What is love?
Love is a lust that quench your soul
Love is when
His neck kiss left you with goosebumbs
His lips bits where as painkiller
His body against you is a shield of your protection
His touch was the sensation to your soul
The deeper you went you became one one
Because he seduced your  soul
And then I experienced spiritual ove!!

I got goosebumbs on my shoulders
Dont gradate, you better smoulder
I said “I’ll tell you when you’re older”
Tie your noose with a game controller

Eat my shorts when it gets colder
Pebble, pebble, broken boulder
She says “I hate your face,” you hold her
Got a sweet tooth, hollow molar

where the women back then as fickle, as they are now,
that by going to a ******* i can't tell them apart?
seems so, i must be a lonely sailor, or a man of minor
military rank, to behave as i do.
these women are nothing compared
to prostitutes, at least immune
to the disease of the Freudian madonna-***** complex,
that comes with the current
socio-provocative instances of
a journalistic: aha-uhum-yes and nod,
forget the: i don't quiet follow...
at least with prostitutes my genitals
are working fine and proper,
i don't know why i would ever entertain
that complex in the first place,
or that it should belong in the masculine
frame of mind, and not with a woman,
as that's the area where it resides,
and is intended to reside.
it's pretty fun to watch women these days,
i mean, all the best compliments
come from Bulgarian prostitutes
who say they're Romanian and then
say word through the doors like: harasho...
who would have thought the Bulgars would
speak cyrillic, eh?
     single 9 years and counting...
any regrets?
   yeah, ritual vanking -
can't help it, libido, stress, libido stress,
at least no agency will gladly take to
posting pictures of me ******* with a blank,
literally, a blank expression,
or how i ate the ******.
      and it moved into the genital territory
and i feel nothing but tickle, frost and goosebumbs
all the way from my ******* to my ****...
must be the hernia factor...
  ever had a hernia as a child?
wonder!
          so jesus, circa 0 a.d., had twelve disciples
and a ******* for company:
i guess the gentile women were as fickle as they
are now... esp. after having read this article
about a girl in her early twenties from
the London shrub-urb of SW...
                   Kew gardens mafia...
the typical posh tots...
                        oh, did i get my stereotypes wrong?
they're there for a reason,
and you hear the most gratifying words
from prositutes:
this ukranian one said i was a good man,
when we stopped ******* and lay there
in a naked embrace and i was left with
nothing else better to do than kiss her...
  and when the conquest happens
and you wriggle into that faux pas prostitutes
have of not on the lips... magic!
i just swallowed a hundred ***** in one go...
    but the way they get all girly and giggly
and remember when they weren't in
the profession...
but still even greater,
      when she ******* and says:
that's only the second time it happened to me...
   that's when **** gets all freaky...
   looking at my hardware... well i probably
couldn't **** an elephant with that...
   but you know: like climbing Nelson's column
in Trafalgar square -
and when saying that's only the second time
she orgasmed in her profession with
the nearly muted ow to express a pain
after a pleasure given, can only give you
a think about fascism...
       i can't believe anything to be more thrilling
than a walk into a brothel,
i **** myself when going into one once,
  had to go home because **** in my underwear
wasn't going to get anyone randy, including
myself...
        it's just so pristine, so clear,
another time i was picked up by this girl at a bus-stop
and we started chatting,
    i already knew where i was going,
she asked where, i lied, and said i was going to
smoke some marijuana with a friend, she asked
if she could come along, i said sure, come along...
on the bus journey i told her in hushes tones
where i was going, by that time she already
invented a boyfriend who played the saxophone...
   a woman, in the dead of night, alone,
no boyfriend...
          then all the puppy-eyed ******* when
we walked past the brothel and i walked her to the end
of the street, and i, without any imagination said:
yeah, and my girlfriend is in there.
             they lament with a man and a harem,
how Solomon disintegrated the kingdom of Judea...
they offend Muhammad who has living descendents
living with us in your current times...
    then they lament: too much choice!
we're opulent in our choices!
   freak accident happens, a man decides...
**** it... if i'm not getting any to reach emptying
my libido and having a boring conversation
with you, aged 50, on a sunday morning with a newspaper:
i'll buy it!
               why not bypass the finicky women
and go for the source of your libido crying?
          i never managed to understand all
the ******* in-between...
                 it's not like these women are selling
me something akin to a scarf...
   9 years on: cats are still better company;
yes, don't worry, i'm planning to sing at my own funeral.
  but when you read such articles,
what's a man to do, either go to a brothel
    or joing the Islamic brotherhood in Syria;
and yes, when i finally become a senile old ***
i'll reflect on, how, this one time,
   i didn't use my hand and was allowed a warm
genital cushion, because i thought that
the dating culture in western society started
becoming too-one-sided, and more or less a freak show.

last week i got myself a day-planner,
willingly buying into the illusion that i could somehow
better manage my time if i could open a book
and have the present, past and future
laid out in front of me
“keep it simple”, my therapist says
i like to think
i’m trying.
i have a to-do list as long as my fears
and a to-do-not list as long as my hopes
and lately,
your name is not on either one of them.
it’s September and the leaves are changing and it’s that
time of year that gives me goosebumbs under my skin.
because i’m getting older and i’m realizing what that actually means.
because my life does not revolve around you anymore,
i’m not sure what it revolves around except
life itself,
saying yes instead of no,
feeling instead of not feeling,
trying more often than not trying.
it’s a process and perfection is still something
i struggle with believing does not exist.
why do i still search for things in people that
are impossible to find let alone possess?
i want to be as good as i can be
but even goodness can be confused with pretension
even love can be confused with hate.
i don’t know anything about anything but i do know
that i’m proud of myself
for the little things, like not being afraid
to wake up and seize the day anymore,
for choosing to live despite how terrified i am
and will probably always be,
of failure and the inevitable passing
of every precious moment.

i miss the simple things
like a sincere smile
with love behind the eyes
the warm tickle of a touch
and when i could hold hands
the body next to mine as they sit
as they lay
as they are from separate parts of one room
the easy brush of bones as they pass by,
i will never enjoy goosebumbs more
but for now,
it's still wishing, wanting, waiting
yours for the taking.
music in my mind
and blood in my soul
rescue me
whoever you are
wherever you are
i am anticipating your discovery
i miss the simple things,
like watching movies
and eating food
enjoying the company of someone you're fond of
get-to-know-you talks and
discovering the stories of one life
its for the simple things,
i am wishing
for the simple things,
i am wanting
for the simple things,
i am waiting
i am yours for the taking

i'm sick of being soft. tired of being the quiet, the delicate, the sensitive. do  not approach me for directions. give me canons. give me dynamite and fireworks. i'll balance that flame on my finger. i want that plum coloured lip. black bralettes under plush robes. six inch stilettos and a cig. ***** until i go numb. i don't care if the 3 am breeze raise goosebumbs, let me sleep on the pier if it means i get the whole night. i want to yell in conversation, argue with you until you cry. nobody will step on me. my hands are curled around kitchen knives. i want to luag h it off, laugh it off, laugh it off. i feel nothing, but somehow so, so alive-

I've never loved someone.
Not that kinda love
which burns
or physically hurts
and makes you feel like
you're about to fly
or burst into flames
at the same time.
I've liked people,
had a crush on a few,
wasted a lot of time
with platonic feelings
but my heart never raced
for someone.
I've never felt goosebumbs
like they say you do
when you see someone u love.
And that feels just desperatly sad
and lonely,
makes me even doubt the existente
of love itself
'cause it seems like it just exists in the movies and books.
Is there something wrong with me?
To be unable to be loved
or ever create a strong bond with someone?
Or is love just an illusion
they invented
to make us think
we can find our own happiness
in someone else?

alt. title: magnets / "shaking hands" / a woman's neckbone*

you know what happens,
when you start "shaking"
your hand really fast?
after a certain time-period -
you start to feel
the sort of energy
you feel when you try to
push two opposing poles
of magnets (north vs. south)
in the tip of your fingertips...
mind you:
i had the most "scandalous"
moment in my drinking
diary...
     i fell to the ground while
finishing a day's worth of
1.5 litres of beer,
and over 1 litre of ***...
  while climbing into bed...
the the floor hard and my
thumb sort of aches...
   but **** me...
start shaking your hand really
fast, with your arm firm,
and the feeling in the tips
of your fingers,
feels like trying to ****
a magnet facing north pole
with a magnet facing south pole...
**** feels better than
trying to get a tickle & an ooh
& a goosebump when gently
making a woman's neckline
a canvas...
i'm a man, after i caress my neckline
and collar bone,
i tend to scratch it...
  just to ease off the goosebumbs...
the shaking the hand akin
to north-vs.-south pole interaction
of magnets "metaphor"?
that's real....
                       try it:
your arm is the pivot,
but your hand, from the wrist down?
it's shaking, its twirling,
   its rotation...
    give it enough speed,
and at the tips of your fingers
you feel an obstructing magnetism,
akin to facing a north-pole
magnet with a south-pole manget face
pulling apart...
   celestial numbness...
   something... almost... soothing.

It's raining outside
and it's cold
there,
inside this house
and inside me, too.

The covers
can't heat me up
and the touch in the walls
causes goosebumbs.

Suddenly
the universe
seems so wide
and scary,
and I'm
fragile and small,
vulnerable,
powerless.
I just wish I could make
everything okay again.

if you're "ego" tripping...
   masqueraded by
the whole: of night...
    with a warm july breeze
          and an oval moon
   in its three tier transition
from blood orange,
through to a canary:
  and then a blank,
white summary of
                a partial todkopf?
my my...
     not receiving
chilli-like goosebumps
on the back of your neck:
"tripping"
                but rather:
teasing a cognitive void
of consciousness
                          mit: der id?
must be my fetish
for nibbling on german...
the ottoman turks have
come to east london
with a bazar of bulgarian
prostitutes...
it's id tripping -
      vulgarising a "need"
for thought,
   translated via touching
the void
        left with goosebumbs
on the back of your neck...
sure...
          the gods' **** fountain
of the waterfall at glencoe -
agryll...
      which is elaborate
for simply whiskey aids
the observation being
                              undertaken...
once upon a time i referred
to beer as the **** of gods...
changed my mind:
   needed something worth
the equivalent of wearing
                       a chanel no. fünf...
can't exactly express
tha banality of: not thinking -
touching a void,
and then translating it into
goosebumps on the back
of the neck...
   perhaps if i only add the word
combitions in my head -
gott ist gott...
                gott - echo chamber -
                          mit, mit... mit: unß!
it's german...
  there's no yiddish balaclava
                  joke from a new yorker
intended,
            let alone invited;
                        hochdeutsch...
maybe someone ought to have
teased the ******* via
terrible translation software machinery
and somehow love them...
my grandfather has a memory
of SS-men giving him sweets
so sweet that his stuck together
and needed to be pried open
under running water:
    herrbittebonbon:
                     exactly like that...
no punctuation form
                 of herr, bitte bonbon...
the schwarzuniform...
   and then:
                die rot armee
  composed of khaki attired
       teenagers stopping for the night
in my home town,
preferring to sleep on hay,
in stables,
                 with the animals...
perhaps memory
   is the only faculty we wish
to revitalise even if it succumbs
to temporal
                       degeneracy...
but the advent of ensuring
memory become pristine -
        pulverised by recounting it...
certainly overcomes
the self-evident perils of
                                   the body -
memory is trans-temporal...
   it slows time...
               so that things become
more...
                     static...
       or to use a better relief description:
intact within their spatial
confines...
           memory?
                 that grand cinema cameo?
no one ever tires of
playing with the last
remaining toy,
after the children put away
their toys, and become adults
weilding sickles and hammers...
memory: is, the last toy -
with which
  people will always play with.