He has coffee in his blood,
He dances with brown camels.
White wide paths of knives
Are curved deep among the mountain passes
Of ribs wrapped in soft desert of skin.

A tongue athlet and a sound alchemist,
A reluctant nomad with wheat hair,
Who's driven by his crazy-grooving heart
So rarely though so far.

Sometimes a train, sometimes a net,
Sometimes a piece of paper
Will take him.
But most often he is joining with genies
In their bottles. And spirits take him
To the caves, the deep blood-vessels.

He's silent mostly and his back is bent
Though he is tall.
He walks all cloaked in weary clothes
And idle anger both.
As it dictates him his prideful eagle's nose.

He bears also marks of roots,
Of runes, of flame, of anchors,
Dancers.
His bones look at you in their clutches
From beneath the skin
Of his thin fingers.

He builds the towers shaky,
Weak. And so, they're almost living,
Breathing.
He've found a cat in a banana
And lets it live inside his elbow.

The grey in northern sky is his.
He reached his fine hands
And left it there. He touched the sun
And then again. He put it in his lighter
With his fingertips.
So he occasionally has a light from the sun.

He prays to metal and walks two roads at once.
He tolls the tree from which he hails.
He hangs from a branch.
Or does he just stand
Downwords and his back is lying on
The branch on which he stands?

He buried his gold and digs it out only
For fire and jokes, for bitter and smoke.
A cow of three eyes and a bee on his blazen
Are joing in drawing.

A poem (nm)
Saw a cougar in downtown area
she was hot like coffee spilt in my lap.
****** had to buy new pants.
Took a close look at cougar's throat
swore I saw five o'clock shadow and adam's apple.
******* that was a man and I need a shower
not a cold one
was hot but got turned off real ****** fast.
One thing I do know is I **** at writing poems.
Joing you TRAVERSE CITY, MICHIGAN
Going to the site and read some good ones.
Was there and learned a new word interactionism.
what the hell is that?

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.

Lets live it live she says!
to live live....
let live and let live
lies of lives that surround us how do what we know we are alive?
I live for me
live for life, for love for little moments!
I live to live it live.
Live the concerts that bring us joing
Live like the angry moments on wrestling shows.
Live for the love that we feel holding the one we want to live with.
Live is to Live
and to live live is to feel it all

Today I feel like writing,
No pen, no quill, no ink.
Today I will write with color,
I will need a palate.

Let's use some bright blue,
Let the sky fill our sould.
Umber, no, use light brown
Make it smell of fresh earth.

Will need some pink for the
Ballerinas dancing in my mind.
And don't forget the yellow,
Daffodils make me happy.

In the sky a spot of orange
A balloon floating to heaven.
A rich, rich green to
Make you smell the trees.

Put your fingers in the paint,
Joing the fun, spread it around.

What color are you today?

i do "think" that telepathy exists,
but only between a man and an animal,
the piercing stare of a cat lazing on your bed -
squinting almost "saying":
where's the *****,
   and where's the chess board?
i'm unlucky owning a ginger
specimen...
   black holes are
telephones to god?
   i prefer the mind of cat
and telephoning the devil:
he's usually the more informed one
given god's omniscience, other omni- etc.
imagine that gymnastics i have
to go through, to bypass
a cat's meow and read his
eye-contact...
   as i said: you'll get the investment
in the "investigation" once you've
read bulgakov...
oh sorry, no mark twain? oops...
must have forgot,
or burped a champagne bubble
from my gob, say hello to daisy,
****.
       you still breeding those
types of virgins these days?
lucky me, i get the cinema
of islam resurging and invading...
all i can do is, sit back,
and joing the chorus of applause.
even though cats sleep so much,
watching a cat sleeping never
leaves you feeling lazy...
always... itchy, for some reason.
maybe their autistic nonchalance
when awake...
        but **** me,
i "ask" him:
   händel or foster the people?
answer resides with the latter.

p.s. that's diacritical arithmetic,
isn't it? it's not some grapheme innuendo,
right? i know, i can count...
ä = paa (hiding the surd h to
either laugh, or breathe - catch 'un...
extrovert says hello with regards to what
introvert confuse, a tongue twister of
                          æ... is that
vampire for blah blah, or... bleh' bleh bleh bleh?
i was seriously going to posit that
comma below to insinuate the pause:
i.e. ultra syllable stressor) -
em... why make writing boring?
readable, page-turning?

          can writing at least resemble
its retarted yet autistic genius cousin
mathematics?
      i find more easy narrative
wiping my ***, on the throne of thrones,
listening to ac / dc's thunderstruck
song tapping the beat to avoid
getting a cramp from massaging my
prostate; so... go figure what's appropriate
given whatever circumstance
also requires a napkin and a fork.

right?

i can't imagine a world where written language
had the 1 + 1 = 2 rigidness ascribed to it,
what with the play-dough of
diacritical marks and punctuation marks
running rampant revisions...
  a microcosm? well that's diacritical
syllable distinction...
  a macrocosm? well that's punctuation
syllable distinction...
    all in all, comes the atom: letter,
comes the compound: word -
comes the sentence: chemistry,
   comes the paragraph / book -
                                the per se, alter. god.

my philosophy is that my peeps are glad to see a different side of me
we can humbly agree the streets are not the same when everyones playing the name game
got Eminem still on his way to fame but don't forget about Nas cause he's no lost cause
got beats from my hip sipping on the line when everybody around you is quite fine
fashionable jeans with Goochie hand bags forget about North Korea and their sand bags
Trump in is ivory tower but why do we even bother to keep on hearing him holler
there's reason for my being in the changing of the season with Drake in good taste
this is the melting *** so watch it shine cause Vitale is in the mix so kiss his behind
its your choice to salute the flag or not or have you forgot this spoken melody
those are the things we used to see while were out there getting our college degree
save the drama for your momma and we can't forget Obama he such a charmer
but you knew it would be like this getting caught up in the mix waiting for your next fix

like a jewel in the Nile we can learn all the great while we got a shoulder to stand
with an infinite plan to spread it out upon the masses no one deserves second classes
our history books have proven that we need to take part in a solution
a nation united in love but some of us want to sweep things under the rug
got high hopes for the undersground sound cause they still got me in the game
not grabbing that text is like driving me insane but who are we to blame
with cats having blue hats they stuggle for assistance in joing in the resistance
we got to learn to fight the power or take a nice cold shower
don't look down on me cause I'm not dead yet but I'm going to be the man you'll never forget
make the melody gell with you and me then you will see sweet lasting harmony.