Garnier.
The shampoo that makes you put your hands in the air
and scream and shout because you like the smell of your hair.
Disaster strikes when you find you've emptied your share.
So next day, you hurry back to the dragon's lair,
only to find a sign that says, "Buy one, get one free, if you dare."
You wonder why it doesn’t say, “Ferocious beast. Beware.”
Suddenly, you hear something scampering – a hare.
The beast is approaching. You escape but end up taking the pair.
You emerge from the shops feeling like royalty – the heir
to the magnificent and brilliant throne of Garnier.
Something strange is happening. You can feel it, on skin so fair,
with the wind chilling you to the bones and frizzing your hair.
Your ****** features tell it all, a reaction like that is rather rare.
In fact, one man notices you and continues to stare.
Sensing eyes, you turn around, see the man and glare.
You believe that men have no manners, something you should declare.
Yet many oppose your sentiments. They have faith in the mayor,
albeit they complain about the bus fare.
Return to reality. Why is it, your body feels bare?
Glancing at the empty bottle in your hand; a picture of a mare
and some words. You read it out loud, “Take care.
Garnier”.

dear future partner,
i am sorry to inform you that you can’t run your fingers through my hair
it isn’t silky or smooth like a tall white girl in a brightly colored Garnier commercial

but try running through the fields of mind,
approach gently at each thought that greets you
touch sweetly, for every dream you unfold is delicate, easily molded by those who refuse to slow down for me
glide carefully as you discover unwanted spots in my brain, left by other travelers who I mistakenly allowed to begin a journey within me

you can’t run your fingers through my hair,
but you can traverse freely through my memories as they roll off of my tongue and onto yours
feel the wind rush past my ears as my lips take you back through time and space until your own mind begins to latch onto memories of mine.
a child on a swing. kicking back her legs and greeting the sky with a smile, unknowing and unfearing of all obstacles ahead of her.

you can’t run your fingers through my hair without pulling back a weird mixture of coconut oil, leave in conditioner, and whatever product is still there before wash day

but run your hands carefully on my skin
listen to the sounds of my scars as they whisper stories unable to escape my throat
appreciate the too soft or too rough, too loose or too tough parts of my body as they welcome you to me

and when it seems as if there’s no running left, come close.
lay your head on my chest; feel me rise and fall
as I try to my fingers through you.

Keep-A-Breast
                                 Apple
             OtterBox
                                                    Acu-Rite
    Dial                                                                Aquafresh
                        Oral-B
        ACT                                Garnier                                           Equate
    Hanes
On the Byas  
                            Rude
                                                        Toms
                                Dakine
                                                                 Acu-Vue  
Ponds                                                                                         Degree
  Preferred Stock    
                                    Mighty Wallet
                                              Hot Topic
                     Keurig                                        Dixie
                                                                                               Donut Shop
Domino

International Delight

                                 Peter Paul's
Best Yet                                                            Great Value

                                        Instagram
Facebook
        Snapchat                                           Yik Yak
                                                                              Forever 21

                Adventure Time
FSC                                     Bic                 The Poetry Foundation
             Staedtler                               Pilot                Sharpie            Microsoft
The Norton Anthology
  

                                                         Toshiba            Dell          Expo
Lipton  
Emerica
Anti Hero                                MOB                   Shorty's

               Bones               Thunder  
                                                                                        Shake Junt
                                                                                       Swingline
                                                                                      Pandora
Tommy Hilfiger

'                            Jill                Greg                 Ashley          Courtney

Judy
Bob
Janice                    
Shannon                                                                                   Kelly

Robert                                 Emily                  Jeremy      Darrin      Liza

Bill                Joe                         Dominic            Sean              James

Gav                             Jordan                   Tony              Eric


Christopher

not here, here, here

-eyes closed-

a bath rub filled with bubbles
shaped like balloons rising in the air
her heart cut open, she can’t preclude
the secret nature of her love

and, he loved her, he loved her
he watched her every ballet she danced
a butterfly moving on tiptoes
tripping the light en pointe with
painted pale lips, winged eyeliner
silk Lacroix corset and feathered tutu

performing Swan Lake
at the Palais Garnier
the promised faery tale ballets
graceful movements to Tchaikovskys’s
compositions, telling the story of Odette
drowning in the lake falling to her fate

-KNOCK-

not here, here, here

-eyes open-

his voice; Laurier
her soul; punctured by her lover
a locked bathroom door
she kisses away her melancholy madness

not here, here, here*

© Sia Jane

Boris likes to stroke his Mogg
Merkel loves a hot Macron
David Davis hates to Barnier
Keir Starmer gels with Garnier

May adores her slimy Gove
While Corbyn woos the Abbott
Liz Truss? Such angry sourpuss
Herself to champion loudly fuss

And Greening's not for leaning
Against the Brexit so opposed
Sajid wants a blimp of Trump
Which has given Donald the ****

Whilst in the gilt historic chair
We’ve a bent partisanal ******
Cash grabbing John the squeaker
Bercow! How in hell are you still Speaker?

Now when speaking of selfish greed
Travel. Duck houses. Second homes, and such
Let’s remember; as not to would be unfair
That glib arrogant war-monger; Blair

I’ve had enough of all of them
The Blunts. The Hunts. The useless…
Pieces of flotsam and jetsom
Don’t even start me on Leadsom!


©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)

i can't believe this has already happened,
in a work environment you'd expect some sort of professionalism
but it's back to sq. 1 of dealing with people
at work as if it's a school-playground...
the moment Gemma entered the scene it must have
become obvious to the other girls (they're not women,
they lost that status today)
that i took a liking to her... i still don't get it as to why
i have a crush on her... i mean: she's out of reach,
not because she's this stunner: to me she is...
or that she's younger than me and i'm not a supervisor /
manager and therefore i can't impress her with
a higher status...
she's out of reach because i already know her life story...
she expanded upon it today...
mein gott... compared to her life: i merely exist...
she's the one that lived a life: i've merely existed
(as the saying goes) - 7 attempts at a pregnancy...
7 miscarriages... or whatever the problems were...
two attempts at marriage: both times she pulled it off...
raising a boy as a single mum...
an ex: her baby's-father who didn't pay her any alimony
or helped her with rent... a child that hasn't ever
seen his father... then some other ex who trained
as a boxer... 9 years her junior... who was ostracized by
his family for dating a woman much older...
she apparently showed him the sort of life he wanted
to live... ended up with him beating her up
and the child... running her into 9K of debt:
spiralling out of control...
                 how in her 20s she was working in the financial
sector and earning good money,
getting a mortgage... now: look at me, she says,
i'm working security at football stadiums...
she also has an M.O.T. license - she can check whether
cars are eligible to be driven on roads:
whether they're safe, since her dad (now retired)
used to own his own garage...
she also slyly mentioned psychosis...
                        breakdowns, social workers...
oh... look... one madman meets a madwoman...
no wonder there's an immediate attraction...
   i haven't mentioned that to her yet...
i'm throwing caution against the wind...
since? my psychosis aged 21 was slightly different...
walking into a church and hearing a choir of singing
"angels" (well, they weren't the ******* Baptist choir
from a church in Georgia) - i sampled a choir in my head?
what?! and then the great wind that dispersed the choir
as i started panicking and checking my MP3 player
for an alternative music... yeah... i put headphones in...
played some music... the choir was still singing...
i hid under the altar and covered myself
in a white cloth from the altar, shivering with fear...
then running aimlessly around the church
the wind descended...
that was back in 2007... funny things have happened since
2007... it's hardly a coincidence...
no i sometimes hear something akin to:
WIDZISZ    (in my mother tongue) - YOU SEE...
honestly, compared to her life: i merely existed...
she has lived: i had pockets of opportunity to live
(as the saying goes among people who "suffer" from
f.o.m.o. - fear of missing out) - i "missed" out on
the life usually lived by people in their 20s...
i could have started this security job in my 20s...
but it's not like an opportunity arose - well: until now...
i could have been a manager by now...
instead: "god" and ****... and writing these doodles...
any regrets? what, the time i ran with deer that
were obstructing a traffic intersection while holding
a can of beer: playing off the stag of the little harem
with young? inviting a fox to come to my garden
for daily food for about a month?
having a sparrow fly into my hand from a bush (ages ago,
Valentine's park, i must have been 8 or 9) -
no...
when she asked me: who do you live with
and my reply is: well, not my peers, i still live with my parents,
but i do most of the cooking, all of the housework,
the gardening and some DIY...
i feel ashamed saying that... even though i'm not some
loner gamer based in the basement not being helpful
around the house like a custodian ought to be...
then again: i'm not a single father either... so that's that...
but single mothers are never told to feel ashamed:
i'm inherently ashamed for still living with my parents...
i too might be hurting someone:
to put it all into biblical proportions i.e. how
a man is to get away from his mother and father and get
with a woman... these days? i'd replace my own mother
and father with: a father-in-law and a mother-in-law:
because a woman will always drag the man into her
family circle... so it's ****: either way...
- she regretted not going to university,
i told her that i regret having went to university,
if your son thinking about going to university?
yeah, he is... i wish i went into a trade school...
bad idea: sending him to university...
he wants to work in finance... well, that's fine...
as long as he's not studying the humanities:
universities are cess pools of indoctrination these days...
but... last time i heard: law departments at university
are not safe from leftist propaganda... what are the chances
that the sciences and economics will be?
science can be undermined by transgender biological
warfare... economics: well... erm... Marxism?
she also knows that i haven't been in a relationship since
i've been 21... now that i'm 35... what's that, i asked?
14 years... 15 years sooner rather than later...
i didn't tell her about my visits to the brothel
or the random one-night-stand...
          with the current funny geo-political ambiance:
it would have been hard having a Russian wife / girlfriend...
oh yeah, she proposed to me... chose the ring...
then she broke it off... so... technically:
i feel less guilty about how it ended - since i didn't end it...
Gemma... all the girls i ever really fancied had
that name... no... this is not some astrological conspiracy
theory... it just so happens that the two i'm thinking
of had the same sort of hue of ginger hair...
bombshells by my reading... and i thought i had
an archetypical weak-spot for blondes... turns out:
as much as i love Turkic raven haired girls...
a certain type of ginger makes me weak in the knees...
i'm still ******* confused... i get nervous, i get excited...
what the hell is wrong with me?
i'm playing a game of thinking that:
something might be on the cards...
we're already talked about that last time when she came
home to an empty house and ate a Chinese take-away
on her own... although we're working as part
of a team i still don't have her number: even though
i might need it for work reasons...
i'm playing this ****** game of being infatuated like
a teenager... well great, for me, of being only 4 years
her junior... but i'm constantly trying to bang my head
against the wall of impossibility of:
you go down this rabbit hole... things are going
to get ugly... i don't even think about getting hurt:
i'm thinking that i might do her more damage...
that wouldn't be fair...
but it has finally happened...
people are shifting, choosing sides... about 2 months in
and it's happening like it might be a schoolyard...
today i learned that this other... single mum:
5 kids... from 5 different fathers...
she only manages to live in a house for about a month
before she has rent arrears...
big... chunky girl... for the most part i thought she
had a decent personality... she joked that i wanted to hold
her hand... so... i arch my arm and wait for her
to put it into the slot... but she literally wanted
me to hold her hand like a father might hold a daughter's...
not like i'm a man and she's a woman and she puts her
hand into my trouser pocket or rests it on my forearm...
literally holding hands...
but it has happened...
a woman's take on violence... i'd rather slap myself
in the face...
one girl being jealous of another girl...
because a boy is giving the other girl more attention:
is being more tentative to her needs: since...
Gemma is much smaller than the lass i'm referring to who:
has started using... reputational propaganda...
strange... that she goes against the guy (i.e. me) rather than
a fellow female...
so Gemma turns out today and tells me:
oh, you know what she said? that you stank of alcohol
on the job...
i could seriously go through a list of chemistry i use
to pamper my *** up for the job...
sure, i might be drinking into the night,
but it's hardly me merely drinking...
i drink to exfoliate in my scribbles...
avon's soft skin - an air brush spray: which contains
alcohol,
      any and every ****** cream... Garnier...
Nzuri's argan oil on the hair mixed with
style expertise wax diluted with some water...
Ossion beard balsam... 1881 aftershave...
some sprayed on my neck just below my heard line...
some on my beard, some on my **** collar...
obviously some deodorant... best the soft scented
Dove stuff... Colgate toothpaste, bubblegum flavoured
gum chewed for almost 4 hours prior to an event...
some tobacco influence, some coffee...
i even apply some foot deodorant..
one accusation flies against another...
that's why i'm seeing this red flag...
Gemma says that X said Y about me: that i stink of
alcohol... wow... with all that pandering...
i'm surprised she might whiff up a scent of bourbon...
but X already pointed out... she ******* sniffed me
up... she put her nose in almost a touching distance
of my neck: oh, what smells so funny...
no... wait... you're just smelling good...
this is ******* schoolyard politics 2.0...
girls being girls... boys being... boys... boys actually
tending to their physique, their presentation...
an aesthetic...
if i were happily married with 4 kids, like Dan,
my supervisor i'd have a more: **** it attitude...
but now... one girl with aqua-marine girls keeps telling
the joke that: i honestly misheard her say:
hello darling for: hello daddy...
Gemma think she's being rude to her / not being friendly...
while also said X is telling me i smell nice
while Gemma says that X was telling everyone
that i smell of bourbon... what, under those 7 ******* layers
of scents that ends me soaking up a scent of soap...
so... my conclusion is...
Gemma doesn't have the audacity to tell me i smell
good... so she has to make it out that X said i smell of *****...
while X said that i smelt good...
you know... this makes absolutely:
all the necessary sense that it allows itself to allow...
while i'm the one who's somehow endearing
and have an affectionate heart / a rubber ear
to listen to life stories... no one is really going to
listen to mine...
             to reiterate: Gemma says X said that i smelled
of ***** on the job... i tend to sober up, proper,
on a commute... but then i use all these chemicals to
smell good... X managed to bypass her inhibitions
and tell me that i smell good: sniffing my neck...
what, the, ****, is this?
i'm not even as pessimistic as Daniel with regards
to people: sure, some might be *******, outright...
but some people are just like children...
they want to be told: no, you didn't **** up...
you want me to hold your hand in hand?
within my confines: i don't think i could ever arrive
at the unconscious realisation of resurrecting the child:
to feed myself with blamelessness...
that's not how the man-child dynamic works...
such petty lies.... petty politics...

one girl spread rumours about another girl...
come to think of it: it wasn't an attack on me:
since Gemma immediately retracted the accusation
with a way to defend me...
it was false from the get-go...
what Gemma didn't allow herself to follow-up on is
what girl X already arrived at:
a dis-inhibition of telling me that i smell good...
i'm working on her, i need more time...
i'm teasing her, sexually tensing her up...
like today... i bought her coffee... at first she asked for
3 sugars, then she asked for 2 sugars...
so? i bought myself a coffee and a coffee for her...
both were white... i put 3 sugars in one...
i put 2 sugars in the other...
i was gagging for her to suckle at the make-shift ****
of plastic for i could taste her back:
i already asked her to smoke a cigarette
she was already smoking which she willingly gave up...
but no... she took the plastic-****-cap off and drank
from the side: as i explained to her:
sorry, confused the two coffees...
which one is sweeter?

well... that "confusion" being sorted...
second "thinking" comes to mind, spinning an alternative
narrative... oh, sure, at first i did the right thing
of thinking that these two girls were out to destroy my
reputation... but being single mothers...
one has 5 brats from 5 different fathers,
the other has 1 child from 1 father...
some ******, ex... 7 miscarriages...
                  they're going out against each other...
they are... X tells me i smell good while
the other is telling me that X said i was scented with
bourbon...

considering that X has already started bragging that
she can get through a half a bottle of brandy in a single
night...

women! why have the gods "cursed" me with
such attributes that women: still in their 30s are behaving
like careless whisperers of bogus...
and then they turn around and tell you:
how their relatives worked in the security services
and how it was oh so different back then:
what? you mean when men only worked with men?!
and there was none of this pseudo-speed-dating
******* around?
i started to kee stressing:
so... we're here to avoid another Hillsborough Tragedy?
and all the women look at me all funny...
aren't we?!

lying: a byway of compensating for our life's works being
undermined from the get go...
i stopped myself from lying for the simple reason
that lying erodes memory: you always have
to back up one lie with another lie...
but... if you tell but one truth...
you can ******* toward the void of silence...
from what i've seen, from what i heard...
people who tell lies, who allow themselves to
                           be self-aggrandising...
who never channel self-deprecating humour...
well... i sniff it out... i too am recipient of scent...
it might not be *****... it might not be shampoo
or cologne... it's something deeper...
i might only be a steward... the minion,
the infantry pawn... but i sense something,
"something" is suspicious...

then again; how the **** have i managed to juggle
my current predicament, i will never know...
women... they ******* each other off...
what am i, best next suitor for their children that
i am not a father of?
me? ancient Rome's good uncle Caesar?
sure, i'd love to be even the most remote: surrogate status:
if i was given full access... but even these poor *******'
biological fathers are not given full access...

who the **** am i? what, i know that universities
are ideological breeding grounds, that i too agree:
it's going to become a waste of money?
that i know ethnic words like: niqab?!
that i can't be anti-racist: because even the racists
are people that need to be catered to?
i can be: non-racist... but i can't be anti-racist,
why? yeah, a low-hanging fruit...
trying to establish a new aristocracy...
my preferred pronouns are:
the royal ONE & WE...

one might think that we are not invoked to
ask such questions or to give such answers...
one is always supposed to counter any deviances
with a: we might do Z...
one most certainly concerns oneself with:
ought we?! if one is not concerned with (an) i;
since one is rarely to be bound to being agreeable with,
yet, disposing of an agreeableness
that constitutes a we; paradoxically...
it ought to be believed that that's how the English Restoration
looked like... on the basis of how language was
utilised...

year 0... we're not really having this conversation...
believe me (that) we're no(t) having it...
you're not reading this,
i actually haven't written it...
it's just a figment of your "imagination"...
but to think that the infra-sctructure of
the English language would be / could be... undermined
by their own native population....
so easily... as to be so accommodating to the fringes
of society?!

hey! maestro! now you let the orchestra play!
o.k.?!

what the hell is happening... i've just put in a 12 hour shift...
well...
getting picked up at 9:45am at a Covid vaccination
centre... woke up at 7:30am... drank a coffee smoked two
cigarettes... brought in Saturday's newspaper...
****** off proper at around 9am for the meeting...
managed to get another coffee and a sausage egg muffin
from McDonald's, smoked another cigarette...
slightly hangover, but most certainly pampered myself
with some stuff... after having taken a shower...
bubble-gum on the ready after having brushed my teeth
like a dentist:
- garnier body intesive care cream on my face,
   hands, the nether-regions, feet...
- diesel, fuel for life, two hits of the spray
   on the area below my beard and smeared across my collar
   bone,
- avon skin so soft, airbrush spray on the face,
- nzuri argan oil on hair & beard...
- then some style expertise wax 04
(flexible hold) so your hair still looks naturally held
together.... you can actually put your hand through it
and you will not get any residue...
- MORFORE OSSION beard care balsam...
   turkish... all the best products for beard are
turkish... like the barbers: the best barbers are...
turkish!
- some deodorant under the armpits,
the ***-crack... the groin region and all over the torso...
shirt-ironed, trousers ironed, clip-on tie firm set...
shoes polished... thermal socks donned...
off to Oxford for Oxford United vs. Wigan Athletic...
first job... enter the turnstile cage... lock myself in...
the ticket reader wasn't working...
got a tally clicker...
supervisor came back with a working ticket reader...
but i still used the tally clicker...
managed to allow passage of 218 people into
the stadium... the children looked amazingly...
sincere with regards to authority of sorts...
caged man... some boy asked... why is that man
in that cage? has he been naughty?
so i endeared him... yeah... i've been a very naughty man...
i still find it weird when women tell their children:
give your ticket to the MAN...
mind what... the MAN is telling you to do...
in my 20s i never reached that level... i was still a boy then...
everything went smoothly...
the tickets i scanned went through...
the tickets the scanner wouldn't scan i just brush aside
with the clicker... most were season ticket holders...
10 minutes into the match, one or two late-comers
and then we shut the turnstile gates...
next? pitch-side duty... this time i got a seat...
watched the crowd... my god... the football crowd in
London... tame *******...
go anywhere outside of London and you're getting
fanatics! the Wigan Athletic crowd...
i mean: men in their 40s / 50s... on the face of it...
yet deep down... teenagers...
drunk, mad, chanting... by the end of the match
losing their voices...
one father was more of a kid than the kid he was
with: was... spotted this one guy smoking,
another jumped the barrier...
for once i didn't actually watch the match...
i had an eye on this one... classical English beauty...
i'm guessing a single mum who came with two of
her children, her father and mother...
the mother didn't look that bad either...
sometimes you can isolate a woman's face in a crowd
and... a war might be happening...
you sort of become oblivious to everything beside
the serenity such a face imbues and translates onto
you something... Sophia-esque... Athena...
she might not be... but... appearances are appearances...
12 hours from since i left the house to when
i returned... i tried to eat something...
first that chicken burger on my way home...
3 chips... i couldn't eat more...
my stomach had shrunk to the point that i might as well
have done a day of Ramadam...
bought some whiskey and pepsi on the way...
hanged it on the fence at the back of my garden:
i am only drinking... because i smuggle the alcohol in...
then tried to eat some rice & a chickpea / spinach curry
i made a day prior...
couldn't lodge that into my shrunk stomach...
i decided to get some calories
by drinking a glass of milk infused with
some Nesquik straberry powder...
worked a miracle...
then one cider & now some whiskey & pepsi...
i was falling asleep watching some
Masterchef professionals...
sorry... nothing can compare the Australian
amateurs...
they're such a new culture: and i look at them,
as a people: drawn into civilization building
from the ground-up, beginning with a cuisine
that's unique to them...
all the old European cuisines seem rather stale
by comparison...
i jolted myself: tired, restless...
******* i lay in my underwear on the floor
of my bedroom having placed my feet on
the radiator...
i don't care what anyone says...
you always feel cold from the feet up...
if your feet are cold... the rest of your body feels
cold... warmed my feet... still restless...
tired... really tired... but that's the problem with
my tiredness... i also somehow to feel... *****...
i had to do two no. 3s in a row...
tame *******... recently... what's her name...
that singer of BAD GUY was celebrated
by journalists for coming out against
******* apologists...
i'm sorry... what sort of ******* are, "you" watching?
the freakiest i ever allowed myself to become
was watching a ******* gloryhole compilation
of women jerking off a ***** that started shooting
custard... probably while listening to E Nomine's
song angst...
i'm tired but also too *****... i need to calm down
a little...
and perhaps the Hebrews have a fair point about
this "taboo"... of the solipsist Onan...
the Arabic religion isn't so strict... after all...
their mother was a concubine of Abraham...
   it's not like i 'm doing it in a ******* armchair,
with scented candles, with a ******...
or have a webcam active recording myself for a larger
public... or that i might have a ******* toy...
just this boney-**** of a hand...
yeah... it really does feel small...
that's perhaps why i have allowed myself to see
the female hand as the most ****** part of a woman's
body... i look at women's hands and think...
i'd need to sacrifice my pinky + knuckle...
if i can hold a basketball with one hand...
i don't think my phallus is small...
my hands are just big...
never in a million years would i want to watch
"sacrificial *******": the Italian classics...
sure... something classy... edgy...
not this ****** modern crap...
show me something that invokes latex... thrill!
thrill-e-he!
last time i heard women were into gang-bangs,
choking... ****...
come to think of it... paycheck is coming up...
i "wonder": how will i spend, that money?
new trousers, gamble with going on a date?
sure... a "date" in a brothel... where, EVERY-THING
is, transparent...
no one is there for milk & cookies...
i like to keep things transparent like that...
one hour of ******* and perhaps talking in between...
what's the Romanian word / Turkish word for eyes?
nose? lips? freckles?
**** a little, take a break, smoke a cigarette...
blah blah...
of course the Hebrews would think that *******
is a taboo on the male part, historically:
religiously... well i have a taboo for the Hebrews too:
circumcision...
  the act wouldn't really be a taboo is the Hebrews didn't
begin cutting off "excess" skin of the fore-,
if i keep a high hygienic standard: prior and after the act...
sometimes... it just eases taking a ****...
relaxes the **** muscles a little...
but i have no qualms, when it's done hygienically...
after all... "sword" & "sheath"...
for my boney elephant **** of a hand... skin on...
for actual *******... skin off...
it's not exactly rocket science...
but imagine the scenario when... i would be circumcised...
i'd be mad...
looking for that fleshy pouch of a woman's ******...
because my own protective layer would be
"missing"... sometimes i'm tired after a shift
in the cold & i still want to...
but my "would be" partner wouldn't be in the mood...
what then?
i'm tired, i'm *****... but she's not in the mood...
what do i do? think about, *******: carp fishing?!
no... since i have the "excess" i do two in a row over
really tame, wholesome *** and i'm ready to doodle
these words, drink... i concentrate my energy
on the mind having absolutely gotten rid of any remaining
****** impulses... the end...
oh... but that weak-spot of mine...
Asian models, notably the Japanese models...
there's a whole genre... GRAVURE...
*** is always insinuated... it's never explicit...
a photography of a girl showing her underwear...
the Eden of those inner-thighs...
the world is standing on its head:
with women thinking that men enjoy shaming ***,
violent ***... sorry, honey... those are
exclusively the pornographers: men who have
too much ***... most men don't get enough enough...
men might... have a fetish for...
say... a step-mother ******* her step-son...
obviously women will subsequently insinuate
their fantasy of: ******... ******!
ha! they should Marquis de Sade's masterpiece
of a novella... the one in which he's concise, genius...
hardly making waffles of speech...
i wish i was ****** more... but what's a boy to do
if not getting as much as his libido would allow
him to... men express... women explore...
i'd rather ******* to some Bronzino...
i'm thinking... a borderline taboo... she's 16... 18...
it's a momentary idea...
a momentary bulge... soon i digress toward thinking
about... fuller-forms... women in their 30s... 40s... 50s...
i think about... a well aired bottle of red wine...
fully-formed... none of this lazily available fetish
for matchstick, pseudo-anorexic:
under-developed... dolls...
i like to think of a woman like i might think
about sitting in a very comfortable leather arm-chair...
or... reading a very old... 19th century
hardback, leather-bound book...
the type of woman that might kiss her children
goodnight... but an hour later... do the complete opposite
with her lips...
it's a nice thought...
while men starve & women explore...
it's good to starve... somehow... so many less consequences...
but as long as you're hygienic about it...
all the better for the GRAVURE medium
from Japan... finally! *** can be insinuated...
it doesn't require for you to be "excited" over something:
so explicit that you get a LIMPY for simply not
being involved... *** as something "forbidden"...
since not readily available...
no longer the sort of *** of the western canon that
invokes... *** isn't to be "forbidden":
it ought to be shamed & "shamed"...
that's how schizophrenics are bred...
via a double-negation...
   via mis-wiring of messages, *** constructed from
a contradiction....
oh the English are the best at this...
they enjoy it so much that they have to lie about
enjoy it... they sort of flagellate themselves over
the whole affair... in the open they are:
such prim labourers of puritanism...
yet, give them the right sort of opportunity to
express their sexuality in private...
talkies... the ******* is rife with...
"too much talk during ***, too much: **** me daddy,
**** me mummy... oh yeah, you want it rough..."
the list is seemingly endless...
in the beginning there was the word,
and the word was (with) god...
yeah... so talking during *** is such a good idea?
i can boast about herr stumm...
i can boast about... an "alphabet" of onomatopoeias...
something akin to eating laughter with
sighs and oh: really?
talk ruins ***... a body ought to speak to body...
the tongue is reserved for something more
than being more than a vehicle for syllables...
words are best kept outside the medium of ***...
eyes ought to eat up the other's body;
mirror should most certainly be used.