sweet
release!
finally able
to get myself off.
maybe
the depression
is waning.
maybe
I am finding light
in the dark places.
never been more thankful
for ******
in my life.

as long as I can have *******,
if nothing else,
this life is worth living.
give me back
my lust.
that is what I will
steal
back
first.
lust is passion
getting
passion
back.
I will always live
with you

you are like
the racist grandmother
who I
am forced to take care of.
can't just
get rid of you
have to wait
till you die.
wondering
how
someone
something
so negative
could be a part
of my heritage
myself
oh, well
I have finally
found a way
to shut
you up.
tune
you out.

love you
at times
for making me
aware
of my flaws.
though
I will not
be consumed
by them.
I have strengths
too.

cheers to
the shred of hope
the light
I glimpse
as I'm trying
to find
my way out
of this cave
I've been lost in
for weeks.
the cave
of depression.
******
is the light.

laughing
laughing that
something so ridiculous
could have shown me
maybe
I am getting better
maybe
it's not entirely
all bad.
laugh
with me
***
with me
we will
get out
of this mess.

. you're using all the right words: for all the wrong reasons... and let's face it: if women own the monopoly on reproductive avenues... then men hold the ego-key, to slot their presence, through a door, that curbs or gives allowances, to what is thought... *** was nether a transluçent enterprise... oh look... the Roma sigma pops up... dire straits: de profundis - money for nothing riff - boogie boogie... milkshakes from the 1950s 'n' all... you know what my biggest pet peeve is? the englih language imitating ancient Latin, i.e. not applying diacritical "punctuation" markers to close in on syllables and make the language atomic (i.e. H is hydrogen, He is helium)... **** me... the same Brits who lived in the 19th century, are not the same Brits living in the 21st century... no wonder the fertility rate is s ****** low.... try ******* an english bride... no thank you; i'd rather **** a female gorilla.

the milkman passes my house
at, circa, 3am...
see the van skid around the bend
up the hill...
            
i listen to music at volumes
equivalent to my father working
the construction site -
i'll be deaf by the time i'm 50...
     and guess what:
                  for the music i'm listening
to? it'll be worth it...

dittoing out:
   have the criticism of post-modernists
ever suffer?
doubt: doubt, is the modern
relief from existentialist
    negation...
  
why is doubt being attacked?
doubt is half than that outright
******* of denial
proposed by French existentialists...
doubt is good in that it's
tornado of emotions,
you want to imitate Christ on
Golgotha?
  you doubt, and achieve the pinnacle
of the passion...
you start negating?
     you're, nowhere...

    on your own...

came the noun-phobia of philosophers -
the tinkers and tailors
of a.. what seems to be:
a noun-phobia
  guaranteed with fog...
   and thing..

  the term
  "thing" presupposes
the supposition of tree...
     which subsequently serves
the proposition: let's hide in it!

      philosophy and its infamous
noun-phobia -
               thing...
           and it's nihil...
  its nothing...
      
                 a ******* cul de sac -
     epigram -
       of quasi morse encoding -
     braille to boot -
September is coming -
           van Morrison (moondance) -
hiding autumnal chill -
           pan-Europeanism:
proto-"africa": either in Hindustan -
or Siberia;

suppose a moon, suppose a shadow by
candlelight, some edgy urban solo -
as a bricklayer i could raise kids
and crux on a woman -
          chicken / doctoral itching with
a blunt nail are called scratchings -
       hand-writing:
             less digits in the digital
formatting - and more
calligraphy...
                      the rotten handwriting
of general practitioners...
     Hippocrates might have made an oath...
but in terms of a handwritten cipher?
no clue...
               the canvas of a monkey
onomatopoeia within the confines
of a custard of a lexicon...
   a mouth thus opens -
a month begins -
instead of a tongue ejected from
the ivory temple -
  a sludge crescendo of a quasi
                 cascade of sludge gluing the
whole theater into
a replica of a Russian drinking game...

....                 ⠞⠓
          ...     ⠑⠁⠑
     ...           ⠞⠑
    ............                  ⠞
...                      ⠥ ⠎
     : : :           -  ⠎          
   ........ : ....           ⠕?

100 wolves of the continent...
for, but 1, fox,
of the English isles...
   i'll settle for that ratio...
and then i'll bite to ensure
a signature!

  howl all you want...
but have you ever found seagulls
annoying up the river?
more annoying than magpies
or crows?
             the wolves can howl
all they want..
ever endear the ear
to hear a fox "laughing"?
   no?
  might as well listen to me.
i cradle that sound,
above the chariots
of a human newborn...
        i grieve!
   i am... sombre gsture...
    a past, a passing,
a future, a wicker man within:
torch...
   banquette of souls!

    let's interlude -

   touko "tom" laaksonen -
    how can people "do" sober
           when entertaining such
extravagances....
        is it empathy, or sympathy?
            in the name of the either,
with either being the sum
of what wll never be a sum
allowance,....
     to gain from...
                  why not
       ****-ease up the ****
    for a zeppelin-esque
                            bomb drop -
(minor the Nagasaki) -
                    and hand-piked ****
with the cusp of your hand -
         throne of thrones -
  flagship?
   "king of kings":
  like ****...
  the holy trinity of
       the no. 1, as the no. 2,
   and subsequently the no. 3:
**** (father),
       take a **** (son)...
            ******* (the holy ghosts)...
king of kings,
never sat on the throne
of thrones...
   i always hated "artists"...
    painters -
   plagiarists -
      cheque sketchers...
             plagiarists...
         ******* indentation
from holding a pen to add to having
exposure to a grammatical examination...
       quality cinema:
panorama take on a versus of
heavy editing...
                     and there was a time
frame to encompass dialogue...
      somehow it fits:
the verbal myopic -
            the entire pre-
& post- canvas of a blinking eye...
   always the question of the
pre-industrialißed sketch;
words predating metaphor
akin to  -
  words versus metaphor
in genesis -
   format? anecdotal.

      in writing:
            by one hand alone,
made into two...
        my, my...
  what a ****** self-portrait
"assumption"...
        a self-portrait...
a wish for color,
with nothing to show,
but the relief of encompassed bones;
that become a disembodied
skeleton - minus a purpose
of tendon attachments...

∟          "contra"    Δ          -
equilateral my ***...

            a few days spent within the confines
of a Promethean *****,
     there be, elemental insomnia
of an electric bespoke...
if Prometheus stole fire,
who, in in all for ****'s sake
stole the saber of Zeus,
the thunderbolt -
electricity, who?
who craved the insomnia?!
             this Frankenstein-esque
insomnia-zombification -
             white as is white:
with all the dermatological
copper take on broken shins...
         should ivory coco -
come between piglet *** copper
auburn in terms of autumn...
******...
             *******!

take your ****** *** elsewhere,
and then... start spelling
it with a missing G...
when citing Niger...
  you do the double dip of the NBA...
you count the second dip...
why do i love Batman as the best
superhero?
  not of his superhero powers,
he has none...
          his enemies are
the only interesting
counter-factoids of
having implemented an existence
for.
   there is no exacting of
a superhero,..
   but there is enough
to mind an antithesis...

          tylko wieśniak
by wydział film w tym,
          bo sie nie rusze -
    cegła, kamień -
       pień - mur -
           i by mówił - w tym
co zamarzło -
          to co ostygłe -
    w co z tym samym -
        meine filmisch -
      i skakaniem świec -
   od i na nagim cieniem -
   pytać nad pyche -
       tanz! tanz!
                 moje iskry słów...
   sto! i lat,
    o wielbłąd churem o
grzbiet da, i da,
       iskra; alfabetu!
    bogiem impromptu
o czym warty: -gień.

- suppose a moon, suppose a shadow,
by candlelight - within the confines of
mercury - that quickened silver -
some edgy urban solo -

      as a bricklayer or a cobbler  -
shoes that deviate from ushering
an echo -
          i could raise children and keep
a woman: only if she decided
upon not allowing me
a leash -
            what a saddening affair
of minds and freedom...
           chicken doctoral -
i don't know: vanity of the impossible
mortal gain...

    the monkey onomatopoeia
    within the confines of a custard
of  lexicon....

          that Victorian image proof
source of envisioned Braille in
the confines of a primate...
  
handwriting:
itches, scratches, chicken esque
clucking... which is what
handwriting looks like these days,
what, with the coding...
    semi plumber,
half the electrician...
  and certainly null when it comes
to calligraphic invigoration...

- homosexuality was always a contingency
escapade to release suppressed yearnings -
a sudden but a non-fulfillment questioning
celibacy...

               you can enforce curbing homosexuality,
but then there are two outlets...
the perversity: or the question...
of Ayn and Sophia...
                          
        greeks ****** the hebrews in the hole
without an outlet - zee heed: with a missing A...
      Ayn - Aleph -
                    twin Adam -
          perhaps a Siamese abomination...

mind you... the forbidden fruit?
sounds more like... the forbidden flesh...

thee burdensome walking
the already burdened earth: as the fruit,
somewhere between the flesh of man's last predator,
contained, on land, and his hidden desire
for revenge and introspection,
a denial of commonality and shared purpose -
thou shall not consume
that which also hunts you -
little or no concern with equal
     measure of forbidding, that which you pet...
the forbidden "fruit",
in between the flesh of a sabertooth tiger,
and Cain's fruit of famine and incompetence:
               cannibalism...

   and why would you think about
drinking a ms. amber with pepsi...
pepsi! to coca -
and not slide in a slice of lemon
while you're at it?
  terrible mistake...
       well... one way to get y'er vit amins...

        and why is it that all the best
movies these days are about homosexuals?
the dutch girl for starters...
   me, drinking, watching t.v.?
either **** good drama,
a western,
   or a movie about a *******
homosexual...
          did i mention that i think that
homosexuality is an auxiliary escapade plan?
natural, of course,
    but i'd hate to have to life
a doubled up life -
then again...
     perhaps i would...
           me? i have a new girlfriend -
Sophia - and her ****: Philip -
           so am i expected to make demands
for the child they might end up
called Ayn, or Aleph?
                - the Wahhabi hypocrisy
    concerning music, or rather, censoring it...
but... but i thought the adhan:
the call to prayer: was sung,
rather than abiding by the catholic
credo murmur?
     no?
                         my bad... you know better...
i'll send you a postcard from
the Galapagos Islands,
if i find the time, to find:
    that 4th dimensional concept doing
the trigonometric shoom! elsewhere -
on a tangen "bias": **** knows where -
like a comet - missing a tail -
shoom!                                       gone.

shrapnel:

            not enough thrills for a hard-on...
... images... drawings...
   apparently fine art is not enough
stimulation to ******* to for these Arabs...
****? .....   in general?
cartoons.... cartoons of women....
   ... because?
well... apparently the niqab...
  extends beyond the realm of...
  readily available attire...
            women on the street?
   pornographic "actresses"?
                       you see the cartoon?
it's all ******* ******...
                  oh don't get me wrong...
amy adams?
  buff as an exploding Hindenburg...
    the pale ginger - milchskin...
                - unrelated:
   how about i sneak a skunk into
        a coco chanel perfumery -
while advocating that people will still
call it a: scent just shy of roses and strawberries.

- people have heard of incels -
but have they heard of Vcels?
    huh?!
   yeah, yeah... voluntary celibacy -
i know what a ****** sounds and looks like -
and, to be honest?
   there's hardly any rhetorical ***
involved -
         a bit like jerking off...
              monkish chants -
Byzantine -
     the fear of man,
   when his own inability flourishes:
     in a woman...
                          
these acts have become well trodden...
so well trodden that i'm
authentically surprised that anyone
would still goosestep them into
their mundane plagiarism's existence...
    replica invigoration:
turns out...
    
   zeit ist nicht gerade, aber
kreisförmig...

                              touko "tom" laaksonen...
i.e. tom of finland...
   question: you think a macron over
one of those As
                     would do the trick in terms
of spelling correction?

  touko "tom" laaksonen...
you seriously can only watch European cinema
while drinking...
    again... invigorating the english language:
one baby step at a time -
a simple grapheme -

    the vater's S Z interchangeability -
   synchronised contra synchronized -
    settled -
    synchronißed -
                       sometimes the slithering S
of a snake -
   otherwise the rigid totem with
a torso of a zebra...
                     hardly a major investment -
but when i see English having moved
from the Elizabethan Shaky Steward of
thou etc. -
       imitating ancient Latin -
    coordinating the Greenwich study of
dyslexia...
            Joyce...
              no diacritical application?
   hell...
                 might as well release a bull
into a China shop...
                 or a rottweiler into chicken shack...
still... why is there an orthographic aesthetic
in practice, hovering over I and J,
  when there's no difference, as suggested
in CAPiTAL letterIng?
                                       ah... i see...
the english "think" they can bypass the para-
frontier, and the orthographic frontier
and race down to the metaphysics...
        first?
   you explain why it's i and not ι,
  and why it's j and not ȷ.

the frustration I had
after failing
to bring myself to ******
for the
tenth
time this past week
makes me more
furious
than depressed

seriously
my *** drive
has always been high

as soon as I
got over
the shame
society places on women
for enjoying
their sexuality
I have always used
*******
as a release
relieves
stress
leaves me
relaxed
and
content

or should I say,
left me
feeling that way

usually
it was once a day
fairly frequent
but, it
matched
my *** drive's
needs

what the **** is wrong with me

I have tried
imagining,
watching,
reading,
looking at
every form
of erotica
that exists

I have searched
through everything
I can find
from
****,
******,
stories,
comics

and my search history
will let you know
that I've searched
everything
from
****
to
******
to
interracial lesbian forced *******
and things
worse
than that

e v e r y t h i n g

used to take me,
oh, I dunno
maybe three minutes
with my *******?

after
around an hour
is when I give up
now
I even bought
a different
*******
NO
RELEASE
NO
PASSION
GONE
what is
WRONG
WITH
ME

oh yeah -
depression

I mean
I knew it was bad
when video games
no longer
had appeal
that was enough

games
have been a passion
and a hobby of mine
since I was five

the other hobby
I started a bit older than five
but
you stole that one, too

after depression
beat the **** out of me
on Tuesday
I thought that was it
thought
since the next morning
I awoke
without the urge
to **** myself
it was over

nope

you have robbed me
of the simplest
things
in my life
that give me pleasure

no more
wriggling
moaning
spasming
the tingling
sensation
that starts in my toes
and makes its way
up
the length of my body
the warmness
that follows
with it
the
satisfaction
slight smile
snuggly
sleepy
post ****** me

I miss her
give her
back

I miss my life
give it
back

this isn't
ME
for ***** sake!

I am a ******
witty
humorous creature
full of passion
looking
for opportunities
to get myself off!
not this
depressed
apathetic
vessel
without soul.

you won't stop
until you have
everything
in my life

you won't stop
until you
put
my soul in your mouth
chew
grind
crush it

your saliva
breaks me down

spit me out
please
I am fighting
for you to cough me up
regurgitate
the essence
of me
let me put myself
back inside this body
please
please

no
you won't stop
you will eat my soul
until
ever fiber
protein
ounce of health
I had
is now
inside of you,
depression

cold-hearted *****

that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | Y| | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |

        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an

I can smell your thoughts.
You are thinking about Morgan Freeman now,
I can feel it.
I can smell your curly hair
And your love of ******
And your farts.

.well **** me, after writing such a revealing piece, i really need a double whiskey gob-smack... i need a drink... i really need to have drink... but it's honesty, i'm not ashamed of it... people have a harder time owning up to gay bar pop songs in their closet, like a Belinda Carlisle song... ooh... personally? i've never come across anything more **** than a pregnant woman *******, or, to mind the pursuit of the Wendol idol? exhibitionism to boot; a striptease? pare by comparison... you can't exactly possess the carnality of a woman, and the concept of the mind's eye... with a fetus, to boot.

in terms of jerking off...
**** me,
  i moved away from
fine art nudes...

  found an alternative
outlet....

https://tinyurl.com/ybhzl3x5

i.e.?
the exhibitionism
of
pregnant women...

it's like peering into
a wormhole,
of sorts...

    who the hell needs
******, glory-holes,
******* crap?

   pull me to sight
a pregnant woman
encouraging exhibitionism
and i'll be there,
within second,
with a tissue...

**** it...
she can do it, and doesn't shy
away from?
    m.i.l.f. is
so lost...
been catching up on
the whole American Pie franchise...

m.i.w.i.l.f.

    mom in waiting i'd
love to ****...

who said that jerking off leads
men to ******* ***.
****** *****?
  who said we would turn the
******* avenue?
     oops? for not being
adventurous enough?

  adventurous consisting
of watching
a pregnant woman
exhibition herself,
oiling herself,
jerking off...
    what... if i were married...
could probably
become the mouth and tongue
of God in terms of oral ***?

******* losers...
having the negligence
stipend in allowing a wife,
as pregnant as she is...
to exhibition herself like that...
for me to pick up
the crumbs from the table...
******* losers...

i'll admit it...
jerking off to a pregnant
woman exhibit herself
beats jerking off to fine art
nudes.

I am an Otaku,
when I saw you,
I thought you will be my waifu,
on screen, pillow or games,
You still stole my heart with eroge,
you have different colors from **** to ******,
but I prefer ***** in your anima,
I spend my days,
yearning for a new episode,
until that day comes, I still wait for you.

.i'm still an advocate of caesarean section... i believe in animal rights... it's just plain cruel exposing a European ****** to a pan-African phallus of a fetus head ****... isn't it ****, "technically"? **** me... forget the ******* ****, the latex... the ****** *******... one pregnant women *******, and talking Freudian implosion will do.

personally? i hardly think
******* **** is what men turn
to when excavating
*******...

ever watched
pregnant
women
*******
while filming themselves?!

ever watch pregnant women
film
themselves *******?
ever?

in the beginning there
was the word,
and the word was god...

you hear the talking
of pregnant woman *******?!

**** me...
who the hell needs ******* ***...
when you can *******
to a pregnant woman...
jerking off, talking "*****",
paradoxes of Freud
about her yet to be born
son
watching her *******...

    who the hell needs
******* ****...
just watch a pregnant woman *******....

oath of god...
   hand on my heart...
     it doesn't actually encompass a
desire for intricacies of latex...

            just a pregnant woman
*******...
*** mad... *** mad...
            *** mad...
            ******* *** mad as hell...
  Freud? pale as an uncooked
pancake dough...
   the **** that comes out
from the mouth of a pregnant
woman *******...

believe me...
  i ****** off to one of them doing it
helpless.
nice try... thinking
a man would turn to *******
*******...

  can't turn to more *******,
****,
than a pregnant woman,
*******,
while talking, Oedipal,
"*****"...
            try... try, ******!
try to bash that fact out
of existence!

The theater's empty and I can't seem to figure why,
The ground feels like a sticky, but hard lie,
It's plain with drapes to a darkened heaven,
With movie posters that make me nostalgic for when I was 7,
Or was it 11?
The projector starts to warm up,
And the ghosts in the machine show who they wanted to be,
This popcorn reminds me of a love that was wearing her favorite leather jacket,
*******, how did I get popcorn?
The screen shows ads for ****** ****,
But its in Spanish with Czech subtitles ,
And a weird sense of accomplishment,
Seems to give way with the images, now gone,
Apparently I have a soda that I have never noticed nor engaged or enraged,
Blue stills of ****** knees and beaches unbeknownst to any future,
With the credits rolling of names I'll remember, forget and lie remembering
A calming anxiety seems to fill in where the smoke creeping oot the vents does not,
The teleporting popcorn comes with me,
And choose to leave, with the seat,
I seem to forget to ask myself,
meow so clear,
How did I get here?

so many wise sayings of the philosophers, so many maxims noted, and none, none, making it to a tombstone engraving chiseled missing curves of the ten epitaphs of sinai. so you know why the chinese were left budding atheistic, no pictorial with the chisel, but that's why the comic book district emerged there for a mango baton perfect slouch or slurry *****: ****** that *** and ***** in, i went to the classical gallery for the monkey, came out and wondered by the zoological a theology, it was all very strangely slow motion. but imagine chiseling some chinese pictorial into a grave, no wonder the chinese were not ousted with that diabolical proof of failure exposing a people to so many varying non-pictorial representations of the lip tongue and teeth – but as the title suggests… if nietzsche’s motto ‘god is dead’ is really true, then those ten commandments are really just ten epitaphs, and i don’t know who really died on the cross.*

being me, i'm no o'toole, or a richard harris,
my hell-raising stems from
the silence of bookworms gnashing on ink folds,
it's silent, it's "deadly," it's the sort of hell-raising
that accepts the nervous temple tension
of knocking with full blossom of the cracking knuckle;
and when i tell them i put a schizoid
element into my acquisition of the english language
they call my spiritual experience psychosis,
and when i tell them i was almost murdered
they tell me i'm depressed... and then?
o czym ty mówisz, ty głąbie kapusty?
because back "home" my prophetic honour is curbed
by my palette for beer being dębowe prior,
that's at 7%, and not a carlsberg: probably the
best ***** **** in the world;
unlike jesus enjoying all the fun in egypt and not
in babylon from where the magi came,
with old "rabbi" joseph telling him: go back to judea
and mingle with your people, remember what
the egyptians did to us, you dishonourable ******.
and so jesus went back, and the greeks wrote a translation,
while the romans bowed seeing some weather shamanism;
only yesterday it was raining buckets of rippling toads,
i concerned myself with wet clothes in the attempt to
***** up, said it would stop, turned an hour into a minute
and the rains stopped, notorious b.i.g. that isn't an acronym,
only notoriously f.a.t. (remember, the meaning
is in the subconscious, in consciousness the meaning
is scrambled egg & morse & braille).
by way of conclusion - exploring the man masquerading
before his mother, is in no way an assurance
of an abundant biography to testify with saliva juices
of conversation - unless the delusional irony is that
even though i'm not trying to get myself noticed,
i'm also not deluded to the point of not having existed;
but the chinese are safe though, complex pictorial phoneticism,
the latin alphabet took to strain, people went mad,
really wanted to see shaved baboon heads through
the googgles of emptied space after c. columbus
architected the jamaican slum boulevard; or maybe haiti suburbia,
whichever, the world grew smaller, and the universe expanded
disproportionately... on the telly!

streets sweat for toothache medicine
blood enlisting for war
tea dogs don't love their dads
i never knew what a healing arm meant
neither does my alarm clock
dizzy floors and tired chardonnay
tastes like a late born baby
a list of things that are the same:
******, the human centipede, and pepsi
but my girl's gone and my head hurts

Beneath the city we speak many languages,
none fluently:
in our solitude we cannot hear
how foreign words were meant to sound.
Liesl calls my window a "mercy."
To me it is a threat
or a tease,
a glimpse of the impossible
like ******.

Yes I have tiny hands,
tiny thoughts, hopes, dreams
beneath the city that is closed to me:
useless treasure,
an unreadable book in a foreign tongue
full of printers errors
and, like this poem,
a wrestling match with words.

We tried to speak,
we sat and watched each other,
shared mornings and nights.
But still we came here,
up these crooked stairs
alone and so small, behind warped glass
an oddity, a curiosity in a freak show.
And what is curiosity
but another way to cut myself
without leaving scars?

The Christian imagination is captured
by the idea of the rapture
where Jesus comes to save us
like he shouldn’t just shame us
because no one is blameless
for this great mess.

It’s a dangerous mentality
to say our vitality
is based on morality
the rapture is that emphatically
where Jesus is battling
the forces of the ****** darkness
who are those I deem heartless.

The rapture can be Christian revenge ****
or their way of explaining this death storm
either way it prevents our best form
which is what Jesus was sent for
but now the student is the mentor
twisting words that meant more.

War is pushed to the side
it’s viewed as a sign
we’re living in the end times
like we’re in a hopeless ******
and tentacles just went by.

Nuclear proliferation
and global warming
bring them elation
for the rapture’s forming
so if the wars get gory
and match their prophetic story
they’ll practice diminished mourning.

God loves everyone individually
so it seems silly to me
what billions before us have seen
isn’t the same fate we’re deemed
why would we be
treated differently?

We must all walk through death’s door alone
I wish I could take everyone in my home
but that mentality is ******-suicide prone
yet when the comfort of company
becomes too much for me
I say quite lovingly
the rapture is coming
to drown out war drums drumming
I say the rapture is coming
to drown out more guns gunning
I say the rapture is coming
humanity’s mental growth is stunting
I say the rapture is coming.

He stands, backs away, gazes,

Maybe...

Choosing from the stacked shelves of colour, sweet and sour, shining over, in, out, around. Tempting a step forward like orphans waiting at the ready to be sold to the mines.

Maybe...

Two arms but a thousand choices. A hundred? A thousand to choose.
His friends have moved on from his isle, to toys and foods, baking stalls of fish and chunder.

Buzzing fluro hyper-emotive lights, his shoulders naked and bare for the world. Not yet lashed and ***** by tendrils of the ****** society. Eels in soup, you know, squirting with thirty boys in ******* to the beat. A dub proposed, seconded, played forward and blasted through fender-box for the dextromethorphan eye to behold.

Bass, Blues and Angus and Julia ring out through the cavernous space in our floating head. A gas burner of sweet Mary Jane keeps the balloon floating high above. Two ***** hang from its base while the **** has long since fallen to the peoples below, blotting out the sun. Shocking pictures of girls, boys and gear sticks. Two babes one pacifier, the new viral hit. 3, 2, 1 your 15 minutes are up and you see no more out of those big naive eyes of yours.

the minute you write on the other side of the napkin... the fold, you get into tattooing a Braille itchiness.

the napkin is a variant of compressed wood...
it's not a piece of paper...
you could wipe you *** with a napkin,
but that's hardly considerate of your ***
being as hard-edged to do so, likewise,
with a piece of paper.

intro done, the loadage...

it's almost bewildering that we employ so
many people to talk,
but not a single person to listen -
   so many people are paid to talk
but no one is paid to listen, so the crowd moves away.
language, as poetry:
in the modern application of it, is already trying
to do the Alcatraz (summed up and staring
Clinging Eastwood Cry Baby, or Baby's got
a Burner, or Hot-Draw! **** me, that's
adventurous!)          diversion tactic (you might
still be reading this mea culpa of mea culpas
that's prescription drugging you into digging
into the classic novella)...
escaping the Alcatraz       /     straitjacket
of conforming to recognisable forms of poetry -
i say fake! to the person who uses metaphor
announcing the use of...
                 i want uninhibited poetry,
i want poetry that bumps into poetic techniques
unconditionally, strangers in queue-ball
antics on the street getting cravat or guillotine
standards for lottery...
           but conscious conformity?
                  get me jack-in-the-box to ola a hello
once more to revive Sherlock Hitchcock...
                   any phobia is atomic,
the world is created from little fears,
            emerging into the big fear: a life not lived...
but then there's an antidote to that:
       if given a miniscule life... don't fear it...
examine it... at least you can then become entertained
by theatricals ascribed to the greater lives...
or have beens.
                     i want uninhibited poetry...
when i say poetry i want opera, not graffiti...
   which is to say: being conscious - premeditating
the use of, e.g. a metaphor...
          it's not good enough, i don't want to read
poetry as recognised as poetry, or poetry
recognising itself as such, i want to see the automaton,
i want to see an art so well engraved in the
provider of such enticement as to paint
as a decorator might paint, even within the framework
of a monochromacy... the parts he misses in
covering a bleak wall of white to be redone...
again, and again...
    but what i expect of poets?
a gamble... only *one attempt... any second or third
attempt i deem incomprehensible in terms of
beginning in the thirst place... ya: thirst.
i want to see thirst: the bulging larynx more ready
to gulp water in a desert than entice saying
something, meaning the latter has no power
over conjuring an oasis, or a fatamorgana.
continued?
           but everyday usage...
applies no similar acknowledgement of orientating
grammar, to be conscious of certain words as being
nouns does suppose an obstruction for the fluidity
of language... there's the everyday fluidity of
language than transcends such emulations
      of acquiring a desirable stoppage forwarding
dogma... yet poetry is bound to a dogma of
applying distinctive orientations,
to suggest that a piece of scribbling is actually
poetry.
does one (kingly pronoun collective,
meaning with entourage) thus say:
to fall in love also equates to celebrations of
Valentine's day,
or to go to war also means: waving a bayonet?
to generally emphasise...
  man was not established with this system
of encouraged "learning" tactics...
           there's no point talking evolution
when man is stagnate, sedimentary,
upkeeper of the status quo...
                   which almost insults the man
that encoded sounds in runes...
             perhaps the rune-encoder didn't
end up encoding while donning spectacles?
the emphasis is on making language more
fluid, and therefore acceptable,
   rather than what's advertised as this
solace-space of sofa, duvans, and free-spirited
******-load of artificial smiles.
oh, mind you, artificial intelligence has
not emotion, a bit like a woman on her
first extra terrestrial date...
                    with honing: having no
emotion means there's no conscience -
meaning crafting an artificial intelligence has
not ontological basin in man -
as man has no ontology to begin with...
  just as god as no ontology to begin with,
since we're already in his deviation from
the beggars' question: to no greater pleasure
has it been to create something without
man's thought in it.
     but not only is traditional poetry respected,
as in stressing an awareness of metaphor
or pun, as a sense of desirable technique
with even more desired identifiers...
      but then language per se, can't see
why someone writing a rubric sentence
need to grammatically categorise and give unto
their use of language a miser dissector...
        for example: the tradition of writing letters,
reduced to a pseudo-postcard form
         of the email...
              the formal begins with: dear ms. judy
the informal begins with: hey yoyo!
                    there's no dear ms. smith
(or the careless mrs. smith -
get on with it, the waltz and ballroom died
   when we groped under too many chandeliers
and gagged for the *******'s reproach
to dating) -
            as with the lateral diversion:
the internet not see as a possible place of
thinking has reduced the possibility of expressing
thought, into a conglomerate
         of seemingly necessary conversationism.
i'm not talking: i always thought that a white
page, whether in shrunk oaken or pixelated
and written upon: was the double-standard
expression of surrender...
formal letter writing was replaced by robots...
all the letters we ever get (via email)
are informal...
       addressed to no one exactly,
beginning with hi, hi, hello...
               give us a ******* handshake
rather than this pristine tofugu...
yep, that, and then ******... but that's how it
avalanches... you write on a napkin on
one of the sides, you turn it over
and then you realise you tattooed something
akin to Braille onto it.

only last night, having reach my fill of ms. amber bathing in a ginger ale jacuzzi - chasing a choir boy castrato cat waking me four times i had to utter in frustration (which i later noted): mortality is such an insufficient measure of things... i would be ****** if i didn't make a quick ode to Ovid's ****** poems... to truly appreciate performing oral *** on a woman? i suggest you first appreciate eating oysters... not oysters: no, having performed oral ***, looking at the moon in the quicksilver sheen to see your face all slobbered... an appreciation of eating oysters, is most certainly, a precursor to performing oral *** on a woman... beside:

wenn alles weisheit wurden zu kommen auf Indien -
if all wisdom were to come from India,

needless to say - these ancients still treat
greece as some sort of ongoing "experiment" -
that nothing, absolutely nothing:
is viable -
they might as well call it the still to progess
into a foundation state of affairs -
the west is seen as fickle -
a thought it not so much entrenched
and passed on, as it is made vogue one
generation - disappearing for some time:
before reappearing...

no proverbs ever came from the west:
nothing akin to:
besser ein spatz im ihr hand -
als ein taube auf ihr dach -
i just like how it sounds in german...
the original reads:
lepiej wróbel w ręce - niż gołąb na dachu
(better a sparrow in your hand,
than a dove upon your roof)...

legit. proverb: hold the simpler joys
in your hand, closest to you,
that look up and think that a dove
upon your roof will bring peace to
your household...

as long as everyone under the roof
has simple and "immediate" joys in hand
close to the heart...
peace is not tempted by spotting
a dove on your roof...

here's another one... and i was looking and
i was looking and i was looking
and i thought i couldn't find some,
some sort of alternative...
if only Ted Bundy went down this route...
then again... if he did...
he would have started jerking off
to fine art... the detail of the tongues,
the ***** and the ability to filter
out what is happening outside the erotica...
what?
i will drill this example in...
every, single, time:
Bronzino's venus, cupid, folly and time...

perhaps i am that old,
before free internet *******...
some of us had the ***** and the rose cheeks
to walk into a newsagent and pick
up a pornomag...

well... "*****" - more like...
sculptor's digest... or...
**** subject pages for that lesson
you'd love to take at school
where you could paint a ****...
oh hell: paint all the flowers in the world...
flower: covert: female genitals...
all the flowers in the world...
but not the torso and the mystery
of the bellybutton
nor the cow-sacks of Surabhi...
after all... they started multiplying in number
and you couldn't, after a while,
tell apart what it was about them...
peach on the front,
peach on the back...
and what would a hindu know of
the tetragrammaton?
when H... is a surd in their language?

i tried almost everything...
but upon my final discovery...
hell... it just started making sense...
glory-hole... the dreaded lesbian genre...
once in a brothel i was asked if
i wanted 2 hours with her,
or an hour with her and her friend,
i replied: i still don't know what i'm
going to do with you...
i don't live by the motto:
the world is divided into men
who have slept with two women
and a the men who haven't...

give me two legs of chicken...
i'll know what to do...
a woman can multitask...
after all... if a muslim gets 72 virgins...
a woman is guaranteed her
3 greyhounds... one for each 'ole!
'ere comes the charging bull...

der wesheit auf Indien:
nothing reflexive about it -
just enough to ease you into a mirror
of non-reflection:
i.e. something to destroy the self
with and incorporate -
a billionth part of yourself...
wisdom worthy of meditation -
but not exactly stretching
into a labyrinth of thought -
call it all you like:
clumsy thinking,
spaghetti alleys and cul de sacs,
the labyrinth -
why complicate life, which is already
complicated, by complicating thought?
after all: what is thought?
the first question of the θ-moral?
the th'ought i?

oh don't get me wrong...
that an elephant shouldn't exactly pair
up to a rabbit in the kama sutra:
spot on...

even i became tired of the meat-market...
after a while i just felt like a butcher
looking at cuts of meat...
cam-girls: i don't remember paying...
the genres... god... i probably looked
at 5 in total...
hello exotica... ebony...
glory-hole... ****...
the horrid affair of the extremes -
lars von trier nymphomaniac
confessions type of genres...
hell... i even tried ******...
but still: the meat-market...

well no point looking for alternatives
in the islamic world...
unless you are really ***** for
eyes in the kneeling position
while looking to and from the heavens
of a catholic confessional booth...

some variant of softcore ****:
latex whole body suits...
girls in gimp suits with a zipper
for a genital opening...

but still the meat market...
****? only to laugh at the farts...
but still... the meat-market...
and still the all pervading sense of voyeurism!
that's not enough, it wasn't enough to begin with,
then i'd come across articles
in legit. newspapers (the times)
about how women tend to watch
more violent *******...

for a while i entertained the no-man's land
affair with girls ******* videos...
**** became a little bit weird
when i turned that upside down
and focused on: pregnant women
*******...
and... i just borrowed something from
a 1976 novel by Michael Crichton:
eaters of the dead -
better known as the Wendol in the film
the 13th warrior -
where the diety was a pregnant woman...
i played into that fantasy...
which coincided with the time
i ****** off ******* for 2 hours
and imagined:
well... i guess... ******* are off limits
to men when a woman has a baby...
and she's actually breastfeeding...
i couldn't imagine this fantasy to live
beyond that date of conception
through to having finished breastfeeding
a child... but... for a while...
i gave careful attention...
to what it would be like...
with a lactating woman...

that was the zenith of my exploration...
eh... *** parties? filmed in those shabby
intz intz horrid dance music scenes?
n'ah... i wanted something more...
more... archetypical...
something teasing the forbidden...
but not forbidden as such...
something akin to:
having to convince her to **** while
on her period, in a bath,
wearing a ******: to ease, the, cramps!

ugh... czech house party *** scenes...
or those scenes from prague,
the inverted glory-holes...
what you see are cubicles
of women's legs sticking out...
again:
too much imagination already given...
none of this was akin to
Bronzino's venus, cupid, folly and time...
everything was moving,
i was nothing more than a ******,
always the 5th wheel of the wagon...
somehow, yeah, "somehow" necessary...
even if a woman was ******* 3 at the same time,
there was the fourth... watching...
via the 5th one: filming...

hyper-geometry of a triangle...

what was essentially missing?
accents of eroticism - subtlety -
to have an image in your mind - quiet static -
and to allow your imagination to seep in...
all the other western alternatives
were nothing but meat-markets / slaughterhouses...
none of your imagination could seep in...
not even with the first pornomags
of my teen years...
protruding ******* like the eyes
of judge doom from: who framed roget rabbit...
which always begged the question...
very much akin to the question
posed by Milan Kundera in:
the unbearable lightness of being...
**** with your eyes closed...
or your eyes open?

the sensuality of worms and all those
murky beings: primordial *** -
eyes closed -

      eyes open? the seemingly anti-sensual
inconvenience of mammalian
reproduction - with no pain upon giving
birth: what pleasure upon reaching an ******?
asked the wind of a savannah to its inhabitants.

Islam still wasn't helping -
i could never understand how a woman's eyes
were the most ****** aspect of a woman's body...
perhaps her hands...
well if you have hands like i have...
what you have in your pants isn't exactly
an ego-trip... you're holding a sparrow...
she's holding a bulging ribcage of an albatros!
you can hold a basketball with one hand...
and she is... a knuckle short of your four...
why wouldn't a woman's hands be the most
****** aspect of her body...
after all... a non-discriminatory plateau:
all are the hands of a a geisha...

geisha... islamic eroticism still isn't working...
hair... hair...
a lot of people complain if they have
a fly / a hair in their soup when served
in a restaurant... jokes on me...
i have a beard and the hairs of the beard
are the same consistency of ***** hair...
so i basically have ***** on my face...
ha ha...
why hair? what's so ****** about hair?
what if i tell you that as women age...
almost all of them decide for the pixie girl look -
and what if i told you that...
ifindwomenwithshorthairintheiryouththezenithoferotica?
ag­ain... islam isn't helping...


.a thing of genuine beauty, is always predicated upon transcendent value of inquiry... to transcend the common, daily, human squabbles... it becomes areligous... while daily human squabbles continue, what has been lost, is an item of transcendence, it was never to be a focus of some "parasitical" sycophancy of tourism... there's nothing to be celebrated, and... nothing much to be awed by either.

well, what did the ottoman turks
do to the hagia sophia?
they converted it,
but they weren't philistines
to the point,
   or say, a bunch rabid mongols
from the 13th century
in Bagdad...
                      like:
                     and why didn't
the nazis not destroy certain valuable
cultural cruxes?
   that picture of st. paul's cathedral
during the blitz...
  yes, the english might think
it was a symbol of defiance...
but i'm pretty ******* sure
that if one luftwaffe bomber dropped
something on st. paul's,
they'd return home and be
shot by a firing squad...
            they might have been
nazis... but they weren't philistines...
even the ottomans...
süleymaniye was so jealous
of the byzantine building
that he had to commission the construction
of a building to match-up
to the hagia sophia in some
way...
           again:
                  prank call buddha...
tell him they're also
tearing down idols in northern europe
with their phallus cult
           of the large wooden
***** carved from a tree.
what's that?        you yell'ah?
i mean: in the heyday
   of scandinavian black metal...
varg vikernes... 'nuf' said.

_________
a

the sailor-scout of your head against    m  i  n  e  
              fades into silhouette
(like something    good )
your brow  is beating better than the oscillating fan sounds
   that
we think of in moments like this..

learning that ******* is beautiful
when lies are shared

--the [****** ]in her breath presses skin outwards

.slipping off like goldtone wristwatch
like.flipping through polaroids of people you don't know anymore.


the best is over as the bra is unhooked and falls to the floor like a bad parachute
.
as if it could
slice through cities


you shoot a look as
bulma thighs bounce
like dinosaurs in the forest.
a long pink shirt
is enough to **** them

.reclaiming history through ******-death
one pink imprint left behind at a time.

focus on the clouds
it is better if we don't know what happens to the marks

Peace to sensei,
Coming to you live through airwaves,
As I wack off to ******,
Going on my own personal crusade,
Breaking walls like a man made out of Kool-Aid,
Like Muhammad Ali my flow is like a butterfly,
A war torn zealot that delivers like a pizza guy,
That thinks of your girl while he cream-pies.
Hahaha
Going in like it’s D-Day,
Call it a Gink Raid,
Hit em with a AK,
Shoot em down easier than slippy,
Slice a ****** up like it’s child’s play,
Call me a real killer like Chucky,
Hear the sirens Blair,
Oh **** gotta find a getaway.
Faster than a red hot chilli pepper,
To the cops displeasure.
Going underground like I’m master splinter,
Relaxing, steaming hams like Skinner,
Until I come up with a new plan,
That is truly evil like Mr.Sinister.
That would make a metal man,
Like Victor Vaughn approve of her.

This is a Gink Raid,
Carpe Diem,
Seize the Day,
Where human nature is displayed.

This is a Gink Raid,
A death parade,
A unpinned grenade,
Where human nature is displayed.

Times ticking closer to Doomsday.
Everyone always acts tough till it’s judgement day.
Crimes picking up, got things going sideways.
Rick Grime surviving bundles of zombies.
Simon says we better run away.
Shame gambling doesn’t pay.
Never know what lies in bouquets.
Semi-automatic bullets dance like ballets.
Piercing through flesh of desired prey.
That fall gently like flowers on summers day.
Death, an embrace none can escape.
No time for breath, when faced with fate.
Can’t hit the breaks.  
When rates have high stakes.
It’s war time, where peace comes from hate.
That takes lives for humanities sake.
A foolish pride, that existed since we were primates.
A sacrifice of blood, for a slice of cake.
That hooked crooks like bait.
Adversity is something we create.
Internally; suffocating us like restraints.
That keeps us in a sheepish state.
That innately generates,
A division of race that isolates,
A segregation which discriminates,
That dictates which traits.
Are more dominantly quaint.
That got us repeating history that betrays.
For...

This is a Gink Raid,
Carpe Diem,
Seize the Day,
Where human nature is displayed.

This is a Gink Raid,
A death parade,
A unpinned grenade,
Where human nature is displayed.

i... i'm finding myself bound to having
a green fetish...
a green fetish for gomorrah...
Zoe Saldana....
no please... no cinnamon skins...
no copper skins... no brass...
no rust... none of the chocolate skin...
nothing milky-way...
i'm in it for the green...
perhaps ol' me porky skinned -
hapless white when i scortch via
pink is all evesdropping via
the glaswegian route via
carntyne west and haghill -
north barlanark and easterhouse south:
otherwise better to import foreign
perspectives... from salty Sou -
and d'lan...
but i still have green fever...
i'm tired of liking the copper,
the cinnamon,
i'm tired of burnt butter antics...
just give me the alien green ***-whip...
how else will ever befriend the chance
to escape this oriental onslaught
of the... less than courteous
mr. Hiab and happen via Mrs. Gipsy
and the latest: motiff in ****** of Kan-tow!
bow.. ****** better bow...
it's still a fetish for green...
you paint me as pink as,
what i really am...
paint me crimson curious...
emerald skin aged nearing my 60s
and with a furious nose...
you know what comes across as most disagreeable
to me?
essex girls teasing a suntan in winter...
with prokofiev's oranges...
i wouldn't lament... milktooth
milk skin of some sun deprived
aristrocratic wannabe st. petersburg beauty...
when you can look
at the veins like maps of roads
that extend outside the curriculum
of a "nation"...
but the green, the green...
i'm just so into the green skin!
i'd **** a green skinned girl...
prior to the copper cinnamon and the cumin /
coriander powder earthling...
sign me up for green skin
and ****** ***** of feeding a suckling of
an octopus humanoid morph...
god knows what else will wash up
with the next tsunami...
this is my wave...
this is my skateboard and this is my ramp's
worth of a reef...
and this not not anything...
that otherwise comes with
the "molotov" cocktail of
interracial breeding... the casual Cassie...
perhaps the porky skinned beauties
of casual oh-so...
forgot to keep their: dear diaries...
and i somehow demanded myself
to keep mine...
however you look at it:
big fetish for green.

.when i drink, and sometimes entertain walking
through the dark,
and i find myself, freed from the ownership
of a shadow? i don't drunk walk...
stumble... i find my balance... in a quasi-comic
dance routine...

otherwise?
    have you ever found ice-cubes
behaving like leeches?
you put a hand into the refrigerator,
take a handful of ice-cubes for
your ms amber and mr ginger,
and... yet, there are still,
some ice cubes clinging to your fingers?
i call them the cold leeches...
is it me,
or was the d.c. comic universe
created for adults,
adhering to mature themes...
while marvel got away with
all the money,
                     but all the kiddy stuff?
it's not as much of a blatant
schizoid divide,
should japanese
comic culture ever become involved;
because it wouldn't...
         oh i tried ****** once...
resorted to those glorious
exponents of fine art classes...
the solo girls and their
playthings of...
ghost enunuchs...
             not much worth of *****,
when there's a limp
**** in the form of
              rubber, is there now?
clearly: castrato choir boys
of the vatican are not wanted...
   not quiet enough to cut
the ***** off of a man...
   the whole "thing" has to be snippet
friendly...
            believe me...
the inverted play-thing,
stag-do,
blow up sheep, blow up doll,
elevated into a dummy **** toy...
n'ah...
              i might be crazy...
or...
                this is the sanity report
of a crazy world...
care to put that statement to a roulette,
or a draw of cards?
well...
   when i don't gamble...
                               i always "gamble";
here's to making monsters!
   sláinte mhaith
                  (slan'ch'eh m'haif!).

what happens when
Dark Fetish meets Radiance Sutra

finding it is like looking for a needle
in a haystack of needles
a dog meowing
night park astral planes with erections

a chromosphere with starry swollen labium
a purity purge, then taking it back
a pro life run away embryo
Debbie Dare and Bridgette Beware
with 3rd eyes blinking like traffic lights
trying to become tasty
while turning up their bottoms
for starving breatharians
who can't resist the allures of
Pandora's portable rubber genitals
they bought
at the five and dime tinsel towns  
Queen ***** Emporium

not everyone can walk in the light of truth
some people burn
like country fair corn fed Iowa lesbians
clucking kisses
asleep and awake at the same time

donut bumpers expecting the unexpected
in an unfathomable matrix
at a witches broom barn dance
during partner swap night
among straight couples
who only like rococo

Jekyll & Dad Samadhi
health, wealth & unhappiness
licking, spitting on each other
and having tantric *** the wrong way

you're safe now bwahhahhahaa

codependent sadomasochists
drift infinitely upward like psychotic marble roses
while Queen Opalala  @ ****** University
gets **** buttered and buckarooed
during the downward dog
to the music of the spheres and poems to **** by

a red head
bed head
**** in a cinematic pillow of flames
mouthing her ruby red lips
in a soft voice  
saying
a day without being forced to her knees
and a slap across the mouth
is a day without sunshine

We all live in the same house
So don't lag my internet connection
With all your ****** and you *******
Better stay away from the basement

That **** is mine you hear
The entire west side of the house
Smells like **** and someone
Needs to mow the ******* lawn

Its so hard trying to be a normie
Its like the kobayashi test in star trek
It was never easier to pull
The Mandela effect as nowadays

We could have the entire human history faked
And only very few people would notice
We have entered an alternate timeline
Likely due to the LHC