Door kahin hokar khada jab dekhta huu mai duniya ko,
Kabhi khud ko dekhta hu kisi aur me,
To kabhi kisi aur me khud ko bhi dekh leta hu,
Kai rote hue chehre dikhte hai,
To kai tadapte hue dil bhi dekh leta hu,
Koi dikhta hai talabgaar khushiyon ka,
To kai baaar koi khushnuma manjar bhi dekh leta hu....
Door kahin hokar khada jab dekhta hu mai duniya ko,
Koi mehnat k baajar me pani pani hote dikhta hai,
To koi makhmali bistar pe aaram talab jindagi jeeta hai,
Koi chor hai makkar hai to koi in sabka gunah gaar hai,
To kai baar jindagi me imaandaar se bhi milta hu......
Door kahin hokar khada jab dekhta hu mai duniya ko,
Ghumte ghumte kai bar jab koi ghar dekh leta hu,
Chor bankar kabhi jab ghar k andar jhank leta hu,
Koi deewar tooti hui dikhti hai ,
To koi aalishan mahal bhi dekh leta hu,
Koi ghar hota hai jisme dikhte hai bhookhe nange,
To ghar kabhi har sukh suvidha ka praman bankar dekhta hu........
Door kahin hokar khada jab dekhta hu mai duniya ko,
Kai baar koi maan bache ko pyar karte dikhti hai,
To kabhi pet bharne k liye khud ko bhookha rakhne vali bhi dekh leta hu,
Koi mahal mai dekhta hu sone se madha,
To kai baar kisi ghar k bachon ko bhookh se bilakhta hua bhi dekh leta hu,
Dekhkar ye bahurang duniya k mai khud ko aur majboot bana leta hu,
Na gareeb khud ko aur na kabhi ameer bata pata hu,
Door kahin hokar khada jab dekhta hu mai duniya ko..

Yun chala main in raston pe,
Bhool gaya *** khud ko.
Saathi kaun thay mere yaad nahi ab toh
Bas koi dikhta hain door khada,
halkisi muskaan lekar
Aur nahi samjha kyun,
main bhi muskaya aise bina wajah
Par lagta hain ab aise ke,
Shayad wo teri yaad hain


Khoya main apne mein kuch aisa,
Yaaron ka nahi hain pata
Ghar se hoon itna door,
ke ab woh bhi nahi yaad ata
Woh gaana sunta jab,
gungunta use awaaron jaisa tab
Aur nahi samjha main,
kyun gungunaya aisa bin matlab
Par lagta hain ab aise ke,
Shayad woh teri yaad hain

Juda hunye hain hum,
milte nahi hain ab hum
Din guzre,
beete hain ab saal
Zindagi mein main apne khoya, tu apne
Par phir bhi lagta,
shaayad hum milte toh hoti duniya alag
Hoti Manzil ek aur raaste ek,
Aur hota ek saathi,jise karta nahi main sirf yaadon mein quaid

Chand ko dekhkar yaad tumhari aati hai,
Chand ki chandni b sath rahkar door hojati hai,
Chand ne auron ko to khush rakhti hai chandni apne ujale se,
Par chand se poocho jara k vo usk paas kab aati hai ?,
Raat bhar jagkar jo duniya ko roshan karta hai,
Andar hi andar vo bhi judai ki aag me jalta hai,
** kar rahe ae mere khushiyon k maalik tum bhi kuch aisa,
Mai dhoondhta rahta hu tumko paas apne,
Aur tum kahiin door nikal jate **,
Fir bhi na jane kyun chand ko dekhkar tum yaad aate **,
Kyun khataye meri tumhe har baar dikh jati hai,
Kabhi paas aakar to dekho mai kitna gunahgaar hu,
Tum to ruswa ** jate ** bewajah mujhse,
Aur na ki hui khata ki saja mujhe de jate **,
Fir bhi na jane kyun chand ko dekhkar tum yaad aate **,
Choot jate hai jo judai ki maar se mai vo dil ka saudagar nahi,
Tum to bas kuch pal bitakar sath me fir se meri duniya ko banjar bana jate **,
Kabhi tum bhi mujhe aaajma kar dekho kareeb se,
Kyun door rahkar mujhe doori ka ehsaas kara jate **,
** tum hi sirf meri jindagi me jise chaha dil ki har khwahish se,
Aur tum ** k gairon ko mera batakar rooth jate **,
Fir bhi na jane kyun chand ko dekhkar tum yaad aate **,
Mai nai hu vo jise duniya dil parast kahti hai,
Mai to deewana hu tumhari har baat ka,
Fir bhi na jane ku roothkar tapadne k liye chod jate **,
Ban jaun ttera har pal ka sathi,
Kyun aisi koi saja nahi,
Jindagi bhar rone k liye,
Har baar kyun tanha kar k chale jate **,
Fir bhi na jane kyun chand ko dekhkar tum yaad aate **,
Kyun bhool jate ** k mai bhi hu tumhari raah me,
Khada hi aankhen band kark tumhe paane ki chah me,
Akhir aisa bhi kya k mere rone  se bhi tum rooth jate **,
Mujhe apna banakar pal bhar me paraya ban jate **,
Fir bhi na jaane ku chaand ko dekhkar yum yaad aate **....

i love you alot. N you are my only wish, need n reason. Trust me i love you n only you. Please my sweet heart marry me.
I cant live widout you n our baby.

EK BHEED SI LAGI THI SHAYAD MAR GAYA THA KOI,

ZANAZA UTHANE KO KI TAIYAR NA THA ,
KYONKI US MASUM KA PARIWAR NA THA,

DEKHA THA MAINE USE KAI DOSTO KE SATH,
SOCHA THA ZANAZA TO UTHAYENGE WE HI HATH,

JAB KOI NA AAYA TO YAH AAWAZ AAYI,

CHALO NIKAL CHALO KE KANHI UTHANA NA PADE,
WO DOST THWE JO CHUPE SE BAHAR NIKAL PADE,

KAFAN GEELA HUA AANKHO SE MURDA RO RAKA THA,

MURDA KHADA HUA KAFAN ME LIPTE HUE ,
PANHUCHA DOSTO TAK JO JA RAHE THE SIMTE HUE,

KANDHE PER RAKHA HATH TO YARO KA DIL DOLA,
KAFAN HATA DIYA MURDE NE WO RO ROKAR BOLA,

"MARNE PAR NA DOGE KANDHA YE DEKH SARMINDA HU,
MAINE TO NATAK KIYA THA YARO ABHI TO MAIN ZINDA HU"...

Ek metro, saanp si guzar rahi hai kuch duur
Ek nabh faila hai uske upar - Neela sa kaala
Ek chaand chamak raha hai uss nabh mein
Kuch baadal sarak rahe hain paas mein uske
Usi metro ki tarah par dheere zara
Thandi hawayei hain.
Usme goonjta mera aaj khada
Kuch thandak hai inn hawaon mein
Aur bohot sara sukoon bhara

Aisi hi hoti hai wo chaand ki thandak?
Jinhen sunte, apna bachpan beet gaya
Kya sheetalta swarg ki aisi hai kahin?
Jisey suna kayion ka jeevan guzar gaya
Kya raambaan sukh yahi toh nahi
Kya kamdhenu vriksha aisa tha kabhi
Kya Ramcharitmanas mein hanumat
Ka Rambhakti amrit lagta tha yun hi?

Aisa hi amritmay bachpan mein,
yaad hai mujhko lagta tha
Zameen se shuru uss lambi khidki
Se yahi chaand chamakta dikhta tha
Mama sa ban chup shant bhav se
Kuch baatein meri sunta tha

Kyunki khud bhumi par bistar pe so
Holi mujhe khilayi thi
Khud bhookhe reh uss ke paiso
Se mere bhai ko idli chakhayi thi
Bohot pasand thi usko uski idli
Aur rangbhari mujhe holi meri

Kya kabhi unhen main unka wapas
Ye rinn chukta kar paungi
Kya kabhi unnsi balwaan main ban kar
Unke liye itna kar paungi?
Kya usi chaand ki thandak si khushiyan
Unki jholi mein bhar paungi?

Kya bhool maaf karne ki hadd
Ko paar kar kar ke thake nahi wo?
Kya raat bhar bhi jagkar subah
Hans dawa banna bhoole nahi wo
Kya insaani roop mein hain
Bhagwan, "maa baap" kehlate jo?

Waqt bhi kitna khubhsurat hai ,
Aate jaate logon ki duniya ujaad deta hai .
Kehte hain waqt saare ghav bhar deta hai ,
Asliyat tou ye hai waqt dard ke saath jeena sikha deta hai .

Do pal ki hai ye zindagani ,
Na do kisi ki ankhiyon mein paani.
Jo lamhein hain chaliye muskurakar bita le,
Jaane kal zindagi kaun se mod par lakar khada kar de .

Kya pta kal saanse hi tham gayi ** ,
Kitna bhi pakad lo .
Fisalta jaroor hai ,
Ye waqt ki fitrat hai yaaro badalta jaroor hai.

Band ghadi bhi din mein do baar sahi samay btati hai,
Man se na haarna aye dost meri tumse gujarish hai .
Maidan se haara dubara jeet sakta hai ,
Man ke haare haar hai man ke jeete jeet hai .

Waqt kahega har baar main lautkar na aaunga,
Khuda Jaane wo hasayega ya rulayega.
Waqt har chiz ki parakh sikha hai jaata ,
Kisi ke khatir ek pal bhi nahi hai theharta.

Waqt ne kisi ko jina sikhaya hai,
Waqt ne sach ka aaina dikhaya hai,
Waqt ka azuba dekho yaaro,
Kisi ko raja tou kisi ko rank banaya hai,

Waqt ne hamara ahamiyat btaya hai,
Waqt ne hume kaanto pr chlna sikhaya hai,
Jisne bhi waqt ko gale lagaya hai,
Use waqt ne us aasmaa jaisi uchai pr pahuchaya hai,

Kitni azeeb baat hai,
Waqt se din waqt se raat hai,
Aaj shaam hai tou kal savera bhi hoga,
Success bhi milegi aur danka bhi bajega,

Waqt ki ahamiyat ko jo log bhul jate hai,
Ant me sirf whi log aansoo bahate hai,
Rote hua es duniya me aate hai,
Vyarth jivan jikar rote hue chale jate hai....✍


Collaboration  by Manish Shrivastva  and Sonia Paruthi

Na amiro ki basti mein rhta hu
Na hi gareebo ke aashiyane mein
Middle class ka hua
Middle mein rhta hu

Na pahali pankti ki pehali seat pr baithta hu
Na hi aakhar mein khada rhta hu
Middle class ka hu
Middle mein rhta hu

Na croro ka kabaar  hai
Na hi gulabi note hazar hai
Middle class ka hu
Meri jarurate saman hai

Na luxury car hai
Na nhi cycle apni bekar hai
Middle class ka hu
Auto,riksha, paddle chalna
Apne liye aam hai

Na meri girlfriends char hai
Na hi single rhna izzat ka swaal hai
Middle class ka hu
Apne yaar,dost shandaar hai

Na aasman chhuti imarto par likha apna naam hai
Na hi sadak kinare bitati apni shaam hai
Middle class ka hu
In dono ke beech
Kaat leta apni raat hu

Na videsh ghoomnta hu
Nahi sehar se bahar jaana muskil samjhta hu
Middle class ka hu
Apna desh pura ghoom lena bhi bahut samajhata hu

Na sir jhukane wale log hai
Na hi sir jhukane wale hum hai
Middle class ka hu
Sabko gale lagana hi
Apna dharam hai

Na hi ac mein kaam karta hu
Na hi dhoop mein pasina sukhata hu
Middle class ka hu
Pankhe ke niche apna kaam karta hu

Na suraksha karmi apne pass hai
Na hi sarir apna lachar hai
Middle class ka hu
Apni jaan ki raksha apne hath hai

Na chhapan pakwan banate apne maharaj hai
Na hi khaali pet sota apna pariwaar hai
Middle class ka hu
Meri maa ke haath mein hi sara sawaad hai

i thought it was ****** obvious what i was doing there,
i walked in with my Slayer band t-shirt off
wiping off the sweat from my face...
ah... a cheap bottle of wine... £3.50... a Chilean Merlot...
nothing like cheap wine for some kalimotxo...
and if that wine doesn't do the trick for a nightcap...
the cheapest whiskey available... no more than
35cl: but i promised myself not to drink both completely...
obviously the wine doesn't have an electronic tag
that needs to be taken off at the cashiers'...
but the whiskey does...
come midnight it's this long centipede winding through
the self-checkout aisles...
two... of the finest quality Hijab mystique organising
the flow of people...
oh... the finest...
                     first you scan the items...
then you're asked to wait for the confirmation of your
age... so someone has to some with
a ticket (so little about all of this is about
self-checking-out)... and then... you have to walk
to the end of the aisle to get the electronic tag off...
with your receipt...
so i went to the end... where the bit that takes
the electronic tags off is placed in a drawer...
along with... this night in particular...
a raw white onion... and some baby clothes that
were returned all piled up in a shopping trolley...
apparently i was blocking something important...
that's when i was asked this profound
existential question:
                           what are you doing here?
oh **** me... it hit me like a rock...
i sometimes wish for three things... a slightly bigger
phallus... a much more bushier beard...
and... a talent for wit... for waspish wit...
for playful wit...
   some whiplash wit...
                 something that i might: snap out of something
instead of... what just came out?
a what... sorry... didn't hear that...
'what are you doing here?!'
     exactly those exclamation marks with purpose
of interrogation...
- am i... just growing from the roots up?
- am i... is Goodmayes a no-go zone for white
boys after a 10pm curfew or something?
i grew up around these parts...
i went to school around these parts...
a predominantly Irish neighbourhood...
is this a no-go zone?

i mean... i don't expect pleasantries from
cashiers at... midnight... but it's not like i was
the only person there...
was i holding a cloud of balloons and
wearing a clown suit with full-make up?
did i have an pink elephants on a string
or a golden fly on a chain?

'what are you doing here?!'
what a snap of juicy vindictiveness in that
tiny Hijab specimen of beauty...
i somehow must have invaded her space
or some *******...
but... i was there to get the electronic
tag off the neck of my whiskey bottle...
i don't think i was there to later come
home and write this nonsense:
if she asked me that same question:
on the top of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh
at 5am...
but then again: no one asks those questions
at 5am on the longest day in the year
on Arthur's Seat... a good morning:
chirpy one... isn't it? suffices...

    being asked a profound existential question
in a supermarket: at midnight of
a Monday is...

   aha... now it's sort of obvious...
            if i decided to go elsewhere with my wine...
say... to the brothel...
and i came across Khadaya... Khadija...
            Khada... all aspects of nakedness...
so this is what my face looks like
to women... after i lost... 20kg in mass?
  i'm attractive once more...
              honest anchoring... she's about to receive
£2.00 per minute for an hour...
and she likes my face... and i like her face...
eh... *** like a Lamborghini and a body that looks
but more importantly feels as comfortable
to touch as... one might hope to find oneself
sitting in a well worn leather armchair...

always objectification within the need for metaphor...
allusions to...
but a bit different when it can't be so obvious...
she's this Hijab donning princess Jasmine
working in the supermarket
and i'm just a cyclist wearing a Slayer t-shirt
who dropped in for a nightcap of cheap
wine and cheap whiskey...
or perhaps to her... i'm...
   some myth of a northern barbarian who...
arrived in Jerusalem with Barbarossa pickled
in a barrel... hmm?
         well... i'm not exactly a werewolf...
   not just yet...

again: was i there to solve a Su Doku puzzle or change
a light-bulb via mime?!
flow of people... i was placing myself
in the least obstructive way possible:
now... i'm overthinking the punch line...
it's coming off as if i'm somehow autistic or something...
who wouldn't...

in the most un-spec-ta-cu-lar of circumstance
you get such an open question...
before having my wisdom teeth pulled out
i asked the anaesthetic man:
quo vadis?

               seems more correct to ask:
such a generality... but not in such a defensive...
almost scolding manner...
i did mention she was a Hijab gem...
a petite little thing who forgot to objectify me
as human traffic of buyer...
with a purse's worth of whiskey
that had an electronic tag attached to the neck
that needed to be "dismantled"...

after skim-watching a few episodes
of the Sopranos... Tony Soprano is deemed an
attractive man by his psychiatrist...
so... what am i? a ******* ageing Adonis
or something?
now it feels bothersome to have lost
those 20kg in mass...
100 push ups a day... 100 stomach crunches...
cycling...
i knew this would land me in a spot of
bother... no more prostitutes joking
(kindly) that i have bigger **** than they have...

thank god the omission of a sudden limp
**** because: she shouldn't be in the profession
and i'm in no mood to ****
a tender, shy, deer...
               because it works when it's required
to work and i'll go through 5 before
it becomes resolute: that lilac / blue pill
will not make me prove a point on just 1...

dinner? cinema?
if she offers up the full platter of ******* oysters
and her body becomes the whole
complexity of cinema...
but not being corned by two Hijab beauties
at the self-checkout aisle
coordinating human traffic...

again: forever in the reiteration pause...
'what are you doing here?!'
am i supposed to be somewhere else?
the question asks itself:
why would a girl of your "sort" ask a whitey
that sort of question?
is this a no-go zone area akin to Malmo
in Sweden... am i expected to don
a ******* Pakistani pyjama to walk safe...
don a bushier beard than the one
i adorn trimmed by an Ottoman?

clearly i'm fuckable and clearly i also ****...
if she was allowed a different scenario
where she wasn't a self-checkout coordinator
and i wasn't speedily trying to get out
from the concept of a queue she might:
ask a less abrupt a question...

**** anything that moves...
       one motto worth keeping in mind when
reading Kant's labyrinth...
i promise this to anyone who undertakes
the "mission"... the part of the critique of pure reason
that comes last in the second volume
that's: a consolidation piece...
that's title: the transcendental methodology...
oh god... it's like this (almost) revelation:
but it's most certainly a joy a cascade to read...
that's when Kant relaxes and doesn't bother
to stress his... systematic approach to...
not language: to the idea...
what the idea is? that's my own to digest...
even these years later...

if she was older than me...
if she wasn't sizing me up... seeing how...
my shadow is probably larger than her body
come noon...
how she might just be...
constipated / claustrophobic through all her...
restrictions in attire...
how she was paired up with another girl
and there was no forbidding authority
of same-faith colleagues looking over them...
she asked me the most profound
question no one is expected to hear
in a supermarket...

           hence these words as spiral...
it's not the first time i've seen these two Hijab beauties...
i can't imagine...
having the audacity to write an autobiography
post... in vivo mortem!
i can't imagine writing... succumbing to write...
after... having lived... a most...
exploitative life...
i shudder at the prospect of reading...
Seven Years in Tibet...
i have the original copy...
it's enough that i read:
Harold Norse's: Memoirs of a ******* Angel...
that's enough for me...

             in writing there's only the fiction:
the fantasy... or the absolutely terrible mundane:
grit...
lives loved by the gods so that they might
be shared with as many as possible
do not belong in the realm of words...
however terrible it might sound...
all the ancient Roman poets wrote prosaic:
if not maxims then anecdotal evidence of...
taking leave: taking leisure in scrutiny..
too much of what's supposedly life
and how language is employed in "said" life
is limited to... bureaucratic fudge-packaging...
try escape that cycle of: abuse of informal language...
when you're expected to begin with:
dear sir /  madam...
   and end with: kind regards /
the distinction between yours faithfully vs. yours
sincerely...

she took a fancy after i already took her fancy...
perhaps it's a shame...
of the hierarchies of man...
and the stresses brought on by time...
all this... graveyard of space.

HUSBAND
1-Sabhi ki soch se jyada sabhi ki ummid se jyada mohabbat karenge hum

2-Lakh mushkilo ke baad bhi hum hamesha aapke sath rahenge

3-Hum humesha khud se jyada aap pr bharosha karenge

4-Zindagi ki harek mod pr hum aapka hath nhi chhodenge

5-Chahe hum pe kitni bhi vipatti aa jaye harek buri nazar aur sankat ke bachayenge aapko

6-Hum es janam ke saare waadein esi janam me pura karenge

7-Aur aakhiri Hum aapko apni patni maankar nhi jeevan saathi maankar aapse kadam milakr chalenge…Hamesha aapke sath  ye hai humare saat wachan


WIFE
1) jitni shiddat se sacchi mohabbat aap humse karte hain usse bhi jyda hum aapse krenge

2) chahe zindagi kitni bhi karwatein le par har kadam par aap apni is jeevan saathi ko humesha apne sang khada payenge

3) Khud se jyada kya khuda se bhi badhkar aap par sabse jyada bharosa karte hain aur humesha karte rahenge..vishwaas ka paudha humesha khilkhilata rahega…

4) Zindagi ki har saans hum sirf aapke sang lena chahte …har janam sirf aapko hi milenge ..hum par humse jyada haqq hai aapka..hum humesha sirf aapke hi rahenge mere mahadev

5) Har muhkil ghadi mein har sukh dukh mein aap humesha apni ardhangini ko apne saath payenge…jeevan ke har pal mein har takleef ko aap tak pahuchne se pehle humse guzarna hoga …aapke liye tou khuda se tak lad jayenge..

6) dil se dil ka ye jo rishta hai humesha barkaraar rahega..har ehsaas behad khubsurat hai ..hum khushnaseeb hain ki humein aap mile…saaton janam kya ishwar se dua krenge ki aise anginat janam mile humein jismein hamari zindagi mein sirf aapka haqq ** …

7) saatwa aur aakhiri vachan ye sirf vaade nahi jo kr diye ..dil se shiidat se ise har janam mein nibhayenge…hum aapke aur aap humare

Magrib mein hai
ilm o daulat ka fauwara
Ummat hai rakh mein
dhoondoo'n koi angara
Dastarkhwan pe saja hai
dushman ka niwala
Bojh hai maazi, jaise
andhera uthaye hai ujala
Iblees khada hai lekar
teri barbaadi ka samaan
Barso'n se pada hai
thaakh per Quran

buying a Trek Marlin 5 for around £500...
really has given me a new lease
on life...

prior to i was walking 6 to 7 hour marathons:
i walked to Epping...
i walked to Coldharbour to inspect the Thames...
i walked to St. Paul's...
then... on one of these walks...
i eased out a yawn: it was time to speed up...

i thought: perhaps a dog would help...
a girlfriend...
of the 3 Ps... priests, psychiatrists...
prostitutes: an hour with one, properly:
can fill years worth of... an absence of...
urges...

the body can do all the talking:
it's best when the body does all the talking...
i never bought into confessions:
alas... this is probably a confession...
or that psychiatric *******: C.B.T. or whatever
they call it: talk-therapy...

drinking less ms. amber having switched
to wine: well... the digestion is more fluid...
i've emptied myself three times today
to the point where my guts ache from...
having ******* out: what i can only assume
to be... 1 kilogram of ****... or a forearm's length
of it...

emptied to the point where it sort of aches...
thank god for the transparency with
prostitutes... last time i checked i was there
to pay for something beside conversation:
or lies...
               always the two extremes:
an honest ******* and a...
                  boasting thief: thieves always boast...
they're not timid murderers...
all that Robin Hood fancy gets them going...
i talked to this one in particular
on the day i buried my grandfather...
we talked about Paris...
poor fellow: he asked me if he could stand
on a step above me so he could
look me in the eye: well: i obliged...
i wasn't going to tower over him...

   all in all: a nice conversation...
the stories he had from prison...
what the Russians get up to in the 4 x 4
while punching walls... i injecting...
plastic? seems odd: into their knuckle region
to punch better...
i once took up some sort of martial art...
all i can remember is being trained to squat...
in a position akin to horse-riding...
the Sensei wasn't there one session
(Golders Green)
and his students took over...
we were instructed to march forward and
strike while making a lot of sound...
the student of the Sensei isolated me:
i said: i will not ooh! ah! i will not marry my
breath to an attack...

kick in the *****... me lying in a foetal position...
that's me and learning martial arts...
if i was going to learn martial arts by getting
kicked in the *******...
i was going to learn something: else...
accommodating people from all walks of life
with a conversation...
oddly enough: of the encounters i had in
the night when all the shady suspects should
be about...
one problem... this little ****** took advantage
of me willing to have a drink with him...
took me via an alley and grabbed
a phone from my hand...

oddly enough: i didn't fight him...
i shouted at him...
the seven heavens reigned down with fire
when i implored him to:
'LOOK AT YOUR GUARDIAN ANGEL!
LOOK!'
  i shouted down the confrontation...
when scuttled off lamenting about...
down on my knees in the middle of Brick Lane
lamenting on / with the word: All-Ah...
Al-Lah...
                say what you may... certain gods have
names for certain moments...
his is a name when you just
grieve having to show yourself what anger can
be hiding in you...

but rather than fight: tenderness of the hands...
moving my hand against a brick wall
to later invest in a body...
all that mandible leather plush...
i still go crazy: not too often but when i go crazy
i... pretend to not be thinking about
foods that are eaten raw...
notably the Baltic sushi of herrings...
a steak Tartar... chunky...
with all the additions... raw onions...
kippers... gherkins... Worchester sauce...
pepper, salt... a raw egg yoke...
a dash of garlic...
    and a fat slice of sourdough...

but a bicycle is a new lease on life...
esp. at night: when the air is thinner...
and you can hear a church-bell ring from
almost a mile afar...
or... the sound of trains as if a stampede of horse
from: i'd imagine over 2 miles...

i could never own a car...
i once fancied myself owning a motorbike...
i'll stick to the object that allows me
to generate my own momentum...
what bonus?!
hell... no road-tax... no insurance...
i haven't even bothered with a safety-helmet
and most certainly not any lycra...

a bicycle allows you all the momentum
that a bus stuck in traffic might allow:
and more than a car... esp. since i've taken
a liking to cycling into central London...
several times now...
once upon a time it was this spectacular
gesture awe to take the bus and later
the tube and emerge at certain locations
in the city: Piccadilly Circus / Westminster
of note...

but starting off from the outskirts... teasing
the M25... and cycling into the city...
via little Bangladesh of Ilford... Manor Park...
Forrest Gate... little Jamaica of Stratford...
through to the Mecca of Bow...
and whatever the hell it is come Mile End...
reaching the pearly gates of Bank
and further past St. Paul's into Holborn...
past Hyde Park onto Notting Hill Gate...
eh... it's not that... spectacular...
i would probably have to attire myself
in window-shopping clothes...
in pedestrian attire...
    perfume myself and work a chisel of
wax on my hair... probably carry a book
to keep me company during transit...
but on a bicycle:
it's not at all... spectacular...
buildings with no entry labels...
buildings like labyrinth walls...
                 that's about it...
oh... and the people...
                         i like to throng-spot from
time to time...

bicycle: no M.O.T.: no insurance...
no road tax...
the thrill of using a bullet of momentum while riding
behind an object that might **** you...
that's fun...

prostitutes? oddly enough: Isabella...
a third year exchange student from Grenoble...
the story behind my lost virginity...
but the current hook-up culture...
however freely them come and go...
you might be paying for dinner...
covert payments... you'll be arguing for something
else...
talk and more talk...
odd... well... not really:
i was never really truly on a date...
well... this one time a girl picked me up
from a nightclub...
we went to the park...
i drank a bottle of wine...
we talked about grey-matter of our
everyday...
we went into a pub...
i drank a pint of holy grail Guinness...
she escaped with a follow-up of some
previous engagement...
god... i was glad...

the transparency with prostitutes is:
paramount...
i don't like the current culture of ***...
only-fans... and once in a while you find this...
angry... mean... toxic female...
posting *******'s worth of arousal
stating outright: pay up simps...
she isn't even roleplaying a ******* suite either...
she's just plain Jane with a strap-on
of her forehead...

whatever this famous ****** revolution
was to bring to the table from the 1960s...
should it bother me that some percentage of men
are having all the...
   "fun"... personally i wouldn't want
the baggage, the lies...
the covert methods of "bagging" one...
payment upfront for the body to speak:
for the hands to wander...
sure: i once paid for *******:
i paid for a *****-magazine and the seller
saw my face...
the good old days where you had to ****
up on any worth of... ha ha... "pride"...

since i last encountered Khada(ia)
she was bothered by an excess of hairs on my shaft:
i too noticed it... i'm not exactly going
to shave my *****... i'll trim my *****...
sure... i've taken up a liking for...
***** hairs... an oasis of familiarity...
in the form of Ava Dalush...
hell: a completely shaven crop down below:
is a bit like looking at a skinhead...
just enough wheat-shafts to: furrow...
a bit like *******: it should be there...
i can pull it back during penetrative ***...
but... it's also there so i can *******...
oddly enough...
***** hair is designated on a woman:
since... imagine all the bearded ladies...
should the ****** hairs undermine the surprise
of what's down south...

hell: this *** culture *****...
i went among the prostitutes because:
i, simply... don't... want... to... play...
this... bogus... game! of herr Lancelot!
all men are liars are women are ******
and all dogs are ******* peddle-stools!
cats are insomniacs: if you gather my humour...
this current *** culture *****:
triple ***... triple the trembling donkey's
*******: life is not supposed to be fun:
at best: there's some pleasure in thinking...
once all the moral conundrum of ought-i:
ought-i-not have been laid to rest...

how glad to come across:
paid up-front... clearly a debit experience...
harsh to make a summary of:
someone else calling it a "livestock" affair...
i tend to think of leather...
i tend to forget my tongue...
the hands that belong to hands...
the lips that belong to lips...
the thighs that belong to thighs...
the eyes that belong to eyes...
i tend to explore the fingers and the jaw...
all that's mandible...
not wholly exhausted upon the requirements
of taking a ****...

not enough chances to love women:
then again: plenty...
but i will not grow old and boring
and stiff and stuffy and watch television with her...
waiting for the ******* inevitable!
Lothar! aye... call on Conrad! & Otto while
you're at it... we're planning an escape!
i've seen what old age does to men...
women might enjoy it...
hell: they live beyond the age of men...
i'm not going to bother...
i will not hear wisdom from the old croakers
either... smothered by dementia and what not...
when my time is on the table:
i'll do what i'm reserved to do...
old age suffocates...
not that people shouldn't aspire to having
reach it:
but it's hardly possible for most to still be
an inquisitive Socrates come his age...
childish comforts...
marry me unto death and let us part
in good spirits...

this current culture of *** *****...
i don't want to be part of it:
i'll debit my affairs / pay upfront...
for what i'm willing to pay for:
kosher ***... nothing boredom related:
no need for gimp latex suits...
threesomes... ******...
stilettos / strap-on ******...
just give me the kosher salt
and i'll rummage into otherwise hidden
subject matters for the better half of a decade...

how could i think of prostitutes as lesser creatures?
what am... that ******* Jack the Ripper
moralist?
i'm not Jack the Ripper the moralist...
i pay for the eyes to see
i pay for the hands to touch...
i'm not paying for *******:
i'm paying for a 1st person "seance":
yes... we'll be making contact with the dead
who are living... those untouched ******* harangues...
misnomer:  harangues...
i over-stepped the marker...

dilute the blood among the ol' raven hair women
of Turkic persuasion...
god help her: and her fairground of joys...
i don't want to be part of it...
i don't want to be there to pick up the crumbs,
either...
***** didn't give: now there's nothing to lap up...
beside... oh wait...
i don't own a car: i own a bicycle...
i don't want to be tempted into making as much
money as might be required to:
sustain her spending habits... and... whims...
that must make me... an almost: free man...

i guess i'll have to concentrate on...
limiting as much suffering as possible...
i'll have no chance concerning toothaches:
they'll always come and go...
but i suspect that... any...
attack on the soft organs is... rather: painless...
you never hear the truth of people with
terminal illnesses...
concerning the soft organs...
that have a limited nerve presence...
oh... but anything afflicting the bones:
i'll believe that to be ****** painful...

- ah... the interlude: a **** break and some
ice in the glass...
the joy of getting drunk slow: "drunk":
gearing up to a proper momentum of scribbles...
getting drunk slow: wine... beer...
it usually takes me 2 bottles of the former
to have some sort of: IN-SPI-RA-TION...
(impossible to rewrite our syllables
into katana... however much i like:
i draw blanks... still looks pretty...
i will have nothing to do with Ezra Pound's
fetish for Chinese ideograms...
they end up being primitive sounds
of vowel, consonant, vowel-consonant...
consonant-consonant-vowel structures anyway)...
of course there is... a slow way of getting drunk...
wine beer... and a fast way of getting drunk:
ms. amber... although i've become rather
immune to her flirting...
stone cold sober with her during the night:
stinking of dog **** the next morning...

refresh my mind...
Khada(ia) made a complaint last time she was
performing ******* on me...
hairs where there should be hairs:
on the shaft... i'm not going to shave my *******:
but i also don't expect her to **** them...
well... no other cure...
i'll need to get a *******...
i got a ******* and started to pluck out
the excess hair...
i was waiting for mr. limp to come along...
he came... and went...
and i was back to plucking out the excess hairs...

in the current climate?
the current culture... it's hardly reading marquis de sade
on the tube... although the one time i did
i had 4 teenage girls giggling
because the cover had a oil on canvas depiction
of a ****...
they giggled... while the words contained...
well... what is it that marquis de sade didn't write about?
to hell with marriage and with thirsting for
what the French cosmopolitans are accustomed
to with affairs...

this one chimpanzee laboured to prove
the existence of dragons...
dragons prior to the unearthing of dinosaur bones...
massive fire breathing lizards:
the great meteor cull...
this one chimpanzee with aspirations to find
something noble: like widowhood...
to escape the monkey harem / ****...
to find the widowhood and nobility among swans...
now... that's a thought...

upsetting confiscations of libido while
a certain number of would-be van Goghs do
one more.. d.n.a. genocide simulation into
a tissue... why wouldn't we somehow
abandon pop; and take a steer
at... say... something akin to:

         chevalier, mult estes guariz...
for tbe river of blood that is not supposed
to run through Yerushalem...
diviner of the old gods: Balaam!
  one word stands out though:
*****... in western Slavic...
"oddly" enough i can write it in katakana:

SU-KA...              スカ...
oh... look... no hyphen for the worth
of a compounded wording...
i can't find escape in Chinese hieroglyphs...
Japanese syllables can only stretch to far..
Korean? perhaps... i'll hardly inquire into
the Semitic scripts of either
Hebrews or Ar-Rabs...

this current *** culture is... bothersome:
i like to pay for reality: otherwise i go into
the forest and bend a deaf ear:
how eagerly i still watch how women
are pleasured...
it bothers me in the slightest:
during ***: 1st person...
you're never allowed the whole
3rd person pornographic availability of
experience... so you're missing the ***
resembling a Lamborghini... no?

but better with a ***** than these...
angry: newly invested in freedom
sort of broodings over...
these "livestock": oh sure...
the sort of freedom these "free" girls will allow...
no... i'm not buying into a farce...

because simply can't tell a journalist to
*******: secular priest: hand on... linger...
while the advertisers say all the things i want
to hear: since i don't have the money to spend:
i.e. a woman...
sad little affair this society has become....

SUKA! スカ!
dearest: Kinga...i seem to have picked up a case
of an... itchy nose...
i rub it again: and again:
between AGNI PARTHENE...
and what the Templars have on "choice"...

Salve Regina:
   consecrated upon the altar of womanhood...
this stiffening via the niqab:
versus al the freedoms that the setting sun
might also: allow...
bellowing rams...
                oh how i might love....
always the potential of me having "access"
to the disclosure...

         it's impossible to love a woman like
a saint... somehow possible to love one as...
but to love one as an ANGEL...
her own words...
                i couldn't get a *******:
she was living with 4 homosexuals..
we drink so that we might forget...
we forget in order that we might
attest to the puddle pretending it to be the sea..

waves.. waves... countless hybrids
of ice comes with cherry pulp....
i don't like the current *** culture...
i debit my encounters...
i pay upfront...
a day of the darkening of skies...

hier: ich bin!                    jetzt!
              jetzt! oder! nimmer!

   **** it... english party girls have it
covered... for the time being.

UMMEED


Sach kahu to tabaah hu mai,
Tere jane ke baad khush kaha hu mai.

Arso ** gye tujhe chod ke gaye,
Fir bhi usi jagah ruka hu mai.

Tere laut aane ki ummeed mere aage badh jane se aachi hai,
Par tu nhi smjhegi ye baat tu to abhi bachi   hai .

Tu nahi aayegi ye khayal hi bahut darata hai,
Par tu jarur aayegi ye khayal dil me dugni ummeed jagata hai.

Kaash ke koi karishma ** jaye,
Tera mera milan iss martaba ** jaye.

Tu aaye mere jiwan me khushiyon ki saugaato ki tarah,
Or jo gira tha meri ummeedo ka mahal firse wo ek martaba khada ** jaye

Kaash ke koi karishma ** jaye.
                                              ~Tannu.

i owca syta: a więć i wilk też...
   (and the lamb satiated: therefore the wolf too

i like this new dynamic:
i have "simply": quiet simply forgotten all
about ms. amber...
or mr. let me make you see clearly
of *****...

beer takes too much time...
at the same time you can't mix it...
and drinking beer with ice-cubes:
can be done... but it doesn't exactly look sassy...
warm beer is dogs' ****...

wine wine: more wine!
the first bottle is to impromptu me:
what sort of life can there be
without having a chance to reflect upon it?
day to day: day-in... day-out?
what sort of life is that?
investing in old age when it:
"perhaps": ha ha... that might of all "might"
happen?

the first bottle is for reflection...
sitting at the end of the garden
with a snail squiggling from one
end to another of a shed...
do snails have ears?
the first bottle and the clepsydra
of the grand travel annals of snails...
i gave him my left shoulder...
behind my head through to my right
shoulder: the time: about an hour
to "suddenly" disappear...

the first bottle of wine is for reflection...
the second bottle: i haven't started it:
is for lubrication...
nothing to speak of...
but enough to break my fingers on...
on this... canvas:
why am i not a painter:
i'd abhor being constipated with...
colours... forms...
it would be a pain to draw a face...
since i'm prone to the phenomenon
of pareidolia...

ever since having my bicycle undermined
by some ****** humour of
loosening the clamp on my front wheel...
if only the wheel came off
on the Gallows Corner Roundabout...
that would have been funny...
i had enough: ever since i have systematically
undermined all the knobs and bolts
throughout the frame...
the whole thing was going to fall apart:

psychological warfare...
there was ever going to be one cure for this...
a sharpshooter...
i didn't care what it might taste like...
half of gin... a quarter of whiskey...
a quarter of tequila... some pepsi...
it didn't taste that bad...
2 litres of water...
and a most pristine route...

up to B1459.... through to lower Bedfords Rd
onto Noak Hill Rd
Chequers Rd... Coxtie Green Rd...
through Pilgrims Hatch... onto Ongar Rd
into Brentwood...
past the Brentwood Catholic Cathedral...
or... Bishopric... ugly pseudo-Baroque "thing"...
all the way on the A128 via Ingrave
turning into Bulphan...
  and then... on the flatlands of Thurrock...
toward Upminster later Hornchurch...
eh... a marathon in terms of distance...

i can still listen to Kasabian's West Snyder Asylum
album if the mood is right...
like the time... my own time...

i took a sharpshooter on this bicycle ride...
a bit like the British drunkards
vs. the amphetamine charged Luftwaffe pilots...
or Isis state fighters...
who were also on amphetamines...
i wasn't going to disbelieve my bicycle
because one silly ****** thought it would
be funny to loosen my front wheel...

come night and thoughts about ***...
prior to... you are bound to cycle past...
a man... of similar age as yourself...
walking a little gremlin of an offspring with him...
look on his face?
it's hardly content... it's engaged...
most certainly...
such authority... such conviction...
hell... no... such responsibility...
but such a distance at the same time...
after all... if a woman were to ask me:
you don't want to have children:
you don't want more meaning in your life?

it didn't take me 2 years to read Kant's
critique... i own a 2 vol. copy...
i read the first vol. and subsequently, "subsequently":
"lost" the 2nd volume...
have children...
Kierkegaard's either / or...
in the environment when my dementia-riddle
grandfather was still alive...
a blessed month... i managed to squeeze in
Maldoror to boot...

have children... or read philosophy books...
oh that the days can be filled with:
whatever is already left available...
it doesn't have to come down to waning in the vicinity
of movies...
i'm stiff going to punch myself
in the face for not having acknowledged Rousseau sooner...
i once did that: punched myself in
the face until i woke up with a black
eye...
i once counted how many knuckles
i had by putting out a cigarette on
each of them...
i think i came short...
the scar on my ring finger knuckle is
more pronounced than on the other knuckles...

muddles: i had something in my mind
prior to all this:
i'm not going to compete with Bukowski
over achieving old age...
he only started scribbling his poetic doodles...
right about when i'm at now...
that i can't escape admiring him:

an itchy memory:
in an Our Price record store
in an almost ancient Victoria Station...
when my uncle was still relevant
as was his knowledge of music...
he suggested i buy
the Prodigy's music for the jilted generation:
i said no...
i wanted the Molasses of En Vogue
to sing me: don't let go as a single...

i think of love i drink wine: this is... supposed
to be... blood... i think of love
i start conjuring up vampires and
werewolves... i can be so unforgiving...
but it only took one ******* to attest that:
i'm a good man that i forgot to date...
or inspect the matter further
in the sandpit of dating games...
just give me the clarity of transaction...
i'll be back for more...

the next hour: the only hour with this
Turkish nymphomaniac...
Khada... just this next hour...
i'll promise myself the next half worth's of
a decade to pass me by sexless...
she already finally cured me of
the memory of Ilona of Siberia...
of St. Petersburg...

never before had i experienced a woman
who would tell me
to keep my hands of my phallus
when her hands... and mouth were
performing: "miracles"...
finally! i wasn't a pawn of expectations...
for the first time i was on
the receiving end of whatever it is that's
***'s about...
a bit like... i had to find a doppelganger...
TEANNA TRUMP...
Caribbean Mulatto *****-Queue-of-a-Queen...
and it's not even like she's hiding
her prowess as sending men:
dumb on their ways...
but she's hardly going to compete with
the songs of Solomon...
even with his count she's not going
to bother itching with some proverb:
she'll just advertise so more...
until...

but she's good at what she does...
why take it way from her?
i've been prone to have wasted
£120 on an hour's worth on a timid *******
when i should have only dripped up
£60 for half an hour's worth of:
limp ****, kisses & cuddles...
that's why i need to spend an hour with Khada...
because the last time i only spent £60 on her
for half an hour's worth and...
perhaps i'll sign my self-published poo'etry
in katakana...

never a a sort of ******* that might make
you want to finally forget a past
relationship?
**** me... if it only cost me £60 per half an hour...
that it might cost me... £120 per hour...
and she'll be so ******* base about...
timid ******* is something for quasi-paedophiles...
i don't like my libido undermined
by games of: you're in a brothel
and she's a ******* stiff...
you end up teasing at necrophilia...
what has suddenly immobilised her...
you later turn up and she's donning pigtails...

i could have had children:
i didn't want to...
not in the current climate...
   the current climate... have daughters...
let them... stress that... anti-racist anti-patriarchal
narrative... a N / // / //' PLAYGROUND...
by the boat-load...
i'm tired of wanting to excavate this:
mythological blonde from the depths of
her...
give me the Turkic ol' raven haired
witch...
                         but there still are:
mythological blondes... most probably
jogging around the flatlands of Thurrock...

supposedly "good" people never, really:
do anything good...
well... the only "good" they ever achieve is...
stressing the golden rule of Confucius
to the point where they become
solipsists... they never do any good as
the supposed good of:
avoiding people deemed to be a metaphor
of typhus...
the good of avoiding the ***** colony...
a lot of good that is...

to do supposedly enough good but end up:
decrepit - old - a solipsist?
how many prostitutes would it take
for me to kiss before:
the fire... the judgment inflames my blood
to give earth a stomach a mouth
a hunger... before the disgruntling sound
of "hunger" might be satiated:

are we the moral fathers and mothers
of the free will of these automatons?!
less the vote: these autocrats in democracy?
how much freedom is not enough
freedom for: not having children:
i'd abhor the need to put on a leash...
while at the same time watching myself
put on a muzzle...
bring into the fore a cage!

the bicycle and the *******...
for that sort of ***...
i am awarded a spell of amnesia from a relationship:
finally freed after coming close to a decade...
she has already been married: twice since
i last saw her...
bandaged right arm... stupid *****
decided to slice it up along her vein routes...
she was still playing video games...
ever since she prescribed me
Bulgakov i was already reading Kundera...

20kg slimmer... no stretch marks on the stomach:
i took my time...
concentrated on the cardiovascular domain:
all beef: no jerky...
i'm not here for the abs...
i still find it quirky seeing
a beefed up pancake with all that upper-body
poised for looks...
a body that couldn't do 100 press-ups...
strutting... on chicken-thin stilts...
they're not legs...

******* moralists...
1st bottle of wine i reflect with...
in the damp end and all that's night
of a garden's worth...
2nd bottle i lubricate...
eyes, fingers... the unspoken tongue...

next time i fool myself to cycle into
central London...
for all the grit... the **** and scratches
of particles...
do i really need to see so many faces?
content with discontentment:
discontent with contentment...
do i really need to see how important
these people are?
or will i again relive the nerve...
to cycle into the countryside...
explore Essex some more...
and peer into trees and the bushes
and pretend to be looking for a mirror
or some... demonic voyeurism?

if the western women are not worth defending:
there's hardly a continuity clause:
hey! presto! playground!
fly solo my dear! fly... solo!
i won't be choking on... how Turkic women
elevate their harem...

what *******! what...
i have no freedoms to cherish: no love to give:
they have become:
fizzled out... ashen... slob and slither...
my kingdom of ash...
come to think of it:
there's nothing worth keeping:
all of it needs to be revised...

i'll start the fire: i'll just pretend you have
the water...
let freedom(s) become fully exhausted:
it is required spectacle "knowledge"...
let freedoms come,
let freedoms go...
if you won't be dipping you silly ***** into
some wet oyster pouch (punch)...
so be it... take some time to do...
at least with prostitutes you will be
standing on bricks rather than on
sand... lies... masquerading... face-offs...

we're not here to start families...
we here to hope that...
we grow old enough; senile enough...
so that our libido dies...
content with t.v., cricket...
su doku or crossword puzzles...
a teenage girl exposing herself:
my insomniac libido: my forever present
hard-on?
oh sure: as long as she still thinks it's just
a "tease"...

i'm waiting for my libido to die off...
then i'll concentrate on my liver
and kidneys... but by then i too hope
it might be a classic case of
"too late"...

       last time i heard: it's now... jetzt!
hier!
                i don't need a lie...
i don't need an unforgiving English maiden
to tell me what's god from good...
or do-evil from evil from devil...
               i have:
this here land...
and the exploration of upstaging
the momentum first arrived at via
walking...

  these are not... my... women!
     i've wasted their credibility of motherhood
on the shoreline of prostitution!
i'm not willing to have to be forced into
an argument of: what's to be kept!
the whole forest needs to be ploughed:
it needs to be burned down...

in England over 20 years and they're still only
giving it to blacks and abusive Pakistanis...
where did they think i'd go to for:
"compensation": among the Turkic ol' raven haired
types....
lassen: hölle: regel: selbst!

\alt

work-around title: Çymru among the Ottomans (Ę vs. Щ)

a propos: pre-scriptum... in the background demdike stare's - janissary , for one reason or another... the fantasy of being in the legion of either the janissaries or the mamluks... hell... let the sultan have his harem... he's still going to favour the slave girl from the north... Hurrem... give me this one ******* from a past of romance... this Khadaia... i'll see her once more just to catch her name properly: all i have is the prefix Khada- while she hushed the suffix... over all that's on offer in this playground of freedoms... hedonism never tasted this... limited... when it is so freely available... 4 years without touching a woman's body and then... resurrected with a pulverising urge to touch one once more: over the debacle of grooming a female cat who was eagerly entertaining trans-species ***... *** is ugly esp. when animals come to the fore...

in all honesty: i wasn't convinced when i initially
read the list of ingredients...
not at all: or one bit...
i wasn't going to read the instructions
or... watch the video...

   i forget which flatbread i used...
gözleme? no... there was a SH grapheme at the end
of the name...
not the SH of hiding the H with
a Czech caron:  š...
the Turkish variation...
               the cedilla "s":    ş...
certainly not bazlama...

lucky me: first the Turkish barbers...
then the Turkish prostitutes...
now Turkish food...
i had a similar fetish for Indian girls...
hardly a fetish: one uneventful
summer: should we say...

ah... here we go... lavash... flat... bread...
funny how...
oh i can just imagine...
the year when... the ancients stumbled
upon using yeast when mixing
flour and water... watching the first
yeast infested bread rise up
like a sunrise in the heat...

blame the French... or don't blame them...
it's hardly mesmerizing watching
a hot pan with a tortilla on it...
the earth would still be flat for thoese
civilizations...
or how... yeast was used to make:
wine rather than drink ultra-sweet
grape-****-juice of the diabetic h'arabs...

no... i wasn't expecting the recipe to turn out
as it did: better than the local Cypriots
making imitation turkish with their doner-kebabs...
all those raw vegetables to somehow counter
the grease of the lamb...
raw (albeit) spanish onions... i.e. sweeter
and juicier... raw iceberg lettuce...
raw tomatoes... raw cucumber...
pickled chillies...
two sauces... a diluted chilli sauce and...
yoghurt garlic?
i've been gagging for some yoghurt mint:
but no... no... none of that...

- now i'm back from the days of drinking ms. amber...
i'm back on the drip of "blood":
wine sooths... wine... progresses: slowly...
esp. cheap wine in the form of kalimotxo:
the blood of Montezuma!
a toast to Montezuma!
    gradual involvement in intoxication...
never a lag like with ms. amber...
never waking up still drunk...
             drunk in the process of drinking...
much better...
and when enough lubrication has been
downed: 2 bottles for a night worth drinking
through...
3 hours of sleep at best: but all this...
mind like a whirlwind...
ms. amber: you have stiffened me for the last
time... your supposed
cure for my ailments come too late:
i'm stiffened: i'm numbed by you...
i will no longer associate you with good
tidings... never mind my own deeds...
now i prefer a drink that will creep up on me...
there will be a statement surrounding:
succumbing to gradation...

- the same year the ancients
invested their genius / imagination into pursuing
the use of yeast in baking:
making flat-breads become sunrises
as they... started to ferment... grapes?
all the stags and the bears are in on it
come autumn when they fill their belly's full
with rotting... fermenting fruits...
and stumble around the world
like they might be inclined to acknowledge
the existence of Bacchus...
a bear's drunken walk: i can't match
with a dance... perhaps these words might
just suffice...

- come to think of it... since i'm in all my 35 year old
splendour...
i think i fitted the bill for being
an "angry young man"... most of us were...
but... thankfully... as i've aged...
i've noticed how so few people have
the capacity to drink some sense into themselves...
even Nietzsche preferred barbiturates...
i can't say that i would:
in vino vivo! veritas comes after...
animation... scandal... trenches...
at 35 i can say the anger has... slowly diluted itself:
i guess the anger was at youth itself:
it must have been...
to be angry at being young is every man's
ball & chain...
with two exceptions of Paris and Adonis...
now... the sweet melancholic cloud
that makes my sense of humour subtle...
sharpening my ridicule: since i'm still yet to
receive pointers on wit
and...  reactionary tongue-whip anecdotes...
oddly enough i picked up a copy of
Rousseau's the social contract & a letter
about spectacles...

why haven't i picked up Rousseau earlier?
mind you... with this tongue i now use...
i could never read Rousseau in english...
i can read Bertrand Russell in english...
but every philosophy book i ever read was
read in my mother tongue...
the tongue with all the fancy diacritical stressors...
"so-called" by the people
who don't use them... who have Charles Dickens
calling a spelling-mistake
an orthographical transgression... ******* to that...

- suppose i wanted to paint...
well... writing is not exactly painting:
Frank O'Hara noted how terrible orange is
on canvas: unless the orange stands as
synchronised by actual oranges
in a still life depiction...
orange elsewhere? on a metallic alloy
on a bicycle... i cycled a few schoolboys
once on my Trek Marlin and heard
a compliment about it...
i should have painted...
but then i like that self-deprecating joke
i once heard a Glaswegian say
in class: how was copper wire invented?
two Scots arguing over a penny...
i have diacritical marks for contorts...
and if i'm really desperate:
as i sometimes am: i'll lend an eye on reading
some katakana...

why haven't i read Rousseau earlier?
perhaps i was too stupid too young too naive...
perhaps i should have a tattoo of
Robespierre on my buttocks...
perhaps... just... perhaps...
like someone might have a tattoo of
Roy Orbison to counter all that's Hey-Lvis
in that waterboy flick...

wine is like oil on a bike chains...
for the brain... the wine tide as i explore...
a slowly breaking of the dam
of formality...
but i'm not painting: come to think of it:
i'd hate to paint...
i like skeletons: i like sounds...
i like to walk into a forest at night
and listen to some wild animal tender itself
on breaking a dry branch:
or... misstep on a crunch of dry
autumnal leaves... while i bask shirtless
in the moon on a throne of a stump:
where once a tree stood proud...

that there exists a culture of celebrity:
a vacuous life-support machine of cringe...
in my vicinity: some trees have a higher
status than "people" in the greater prospect (potential)
of the world...
of note... this tree: let's call it Henry-eta
near Chigwell... bulging: crass: entity...
breaking all manner of contemplating girth...
famous: by my concerns...
hard not to miss...
try figuring out: celebrity in a forest of pines...
stilettos or anorexic models...
by then: prostitution doesn't seem that
bad... that bad when compared with
what "they" do with the models...

skeleton and skin being adorned with:
a second layer of fabricated: skin... nothing more...
a body that grieves its former status
of being: mandible... all over:
i think of models as i might think of glass...
a shattering: a breaking...
a variation of... arthritis...

        oh... well... in between the wine:
ms. amber returns: like a stimulus... an injection...
to keep me focused on the cascade...
i'm yet to cover the ground of narrative
i was keeping fresh in my mind...
ah... yes...
of note... only in England...
the multicultural project...

  i still retain my native tongue...
in the privacy of my own abode: i speak it...
i don't speak English...
i speak English to the people who speak
English...
a formality...
English in England is a "lingua franca":
i pity the natives for not have enough
incentives to learn another European tongue:
i guess that's what's happens with
"spazzial relationships" in the shadow
under the yoke of cousin ******* the h'americans...
pity them?
oh no no... blame them...

who was Yusuf Stalin? a Georgian...
tactical subversion of the Russian people...
where is the Georgian alphabet and where
is Cyrillic, or Greek for that matter?
where is... Armenian?
"where" is code for: comparison...
   like the supposed people integrated into
English society:
these... born & "bred" types... typos...
they speak English... at least i can resemble
an Englishman...
most likely i'll be mistaken by some
quran pushing ****- as being a German...
insult?     (oi oi... mr. -stani, don't worry...
the English just slosh with slang sometimes...)

the people of the subversion...
they speak English but... ha ha..
if they only managed to retain their mother tongue:
perhaps something of England could
also be retained...
clamouring like ******* ***** in a bucket
to no avail...

Napoleon's ditto: a man who knows two tongues
is worth two men...
all these new integration projects
who want to integrate so bad... so so bad...
that they "somehow" forge their mother tongue...
talk English as the language of mediation:
it's not yours...
it never will be!
**** me... if all these people retained their
mother tongue rather than playing:
i'd feed you to the pigs for playing
this ******* drive-by stealing mobile phones
"gangster":

what if ol' Adoolph was Swiss and not
Austrian?! imagine that... no... wait...
you don't have to...

- of note: if ha ha h'america of the united
is supposedly this beacon: this success story
for all the english speaking people of the world:
it should: by now... be... a well oiled:
bilingual Behemoth...
like the Swiss "project": of the Benelux or
the Scandinavian heap of blondes outbreeding
gingers...
h'americana should be well embedded
in a fluidity of come English come Spanish...

if h'america could be a success story:
it would be a bilingual conglomerate...
i guess it's just easier to speak only one zunge...
no?
how many tongue arrived on these isles?
i should be learning Romanian come to think of
it...
no one is going to meet me half way
concerning my: tongue...
while these asiatic ******* abandoned
their mother tongue to play petty
gangster... i sometimes fall asleep:
counting teeth... i have no worthy comparison
with the point of sheep:
i like to imagine teeth...

how they become the lesser half of Mongol:
with their mongrel "forgetfulness":
if we just cherished the medium
of the tongue used to invite commerce:
real or meta-...
perhaps... we wouldn't be cycling through
Barking looking at people feeling comfortable
donning those Pakistani pyjamas!

don't get me started on the Rotherham
"livestock" affair... i have no sympathy for
not being ******: looking elsewhere
at ol' Turkic raven hair...
at £2 per minute i'm not going to...
suddenly... "suddenly" do what?
pity the high earner
while she *****-off the concept of *******?
thank god i still have *******:
which implies i can ******* with pleasure...
but while interacting with HER...
she can peel it back and i'm left with
her tender mouth and my numbed metaphor...

castration, mr. ******... doesn't feel so bad...
compared with having your "excess" skin
guillotined...
i started to ******* long before i had
any use for *******...
the thrill is in the shaft...
aged 8 i did it myself...
circa 10 i taught a boy a year younger
about the joys of jerking off...
in a bath... while my mother scrutinised us
while she ironed some clothes...
oh... the gloves are off...

it might be a bare knuckle fight:
but i wrapped a leather belt around them
for a sense of purpose... alias for security: covert...
if the beacon of the world
grew up: sensibly: as a bilingual federation
it was supposed to become...
what? the Swiss are all schizophrenics:
for having the capacity to use 2+ languages?
******* retards:
you live with the reckoning that:
some people deserve their own bollocking...
you hear it... in the distance:
like churchbells...
esp. at night... when the air thins out...
i have no sympathy...
no empathy...
the remains of Malcolm X's mantra of
how there can be a never-ending war:
a "cultural" war:
just use the women as ammunition and
shields...
they're dump enough: Sabine as they are...
bring women to the fore of warfare...
you're not dealing with Gaza strip slingshots...
you have invested yourself in: trenches...
show me a Panzer i show you a naked
white girl...
the prize for all these sub-Saharan gambits...
i don't want to **** sub-Saharan girls:
maybe Boko Haram might...
can i... tickle a Turkish *******?
wait: do i "have" to?

you bring women to the fore: this little shitshow
will never end...
drop an atom bomb: no difference...
the supposed "collateral" becomes
the biggest asset... mind-bending load
of: otherwise what a sword ought to do:
the biggest killer: compassion...

don't worry... the recipe is still invested in me
scribbling it down...

- persisting with all these: Asiatic bundles of
"integrated" joys...
living among these isles...
you begin to wonder:
now... i generally think of the Welsh as a bit...
cuntish...
but... at least they have this...
unnerving ambition to retain their:
Briton spreschen: before the Anglicans
and their Normandy landing quasi French
came along... the Welsh still retain their
*******:  Çymru...
i lost faith concerning the Scots...
they're just... accent clowns...
accent clowns...
          they trill their R and sometimes forget
to F their TH with: t'ings...
like their elder cousins that... perhaps:
might... usher in some Gaelic...
astounding: the concept of the Welsh:
because: they are more a concept than some
concrete evidence of nationhood...
oh: they're beyond merely organic...

some says the king's route was to mind:
from London through to Edinburgh: more like St. Andrew's...
all this time, though...
it was en route to Cardiff...

- of these isles... these glorious isles:
where's the Gaelic in a man from Edinburgh?
the Sikh beat you to that tartan turban
or something:
posers of accents... the whole lot of you...
one up with the Velsh...
at least they still retain their concept of mother...
and tongue...
accented pretenders: it's not what they speak:
it's how they might: speak...

******* sing-along sprache Gael...
i simultaneously don't want to stop writing this
as an excuse for: not wanting to stop drinking
wine!

back to that Turkish recipe...
i had to make a full roundabout at some point...

even now i still can't believe it...
frozen beef, which implies: it would be more easily
sliced into an imitation pancetta:
carpaccio?
        **** me: the whole bonanza of nouns!
most not "gender neutral" too!

wine wine wine wine!
bring me more wine!
wine wine wine wine: to hell with whining women!
wine wine wine wine!
bring me more wine!
she can't feed me... i'm the devil in the kitchen:
i'll cook my own!

the "government" of delayed words in
transit toward: a proper translation...
notably?  sunak...
   not aleppo pepper...
   not sunmak...
    ah... SUMAC!
red onions sprinkled with some
salt and sugar... fiddled with...
crushed... a dash of lime juice:
to get the pickling going...
tender hands of a Cyclops...
then the addition of fresh parsley
and some SUMAC...
that's the radish for you...

the meat? beef... beef and rosemary?!
fair enough: let's have "us" a go...
it only takes 10 to 15 minutes since...
the beef is sliced oh so thinly...
plus... the marinate:

4 tablespoons of oil...
2 tablespoons of red... white... either...
wine vinegar: for curing the meat...
after all... you dip any seafood into acid:
it'll cook...
Bolshoi cannibals of ambition
and all that ballet on the side:
raw herrings as: Baltic sushi in a creamy
dill sauce...

believe me: the Ottomans have interrogated
post WWII Germany...
they're stiches and tattoos by now...

tzatziki...
but the marinade of the meat only takes
about 10 to 15 minutes... since the beef is sliced
so thinly: from frozen...
the marinade?
ol' pestle 'n' mortar...
black peppercorns...
4 cloves of raw: living garlic cloves...
2 springs of rosemary...
sea salt... 4 kashimir dried chillies...

strips of Turkish mozzarella...
i'm of the persuasion:
let's see what the Ottomans had on offer...
the ******... the barbers...
this... pristine cuisine...
it sounds like: shuk shuk shugar shig shig:
chug a fog... chappy chappy chim-shee...

bound to the anchor of a revision:
of these isles... i'm starting to harvest more and more
respect for the Welsh...
i'm starting to suspect that...
the Irish don't require:
the Scots seemingly never will...
but the Welsh: forever will...
display their adamant decorum...
to keep in mind their mothers and their tongue...

let me stress is:
ich bin nicht Ęnglisch:
    lie down... szczeka: it barks...
Щ...              

Copernicus Copernicus: seriously:
where are you?! literally: "where"?!
not literally: a somehow a now...
    
counting matchsticks i presume...
to hell with these semi-literate folk who have
the supposed reins: yeah: now... for now...
but not when time is allowed to imitate space
and stretch...
the currency of shouting for "justice"
dies a death slower than a death succumbed via
a crucifixion...
i'm no sadist... i love animals above
the status of fellow humans...
but... there comes a time that...
i'd rather... savour the company of a dog...
above... someone that might resolve itself
to speak letters back to me...

- you can only insinuate when dealing:
dwelling on the furore of the Hebrews...
but in the confine of these isles...
i hae no greater respect than might be allowed
for what's already arrived at:
they have: KEPT... KADŁ...

      EI CWSG GYDA COCH CLORIAN:

almost every Jew will amount to the maxim:
i be: the citizen of the world:
which is borrowed Greek...
   somehow there come to excuse when:
strip-down... striptease...
the last of the Holocaust survivors is dead:
appeasing the h'arabs and h'americans
for their deepened trough and
monzzie?
  yeah: sure thing...
             me and my stupid
delusion concerning that ol' chestnut
of the certainty of death...
i'm not willing to pressure
the delay button... to be honest.

i once attested that... you can't a better barber... than a Turkish barber... for a while i thought that Romanian girls made great company... Copernican revision (almost): perhaps i just found me a Turkish gem... a delight from some mythical period of the height of the Ottoman empire...

nope, they're still here... that swarm of butterflies...
with Nabokov giving chase...
although there's no taboo about borderline
mature girls to talk about...
that one instance with my ex's sister when
i first saw her... absolutely gone...
             of a more refined taste...
                       she's 32: i tell her she looks like
she's 28 she says she feels like so and...
what else am i going to call this feeling...
heightened digestive anxiety...
    diarrhoea?
                    well it's certainly not constipation...
funny how: this is almost love...
it's not... it's just the aftermath of the best
*** i've had since... i was having *** / *******
with my fantasy goggles on...
it took me several years to get over
the supposed "best ****" i was ever going to get...
a Russian by the name of Ilona...
yes... brilliant... that night before i was to leave
st. petersburg we had one of those...
7 hour marathons... as you do... since it's st. petersburg
in the summer and you have those
famous white nights of st. petersburg because
you're really close to the polar circle...
so... you can't sleep... and what's there to do?
chess, drink... books?!
- i never thought i could get over it...
until... Khada... or Khadiya... or...
i've heard the name several times, now...
i even wrote it down and showed it to her...
but when i heard it again...
she... almost silences the last letters...
   Khaadaya...           to hell with it...
i already almost can't remember her face...
and it has only been since: yesterday...
  but then... i somehow remember it... yet...
its contorting... it's... a mouth open showing me
her tongue... it's her most certainly fire-riddling auburn...
maybe mahogany...
a light shade of that wood...
most certainly a van morrison song...
although: not so much freedom in running around
with a transistor radio...
or it's just that i can't remember her face
because... there's so much immediacy involved
in all that happens during *******...
the face stretches through many contortions...
all those vowels and hardly any consonants
that might allow for lip-reading...
- maybe it has something to do with seeing
Christian Eriksen collapse live on the pitch...
my bets were on: dead... thunderstuck...
i just had to feed life a bone a muscle some sinew
flesh, **** and tongue...
in between hard-ons throughout the day:
no hand! hell... i wasn't even remotely going to
give myself such an easy escape...
too much "thinking": reimagining all the details...
ol' raven haired woman of Anatolia...
i tried to compose a list of songs to fit
with my emotions...
the cliches ran after i listened to...
spirit's when i touch you...
all of nine inch nails' pretty hate machine...
something from the hellraiser soundtrack...
now i'm sipping a straight pimm's i "stole"
and am listening to the obvious:
the eagles' witchy woman &
cliff richard's devil woman...
      funny how... love is *** first... for any man...
or best be...
i can't handle some choicest of fiddly parts
of... eh... the criteria of a "good mother"?
a good wife?
                    all this pre-planning ******* of
the modern man... boxed life-on-loan anyway...
in her own words:
'i'm a killer'... oddly enough:
i couldn't read any malice in her eyes...
like i said to her when she asked me what do i see
in them...  e-very-th-ing...
the good and the bad...
   when i see her again... i'm already gagging...
choking myself with these *******
butterflies... i'll tell her what she is...
   a NYMPH...
sometimes i'd come across these sad sad prostitutes...
they'd thank me for my tenderness
and tell me i was a good man...
two or three close calls with veteran women...
but never... a... ******* NYMPHOMANIAC!
like she didn't care about all she was going to
gorge on...
a slap on the tongue and all that...
ooze O OH! all that ooze of... a feline serpentine...
right now... no such "thing" as:
"too much of a good thing... can't be good"...
any movement in reality is a joke...
i'm a poo'et that can't make a living off of the trade
and she's a *******...
that she sleeps with other men doesn't bother me...
i just like the she is when she sleeps with me:
other men are abstract as with them she's: a she...
i can almost imagine myself living in ancient Rome...
fathering *******...
being a good foster father figure...
being really... really liberal classically about...
what's mine and what's not...
i posit the idea above genes...
                         i posit the idea above genes...
an illuminating splinter on a night sky...
a joyous smile...
a glistening: ****** expression of staging being...
ASTOUNDED...
i.e.: what the **** just happened?!
m'ah head exploded and i'm still without any
obligations to make concrete sacrifices
to state: this be love that be commitment...
          she's a killer... like hell: she's a man-eater...
i was just ******* a "caricature" of a mantis...
                      at £2 per minute... am i going to listening
to some more... winging that *** is a chore?
thank god no!
HEAD LIKE A HOLE... HEAD LIKE A HOLE...
i was so *** starved for the past 4 years
that the whole #metoo movement passed me by...
with her i'm at loss to even explore being
bored with ***...
to explore alternative avenues
with latex and gimp suits and ******...
so... frankly... it's still somehow wholesome...
proper kosher...
i would never want *** to become boring:
i rather starve and not have: and then have it...
sanely... than have to double up on fetishes
and escape plans to being:
i am addicted to the idea of two bodies colliding...
coercing... moulding each other...
today's international football was...
        oh yes... that grand brotherhood of man...
also some sparring in boxing in Paris for the olympic
games between amateur boxers...
if my stomach is filled with butterflies...
my brain is a custard of wriggling maggots...
while my heart remains a stone...
no ulterior motive... thank god...
thank god i've escaped the fantasy land
of performance art of *******...
i'll gladly leave that boney-****-imitation of the hand
behind: i'd chop it off if i was:
doubly left-handed...
but i'm not... and i need some balance when i
type missing typos...
     grr...
              pimm's: too sweet... i'll need a beer or two
to put my palette straight...
mein gott: what an afternoon...
the crab bucket will be screaming right about now...
oh i know the crab bucket **** list...
why not me? why am i not wearing his shoes...
crab bucket my ***...
when i left the brothel there was still
agonised girl screaming into the mobile about
commitment...
oh welcome night... some depeche mode?
please do... and if i feel like this after tomorrow's harrowing
bicycle round-and-round...
i'll most surely feel better:
besides...
only this Friday journalists unearthed previously
unpublished poems... ahem... "poems"
by none other than... Jim Morrison...
rock star... *** god.. lyricist...
ah... there we go... LYRICIST...
i abhor lyricism...
       i have only one excuse for minding lyricism:
the music tends to be louder than the lyrics...
the bass guitar is somehow audible...
check out Metallica...
two... three songs when you can actually
hear it... the devil's dance...
but... otherwise... all primarily rhythm & solo guitars...
drums and lyrics...
rhyme: rhyme my *** with has...
                 that i have one...
oh boy... when i'm dead... when i'm dead:
and this is how i wrote...
it doesn't matter: what i wrote: about...
although... maybe that too...
     too much airy ******* fairy akin to...
verbatim:
    december isles
  hot morning chambers
of the new day
idiot first to awaken (be born)
w/shadows of new play
learned men
in Sunday best
we've had our chance to rest
to mourn the passing of day
to lament the death of our
glorious member
  (she whispers secret messages
of love in the garden
to her friends, the bees)
the garden would be there
forevermore...

am i the only one who... doesn't want to...
reengage with some... variation of a "loss"
of innocence?
i want the *** on display thick splodges
of worn limps... gearing up to a wedding with
death: a second birth...
and all that "filth" in between...
i want... the whole... experience...
like a seagull chick... FEED ME...
i want to turn my mouth into an eye
and my eyes into mouths...
i want to become a monstrosity...
a gargantuan take on butter...
  i want to overflow in the sick and the sweat
and marble of all that's human...
to hell with being a child...
inherently cruel...
an untrained bladder...
              at least the games of *** and informal
cordiality...
nothing sinister since no latex
or gimp suits invoked...
just kosher: *** deprived ***...

& in between ******* a pull of the chin
to explore those lips and tongue with
my lips and tongue...
ol' raven hair of Anatolia...

- on a canopy of ****-rod soft-core
girlies with nothing to do but pose naked
and dangle a latex ***** for
for some lap-dog...
       slurp...
                     i had to dig to the deepest
core of imitation Dante...
i needed to find me a nymphomaniac...
to escape the...
what's it called...
the subversion of men... of nullifying men...
of... sedating men...

i'm 6ft2... 218 pounds of Otis Redding's worth
of love man...
some other time... 260 pound worth of
a chunk of beef...
            slimming girl... just slimming:
for all the tenderness i want to give...
i'd be a gladiator in some other time and reference
of space... now i'm fighting pseudo-intellectuals
and the crab-bucket...
****'s sake...
but i'm still armed with a giggle...
so it's: just aye-alright...

correct me if i'm wrong... all that inheritance...
i'm not going to pet an anglo-saxon woman
and her thesis on anti-racism...
erm... ha ha!
                  when a black loved up to a black woman...
when a ol' whitey cuddled up to a...
Turkish delight... or a Thai surprise...
ha!
                             it's a black toddler one you can
fiddle with the afro...
while it tempts your torso being a make-shift bed...
how can you just kick a dog...
how can you not love such bundles of...
the antithesis of an exoskeleton?

how jazz, soul, rhythm & bass degenerated into...
rap synth...
because... it's not exactly even rap these days:
is it?
well... it's hardly that you... didn't see it coming...
god... loving this girl when she mingles with
me drinking alone is doubly exhausting:
because the reality of going forward
is forever an impasse...
a brick wall... take care... concentrate on
the undying emotion: right now...
focus on the butterlies:
on the hypersensitive digestive system...
it's not diarrhoea: it's just your digestive system
working overtime...

i'm in love: but not for keeps...
for illumination...
hammer met up with nail...
out came two planks of wood stuck together...

- just like i can't stomach: on repeat...
i don't own these anglo-saxon women...
there's not grand brotherhood of man...
i don't want to be trapped in some guilt riddled
libido game where she showcases herself
on some... vague: moral stand-off posit...
i'll just go where something is better: & available...

beginning with Romanian, perhaps just
ending with Turkic...
    to hell with these striptease in straitjackets...
how's that for... ahem... "lyricism":
oh, wait... lyricism doesn't appreciate
concrete punctuation / prepositional riddled
language...

one more night with a ***** movie in my mind
where i'm somehow, "somehow" the star...
mein gott: how she slapped that phallus
on her tongue...
how she's... completely involved in nothing
sensible...
how i despise old age:
how i'd sooner stab myself in the neck,
throw myself off a bridge... tame drowning...
anything to heighten the erotica than...
die off... slowly ******* neglected...
right now: spontaneously...
i'd bring a knife and ask her to finish me off:
but of course... i'm shy of ******* her a dozen
times...

none of the leather of neglect:
all her parts being so, so... jaw-like...
mandible...
oh look... what a hallow night...
the moon is here... all horned...
the constellations are in place...
but there are still those roaming stars that...
shouldn't be here...

i will now welcome sleep.

3 wajje hoye ne swer de
Taare bi nikle hoye ne
Me chatt te khada ha
Thandi thandi hawa wi chal rahi he
Te tenu miss bi bada kr reha ha

Heena ji, jina me tang ** reha ha na
Una hi tang krunga

Bina jaane haqiqat ko jo tum ilzaam rakhte **. ..
Kathehre mein khada karne se pehle jaante bhi **....???
Ke honthon ki chupi ka kuch ahem maqsad bhi hota hai. ...
Kabhi jo hota hai dikhta nahi dikhta nahi woh hota hai. ....

the prostitutes come in at £2 / minute...
for an hour's worth of delight that's simple math:
£120...
after my last encounter with the Romanian:
timid little thing, still in her 20s...
timid or frigid: she shouldn't be in the profession...
i left feeling like a castrated harem
handler / oud player...
         i couldn't take out my frustration of a limp
whittle richard on her...
i kissed and caressed her...
i don't suppose any other man might vent his
anger at being limp...
ineffectual: hollow... purposiveness having
evaporated: all that's spirit, energy: animation
reduced to this shrimp ****...

after the hour i just sat in the antechamber
to all the other rooms of hellish delights
when she walked in...
her face is still burning into my brain like
the face of the my ex's 14 year old sister when
we were going out in school...
a rush blood to every part of the body...
blurry vision... lust beyond measure...
                      strange how age changes...
it's nothing spectacular between say... me 35
and her... 31...
but then as with her Khadala... Khada...
Kharada... Khadaha... kiraz... afet...
                lalam... ipek...
                                  leyla... neylan... nuray...
                  serap...
my irises disappeared and perhaps
even the sclera...
                               all was black in my eyes...

and we talked about how disgruntled i looked:
do i look happy?
one thing led to another and i told her:
next time i'm here... i'll be taking you...
      
  how many days passed since the last time?
4... 5?
       wounded pride... got the better of me...
i'm not an erectile dysfunction!
i am not a castrated mouthpiece for the monks
to joke about on their abstinence route to
"elsewhere": i'm a ****** being!
                        this thing works and i'll prove it...
went sober for two days:
i blamed the excess drinking last time...
well: no better excuse mind you...
   and... prior to i ****** myself off to get the blood
running... several times... never once
reaching ******...
good... it works solo...

   the Romanian wasn't to my liking...
i wasn't going to just pick one up while the others
were busy... i was there for Khadaja and i wasn't leaving...
and no... i wasn't going to go for a full hour...
i wasn't sure...
the nerves might have got the better of me...
a plethora of doubts...
                                          esmerey... esana...

what a difference ******* the right woman makes...
i forgot how **** it is when you both appreciate
your cleanliness...
  and she performs ******* without a ******...
that she showed me her tongue with her mouth open
prior...
- who do i look like... jennifer lopez...
or... kim kardashian (god forbid ha ha)
- of course jennifer lopez...
- what do you see in my eyes?
- everything...
- i like your face... your remind me of that
actor, blonde... with a beard and all that...
- bradley cooper?
- yeah... you have a beautiful face
- i'm also fascinated by yours...

a day later and i'm battling a hard-on...
just shy of having her fill in the rest...
  nonetheless: a disorientating hard-on...
gravity is pushing me into the chair, the sofa...
while squatting and smoking a cigarette...
two beers down and my nerves are soothed...
but the CINEMA of last night is...
******* has suddenly become boring...
beside boring: just a performance stunt...
unrealistic - jerking off seems beyond silly too...
that bony imitation **** that's my hand
isn't going to cut it...
when i've just had... the best ******* in my life...
well... it was taking its time:
it only took it... its sweet 16 years...

all of a sudden i wasn't worried whether she
wouldn't be satisfied with my size...
that little grunt and that pulling of the face
when she finally slurped on the rubber
and slurped some more before sitting on me...
well... at first squatting and then completely
with me gripping her ***...

god... and that moist mouth... oozing both hot
and cold... kissing or rather: smoothing...
tongues and all...
odd: i never imagined myself as being much
of a pornographer...
but after 3... 4... years of bony-**** desert...
             and prior... just some unremarkable *****...
comes this Turkish demon-woman...
but there's something grander...
in advertisement and what not...
interracial profiling... white girls taken out
by... Tyrones... bruce lees... and muhammads...
well... if we're playing this interracial game...
**** it... i'm not staying for a white girl...
oddly enough my ex was already a product
of interracial antics: technically she could pass off
as a higher caste miss from the Raj...
but i never expected to have these sort of hots
and hard-ons for a Turkic girl...
then again... technically...
the Caucasus... and i'm a descendent of a people
that migrated north... probably prior
the Turks moving in from somewhere
                                       around Mongolia...
back to the roots...

oh but the added joy that... there's so much transparency
in prostitution...
there... money on the table...
there... a clock on the wall...
    there: we don't need to play games...
we don't have to fake politeness...
                            the naked body on a dissecting table...
and who the hell invented strip-clubs?
who the hell wants to play that fiendish
game of: look... but don't touch...
touch... but don't taste...
performance fears?
so... just looking at it... makes drinking a beer:
not more frustrating?
well... i wasn't going to jump on that only-fans
bandwagon... either...

the prostitutes come in at £2 / a minute...
that's £120 per hour...
                     i don't think... maybe surgeons
earn the equivalent...
i'm not even going to mention... footballers...
among all the other profession...
who the hell earns... £120 an hour and
gets properly pounded at the same time?
no... there's not going to be any shame...
   for the best **** in my life...
                                            only celebration...
and next time... it'll be for an hour...
i'm sure we'll get around to doing it doggy
style while doing it before
the mirror and looking at each turning into
            a Francis Bacon study of ****...

all the more... she also inspired me to give up
drinking... so i can save up what i'd usually spend
on drinking and spend it on her...
smoking will follow suite...
                        hell... if it can be this good:
what else matters? why should anything else matter?
i'm also going to ignore those
butterflies in my stomach...
         realistically: this is not love...
                       just the zenith of carnality...
    then again: it would be a funny story...
how i fell in love with a *******...
                           all that white knight *******...
ha ha.