a fool, pricking my ear. I almost ran for an officer, indignant in my role as a victim to his verbal impotence. When I regained my composition, I paid full attention to the unassuming door between a burger shack and some unidentifiable after-thought-structure. This door, pedestrian to most, contains within it what a common walker would consider heaven. It is, to me, a strenuous Sunday stroll of impulse and and opulence. There is no point in resisting that which makes me happy yet unstable. I could not do without it. To deny is to doubt the music that I loved, and am currently beholden to by chains; the lobotomical sort.
I scoured the store and bough the prized possession. It was quite probably a Tim Buckley record. Here comes a man, quick and close, with a chartreuse disposition.
“I see you thinkin’ kid, it makes my brain throw up alllll funny things. If my erradition ever had anyin’ ta say, it’d shout that you’s too rowdy a rider.” Good sir, a sharp mind and apt humour is all I need to keep myself from harm. I wrote that down, walkings as if the stiff block was nothing but. Such a misdemeanour, to be so passive. I lingered forward and onwards.

i never thought that you could cook a curry without using either powdered cumin or coriander... it could be universally accepted that a curry base involves the use of cumin, coriander... onion, ginger... garlic... but not this Bengali Rezala... of course there's turmeric... chilli... five green cardamom pods... two black cardamom grenades... acacia tree bark which can replace cinnamon... a little grating of nutmeg... black peppercorns... 3 to 4 cloves... cashews & poppy seeds soaked in water: mushed... no tomatoes... i cannot stress the superiority of the Indian subcontinent cuisine... i don't remember the last time i craved for something European... what? a toad-in-a-hole? a shepherds' pie? a *******... schnitzel?! Europeans can do breakfast... but a dinner is so sad... simple: but grotesque food... all lineage has been cut... literally... "we" are "us" and... "they" are "them"... self... other... cultural exclusivity... contra cultural inclusivity... i find that... it's only adding and substituting the ancient Greek conundrum of consolidating the particular with the universal... subjectivity is paradoxical event: i want to be inclusive but at the same time i want to be exclusive... for the solo project... i sometimes want to feel what others feel: at sporting events... but then... those prized nuggets of: only me, me alone... i stopped liking philosophising a long time ago... what would the quadratic of objectivity look like? objective inclusivity is so rare... it's a... whisper... a whimper! it's pedestrian: strain... which is why objectivity is the exclusivity of things being: "not-being" things... a stone can't argue against being a stone... but... rarely... i can argue for the acacia bark to be synonymous with barks of cinnamon... turmeric can negate my claim that it's a cheaper: yet richer... variation of saffron... blah... i used to elevate language like this... but i've forgotten to do so with some searching purpose... of late... of seemingly never before: or after...

in third person: watch the schematics of man under
the scrutiny of being cut-up...
yet this body still intact...
what a petty little creature... perhaps not so petty:
perhaps just feral...
ego in the zoo of thought:
is it a peacock... a lion... a monkey?
i sometimes wonder...
when i sit down and write i can hush it...
i can escape it... when i sit down to write
and see: letters, letters that become words
and words that become sentences...
i can escape the idle musings of this
little feral creature... my totem: a fox...
         yet how to understand the old trinity
with the new trinity...
how is man to understand so many cogs and
how much of the ÷
              (obelus... return to the altar of ouroboros)
it can be enough to merely fear
so crippling that: once mere thinking was
potential... an adventure...
now i'm shattering...
   a breath of the cognitive faculty is like
a scratch at a mountain: a mountain i will never lift:
let alone climb...
yet all around me... mirages of people
who have been deployed with the certainty
of shadows bound to trees...
if the sea could cast a shadow...
          - last night i sat drinking and peered
into an eucalyptus tree in my garden...
of its three most protruding stems
there glistened a pantheon of ancient germanic
faces...
in an eucalyptus...
how ancient: bearded they appeared:
glistening in the rain covered leaves...
constantly changing their expressions...
i must have seen... a legion of them...
they morphed in an out: yet somehow returned
to their original composition...
by day... the magic was gone...
but i was only drinking:
i imagine what could have happened if
i taken some hallucinogenics...
maybe when on the cusp of dementia i'll find
some to revive a tired mind...
- it seems to me... that i don't have to believe
in "something" these days...
i merely need to be apprehensive of
being left suspect... subjected to:
being the object of a voyeurism that goes
beyond... mere ****** fetishes:
as if to say... the gods have erred...
the ancient ones have erred and are...
now... somehow...
looking back toward the cauldron of
inspiration from the mortal leftovers of men...
- i will not write a measured
geometric representation with poo'em...
i'm not cooking my ancestors would be
accustomed: what was once salt, pepper...
all-spice... the bay leaf...
horseradish... pepper powder...
              i can truly appreciate a good curry...
but to stage it as: primum exemplum...
          it's great... but it's not the only source
of sustenance...
    what about that one: the Imam fainted?
while eating a stuffed aubergines...
                              imam bayıldı...
fi...  Saturn bites off the head of
his son...
                       fi...
                                like a fiddle...
i have not left anything for my father to
be envious of...
i missed the whole unsatisfactory dating
process of my 20s and 30s...
for i... supposedly went mad...
in my 21st year... so... i left the planet
that's so preoccupied with sunrise...
sunset and gravity...

- but i couldn't serve up someone a full bodied stew
for breakfast...
let me tame them with some milder...
like well buttered bread...
some eggs... to begin the day...
i couldn't overpower the lack of ingenuity
of the subcontinent of India need: Ned:
a sauce out...
there must be some culmination pointers...
to begin with...
  akin to: it's better to drink when the sun sets...

ha ha! some bad take of off: on a hurried sexuality...
while as many women have explored theirs
i've been in the trenches picking / pecking
at the scrap-heap of... amateurs...
the glorified ****** revolution only
happened to one ***...
from the 1960s... it has only made
the women advantageous to their....
explorative... plight...

  cult of the statue born from salt...
bone & stone...
i'm starting to think it might have
been my mother...
then again... her mother implored her
mother to be dead... and the mother
had no recognition of the selfie...

            ex nihil: ut nihil...
dum tela orbis...
                            accidit...
                  mea ist...

                     do i look like some youthful Christian
pastor of old?
am i being... somehow... conscripted
into a... Mormons' effort?
it's a beer... it's one beer, two beers: think...
will someone buy me
airline tickets to fly into Iowa
to speak about: the antithesis of Jim?
   i'm scared: i'm scarred... the world is big...
i really don't need it to become any
bigger... i have a laughing maggot in
my *** that stages the ****-show:
you best be placed... right here...

The first time he touched me
I was timid, and wanted to run to my mother
But he told me this was normal
And there was no use in being afraid
My life was already filled with so much pain
I had no experience, so who was I to object?
His hands were rough and shaking with his excitement
I shivered in fear,
How was I to react?
He told me no one wanted a ******
That he was preparing me for the man who would make me his
I didn't know anyone better
When hands gripped my *******, I held the screams at bay
It didn't feel normal
But I was only ten
How could I know the difference?
When fingers became explorative,
And found the most womanly part of me of all
I cried silent tears
When rough hands forced my thighs apart
I wanted to scream in pain
When I went home
I stayed in the shower for hours
Scrubbing till my skin was raw and bleeding
I always felt *****
I was *****
I had betrayed my family
But most of all, I had betrayed myself
I never truly lost my virginity
But I lost the innocence
That I had once carried about with joy
When will I have my justice?
When will he suffer
For the time that he made me suffer?