IN A CHANG’AA DRINKING SPREE

(ONE ACT PLAY)

BY

ALEXANDER   K   OPICHO










CASTE
Advocate; self-styled advocate, his real job is insurance agent
Sampaza-changaa drunkard
Teacher-brother to Sampaza, also a changaa taker
Monica-changaa seller
Austeen-a lad, son to Monica
Watchman-changaa drunkard
Rono-friend to watchman
Njeri-friend to Monica, single mother
Atieno-friend to Monica, single mother
Driver- changaa taker and a smoker
Barasa-changaa taker and electrician
Ndhiwa- changaa taker, brother to barasa
Yator-changaa taker brother to barasa
Mavachi-changaa taker, with a fallen out wife
Mandila-relative to mavachi
Agnesi-wife to teacher
Music
*chang’aa is homemade alcoholic spirit consumed by the peasants in east and central Africa.




ACT ONE
In a slum area of Eldoret town, very many ramshackle muddy walled houses are seen; the setting takes place in the house of Monica the Changaa seller. There is low tone music humming from the DVD, playing Vincent Ongidi’s ‘mother is better than father.’
Music; Bakeni Nebekhale, bukula indika,
           Bukula indika samwana, Udimake kungeni
          Khusoko busia, bukula indika omusumba,
          Bakhwee nebechile, bukula indika
          Udimake khusoko yaya, bukula indika….
Driver; (dancing with a tumbler of chang’aa in his hand) let me dance! This is my best Sunday, let me dance, I am son of a woman. Sing! Sing! Sing! For us Vincent, you son of Ongidi, (pointing at the DVD).
Advocate; the problem you are only dancing with your class a half empty, moreover, you are not following the rhythm , I thought you dance to this song by shaking your shoulders, but instead you are gyrating your waistline.
Driver; (still dancing) let me dance because when I will go to the grave I will not get another chance to dance.
Advocate; (gulps from his tumbler) will you buy me chang’aa of ten shillings?
Driver; let me finish dancing first, I will see what to do about it.
(Enters Sampaza and teacher, as music goes off)
Sampaza; why are you dudes stopping the music on my entering?
Driver; it is not us who have stopped the music; you go and ask Vincent Ongidi why he did not sing a long song.
Sampaza; (sits at the old couch) where is Monica?
Driver; you burn us a cigarette before you ask for Monica, were you not with Monica upto the mid of last night?
Sampaza; why were you spying on me upto the mid of the night?
Advocate; (to Driver) give Sampaza time to introduce his friend to us
Sampaza; (to teacher) sit on this stool, forget about this drunkards.
Teacher; will this stool not break and sent me down like humpty dumpty? (Shakes the stool and sits on it)
Sampaza; It cannot even Monica herself sits on it and she is more huge than you do
Advocate; (to Sampaza) this is your brother?
Sampaza; now listen all off you
All; Sampaza we are listening to you all of us
Sampaza; had I killed our mother, he could not have born, (pointing to teacher).
Driver; if someone had not told me, there is no way I could know that this man is your brother. You are totally different from one another. Look, he is fat, strong, clean, well shaven and groomed brown and is like he took a bathe in the morning before he came here to chang’aa place, but you Sampaza tell us when you last washed your clothes? Even forget of washing your body.
Sampaza; (to driver) if you want to beg chang’aa from teacher just beg without using your desperate tricks of false praises.
Advocate; but me, I could easily know that teacher is a brother to Sampaza by simply comparing the shape of their heads, they look alike.
Teacher; who is serving chang’aa today?  I want to buy some for you guys.
Driver; it is Austeen, let me call him for you (goes at the door shouting) Austeen! Austeen! Aha! This boy is as earless as a female monitor lizard, (comes back) I have called him for you.
Teacher; thanks, let me believe he won’t take time, I am really thirsty.
Advocate; you can mitigate your thirst with this one of mine (gives teacher a tumbler).
Teacher; (sips) it was not a bad stuff (passes the tumbler to Sampaza)
Sampaza; (takes a full swig) uhm! The stuff is really the tears of the lion.
(Enters Austeen)
Austeen; My God, Sampaza is here again! Sampaza, why did you run away with my money last time? You take the beer and run away, even you made my mother to quarrel me yester night.
Driver; (to Austeen) you boy manage your mouths, don’t you see Sampaza is the age of your mother?
Austeen; wait! Sampaza must give me the money, give me the money you Sampaza!
Teacher; let me pay for him, how much was it?
Austeen; imagine Sampaza took off running into the darkness of the night after taking chang’aa of fifty shillings. Imagine a whole tumbler of fifty shillings.
Teacher; that was bad, Sampaza you did something very bad. You know Monica is a single parent and you run away with her money. This chang’aa is like Monica’s husband, so please let us be honest and pay our bills;
Austeen ;( to teacher) are you paying for Sampaza?
Teacher; yes, but before that; pour a tumbler of chang’aa worthy fifty shillings for each of these elders, including Sampaza. I am going to pay that one myself. But serve me with a tumbler of chang’aa that goes for a hundred shillings. May be it can quench my thirst.
Driver; brother you are a man (shakes teacher’s hand).
Austeen; (to Advocate) stand up for some minutes; I want to remove a grenade from your chair.
Advocate; you mean I was just sitting on the tears of the lion?
Austeen; yes (he fishes out a yellow plastic container, feels each tumbler as required).
Sampaza; you boy! What are you doing? Fill my tumbler to the brim, why are you now conning me off my chang’aa?
Austeen; (politely) Sampaza listen, you know my hands always shake when I am holding something. I didn’t want to spill chang’aa by struggling to fill your tumbler to the brim.
Teacher; (sipping, closing his eyes) Austeen now play for us another music.
Driver; yaah! The music, play for us Marashi ya karafu.
Austeen; my mother has not yet bought the DVD for Marashi ya karafu, let me play for you this one (shows him the DVD), it will thrill you to your bone marrow, (inserts the DVD in to the player).
Music ;( playing) ukiwa wa enda nyubani kwangu heee,
                          Umwambie stella mimi  sitakucha,
                         Umwambie stella mimi nimefungwa jela,
                      Anisalie mtoto mama nitaleaaaa!
Driver; ndio hiyo! (Stands up to gyrate his waist swiftly) that is my best song from Tanzania. How I wish I was still in prison on Christmas day of last year.
Sampaza; (sipping at his tumbler) if you want to be in prison go and make love to your goat and call people to help you.
Driver; look at you, with all this women, why should I go for a goat?
Sampaza; (standing up to dance, shaking his shoulders) because you want to be in
Prison.
Austeen; (giggling and shouting) look! Look! Look at Sampaza, he does not know how to dance, he is waving his hands like wings of a chicken.
Sampaza; you dance and I see (daring Austeen)
Austeen ;( dancing) look! Look! Fire! Fire! Fire! (He goes to sit)
All; (laughing loudly and clapping) Austeen! Austeen!
Advocate; this boy Austeen, became old while in his mother’s womb
                     (Enters Monica, Rono and watchman)
Driver; here comes Monica, (provokes Monica for a dance, they both dance).
Advocate; (joins Monica and driver to dance) Monica! Monica! Daughter of Zinjathropus, Waa!
Monica; I am an early woman, yaani! Womanopithecus africanus (dancing).
Driver ;( pushing away advocate), dance away from here, why are you bringing here this evil smelling sweater of yours?
Advocate; I am sorry.
Driver; that is empty jealousy, you only saw Monica’s pelvis touching mine and you jumped here to disrupt my gusto.
                               (Music stops and they all get sited)
Monica; (to Austeen) give watchman and his friend chang’aa of twenty bob, I will pay myself.
Austeen; yes mama (serves watchman and Rono chang’aa)
Rono; Kongoi, I mean thank you Monica, you are such a generous woman? (Takes a full swig).
Monica; Karibu, don’t mind I am always and I will be always an early woman.
Sampaza; (to watchman) when you came in I thought you were the crow.
Watchman; (sipping) who? Me, I was a policeman ten years ago but I was ******.
Driver; (to Sampaza) this man is not a muriakole, he is not a cop. This is a D.D.O.
Advocate; meaning?
Driver; daily drinking officer, hmmm! The DDO.
All; laughing loudly.
Monica; (to advocate) how is your brother and his witchdoctor of a wife?
Advocate; Monica, just keep quiet, my brother is in problems.
Monica; which problems? I told him to marry me and he refused because I did not have book education.  I am now making more money from chang’aa in a day than even he does from his education. Let that man, that brother of yours, chew the full scale of his misfortune. Now tell me which problem has he?
Advocate; today very early in the morning I heard my brother screaming, of course from his house. Out of anxiety I rushed there to find out what was happening. Jesus! What I so…..
Driver; what was it? Just say.
Monica; a man has nothing to fear just say.
Teacher; where is Austeen?
Austeen; I am here
Teacher; serve each of us chang’aa of fifty shillings, start with him (pointing at the advocate) give Monica, your mother a tumbler, that one of a hundred shillings.
Austeen ;( serving as he sings) how long will they ****,
              Our brothers, while we stand watching them,
                Redemption songs, Bob Marley! Sons of ghetto!
Sampaza; Austeen you are always not measuring my chang’aa to the money given, now look, does this grasshoppers spittle qualify to be chang’aa of fifty shillings?
Austeen; Sampaza, I told you my hands are not steady, they always shake whenever I am holding something.
Sampaza; (to Monica) I will bring a medicine man to give some manyasi to this son of yours, so that he stops shaking his hands like an epileptic.
Monica; Sampaza, you drink your chang’aa and to hell with your medicine-man. Let us listen to what happened to the brother of advocate.
Advocate; now, as I was saying I found my brother’s wife had swollen my brothers ***** to its base, the ***** was full deep in her mouth, my brother was screaming but the was dead silent ******* the *****, her teeth tightly gripping it at the same time.
All; laughing loudly
Teacher; Maybe it was oral ***, but not domestic violence
Monica; oral ***!?
Teacher; yes, it is possible
Advocate; but why was he crying?
Monica; because his wife was ******* his *****
Teacher; that is the case
Advocate; if at all it was pleasurable then why was my brother screaming?
Teacher;  maybe he was on ******* ecstasy, the same way a woman can be when you suckle or even ****** her *****.
Monica; but I can’t allow a man to suckle the eye of my breast.
Driver; even me, I can’t suckle my wife
Teacher; why?
Driver; even also, in my culture, one is not allowed to suckle a woman’s ****
Teacher; is that sexuology or culture?
Watchman ;( to driver) yes, answer that! Answer that question from teacher.
Monica; but it is only a foolish woman who can allow a man to suckle her *****, or if she can then she is not serious with that man.
Teacher; (to Monica) then which man do you like? Sampaza?
Monica; Me do love Sampaza?
Teacher; yes, Sampaza
Monica; this Sampaza, is always as miserable as a corpse in the grave without a coffin.
Advocate; you are as miserable as a corpse in the grave without a coffin.
Sampaza; I am not, I know am great
Teacher; yes, and capable to love the early woman like Monica.
Sampaza; (to Austeen) play for us some better music.
Austeen; which one mama? Which music can I play?
Monica; play for them Pamela Nkutha (sings) Nakula ebusi,
                  Nakula ewunwa, lalalaa! Lalalaa! Laaaa!
Austeen; Mama, that one we don’t have. Let me play for them Brenda *****.
Music; (playing) Songea nikubambe, songea nikubusu,
                          Nakupenda, nakubusu ehee monica eheee!
Austeen; Kula Ngoma; he who does not have chic let him embrace a stone (exits)
All; (dancing violently) Monica! Monica waaaaaaa!
Watchman; (dancing) Sampaza can you suckle the ***** of a woman?
Sampaza; ask driver that question.
Driver; I cannot suckle the ***** of my wife.
Teacher; I depend with nature of a woman you are in the bed with.
Watchman; correct , some women has fallen ******* like chapattis, but if a chic has ***** and pointed breast, I  can ****** and suckle her like nothing else in this world. I can even suckle her *******.
Teacher; by the way, ******* are the fountain of pleasure to a woman, when you suckle her she will just moan; Sampaza! Sampaza! Sampazaaaaa!
All; laugh raucously
Monica; these men are drunk.
Driver; no, they are now happy, pick one of them for yourself.
Monica; the man that I can love now must be having a death certificate.
Teacher; what does it mean? Me I thought you need a dark skinned man like Sampaza, you know the dark the skin of a man the greater the ****** pleasure ehee…
                       (Enters Njeri and Atieno)
Njeri; Monica, are you not aware that were are late for Chama? Look you are still *****, you have not even combed you hair.
Monica; Njeri come in why are rioting at the door, look at Atieno she is as miserable as usual.
Njeri; she was flogged by the husband.
Atieno; (to Njeri) you! Watch your mouths, I don’t have a husband.
All; laugh, (Njeri and Atieno sits).
Sampaza; look at this one (pointing to Njeri) can I give you some money so that you do me a favour.
Njeri; which favour?
Sampaza; of this…(Makes a sign of *** with his fist).
Njeri; I don’t sleep with chang’aa drunkards
Atieno; even me
Sampaza; (staggering, and then falling on Njeri’s laps) I want! Truly I want!
Advocate; Sampaza is drunk, let me take him home (pulls Sampaza).
Sampaza; (resisting, avoiding to be pulled out by advocate) leave me alone! You thief! You are an insurance thief! Who told you that you are an advocate? You are not! You want to steal my money. No, all these people are thieves, Monica is a big thief, and they want to steal my brother’s money!  Teacher! Come out of here! This is a den of pickpockets! They will still your wallet, come we go! Thieves! Thieves!
                        (Advocate pulls Sampaza out, as they both exit)
Driver; Sampaza does not have manners.
Njeri; Imagine he fell on my laps, what if my husband found him?
Monica; He would have now divorced you for eating rats.
Njeri; When I have not eaten any rat, it was only a drunkard supporting himself on my legs.
Atieno; he has spoken a lot of words.
Driver; and all the words were total lies.
Monica; no, whatever is in the inner heart of a sober man is always on the tongue of the drunkard man.
Teacher; to mean what? Anyway, forget about Sampaza.
Watchman; by the way
Rono; I am also off my senses, I am seeing each of you having seven heads, and the heads are a

Mine is Gopal, the Mountain-Holder; there is no one else.
On his head he wears the peacock-crown: He alone is my husband.
Father, mother, brother, relative: I have none to call my own.
I've forsaken both God, and the family's honor: what should I do?
I've sat near the holy ones, and I've lost shame before the people.
I've torn my scarf into shreds; I'm all wrapped up in a blanket.
I took off my finery of pearls and coral, and strung a garland of wildwood flowers.
With my tears, I watered the creeper of love that I planted;
Now the creeper has grown spread all over, and borne the fruit of bliss.
The churner of the milk churned with great love.
When I took out the butter, no need to drink any buttermilk.
I came for the sake of love-devotion; seeing the world, I wept.
Mira is the maidservant of the Mountain-Holder: now with love He takes me across to the further shore.

~~~~~~~
mere to giridhara gupaala, duusaraa na koii |
jaa ke sira mora mukuTa, mero pati soii ||
taata, maata, bhraata, baMdhu, apanaa nahiM koii |
ghaaM.Da daii, kula kii kaana, kyaa karegaa koii?
saMtana Dhiga baiThi baiThi, loka laaja khoii ||
chunarii ke kiye Tuuka Tuuka, o.Dha liinha loii |
motii muu.Nge utaara bana maalaa poii ||
a.Nsuvana jala siiMchi siiMchi prema beli boii |
aba to beli phaila gaii, aanaMda phala hoii ||
duudha kii mathaniyaa, ba.De prema se biloii |
maakhana jaba kaa.Dhi liyo, ghaagha piye koii ||
aaii maiM bhakti kaaja, jagata dekha roii |
daasii miiraa.N giradhara prabhu taare aba moii ||
__
Notes

I am the translator of this poem, "Torn in Shreds" by Mirabai. I did not copyright it; it's in the public domain and everyone is free to help themselves to it. I simply request that it appear with my name as the translator.

Johanna-Hypatia Cybeleia

and sometimes in russia you can be found going to the opera, and drinking квас (rootbeer is the only known equivalent)... and you joke and say how it looks: k'bac (make the word batch acute... ć? actually... flatline the end of how k'bac would look like __). evidently, in a land where в = v and с = s... is not the same land where they do that k.c.s. trick of interpolation / interweaving... sure inter based on particularly worded example... otherwise intra basis for keeping a symbol that morphs; slippery *******, those phonetic eels.

i call it the samurai haircut...
because... it ****** well looks like...
the way dave rubin's hairline
becomes enclosed in the headphones?
    that'**** is ******* samurai...
mind you i'm drunk and looking
at the screen at a distance that would
suggest it to be so...
             *******'s donning a
                                          chonmage!
i'm all for carousels and ferris wheels...
i like the: whoop-d-doo-da'h
special effects, but this **** is twisted,
now i'm the one laughing...
                what the hell is up with that?
and when i listen to *tool's
cover of peaches you lied...
    one image... charon swinging left to right
(or right to left)... swinging a scythe,
very labourously (laboriously -
thing with post-german languages is that
they use too many vowels... ******* can't
get enough of them... spelling this *******
out is like them trying to learn to state
a sz sound... it's just a sh...
son darling, really? hush, or listen to some
deep purple or kula shaker... mm'kay?)        
                                             d      f
% 2 !          7    &         (looking for a dot,
given the faux pas aesthetic of ? followed by it...
of wait... for it is normal given ?!
                     oh look here! there's the little *******!
         .
               now that became completely pointless.
try covering blind melon's swong no rain...
   you'll probably find it easier taking
to a palette for roquefort cheese,
            or actually allowing milk to "go off"
until it becomes skisłe
also called bopping along / dancing in your chair...
wait a minute: i was only thinking about the spelling
the karousel... thinking about the ferris-wheel...
  and c... middle name's conrad...
never had "gone off" milk with warm potatoes?
so i'm guessing you never had yoghurt?
i do acknowledge that the consistency is parallel,
but skisłe milk? (add a w to combat the diacritical
distinction in the stated tongue)...
    that sort of milk is gone, way gone,
   you can't serve it with warm baby potatoes
immersed in butter and the herb dill...
   actually? **** it... can't be nostalgic about
the end of the 20th century, i just want to drink
the kind of milk that can go sour...
    and form clots... it's practically yoghurt...
                something an esklimo might call home...
but it's gone... too many preservatives,
the whole natural process is gone,
          this milk i'm drinking?
                            it won't turn sour... it will look
as it was originally intended, but when the counter-nature
movement moves in to allow it to degenerate
into something: o.k., i admit, when it turns
into a quasi yoghurt form...
  but that interview with dave rubin with joe rogan...
a ******* chonmage with the earphones dave...
i must be seeing double,
     maybe the drunk "glasses" can be put to
a more effective use; other than (insert english slang):
seeing a real butters queen-b of chav-dom.
              i'd still **** her though, drunk or sober,
like i once mentioned: anything that moves (to a friend).
now i realise this is getting serious,
    compromised on half an hour to write my
father's roofind invoice like chopin...
i rarely look at the keyboard... so it's either the machine-gun
or piano metaphor for the computer keyboard,
definitely not a general practitioner's
crow-pecking a snail out of dynamic... index peck...
peck... peck... index peck... peck...
                7 days' worth of activity done in half an hour...
he was watching chelsea vs. man utd. and it was
the quarter finals in the f.a. cup...
      i stood there trying to keep the supermarket
walk ritual open until 11pm for my usual dose...
in the 77th minute of the match i forgot the ballerinas
   and heard that there would be a semi-final draw...
back in a minute...
                          so off i went...
       and came back drinking a 85pence ale...
       mmm... fruity...
                             the wheat extract brew was much better
though; i actually had to sniff the head of the bottle
because i: wasn't shopping for perfumes.
that said, i can't remember the last time i washed my entire
body... armpits? sure, everyday... teeth?
what is preached to children, a pea sized dollop
and then the tactic of: quickly does it;
under 30seconds... they tell you you should do it for 3minutes?
they're into employing dentsists.
  oh yeah... that milk thing?
                           what's your suggestion on the sugar
lactose and diabetes?
     what's truly problematic though?
the form... i start of thin... and then my poems become
fat... it's annoying to the point that there is no comparison
to justify this demise...
             like i want a waterfall precision...
but end up with a pyramid (or thereabouts)...
uh, wonky, ~... doing the egyptian wavy hand
gesture... or more like a seesaw: left? right? right?
what?! left?!
                       but most of the time i think about
my uncle (my mother's brother) and the year
when red hot chili peppers released
   their album californication, and spending the summer
working on his vintage porsche, and eating
chips and hot chicken wings...
        mental illness? that's when you turn compuslive...
memory? i can't control my memory...
memories are just conjured like spells culminating
into a jinn being summoned...
                     it's true what they say:
you are bound to not think if the other two major
faculties as stressors to overcome the "need" to think
(and when did happen that einstein ran a marathon
and thought up his *******?) -
                       my main interest is memory,
and to counter the theory of natural selection...
i conjure up memory...
              obviously i have no care for darwinian arguments,
solipsistic? sure, why wouldn't i be?
                     with regard to how i was treated?
it's a pretty natural and readily available resource
to introduce a membrane akin to a cactus.

Go outside after breakfast
Come back for lunch at noon.
Come inside at suppertime
And even then, it was too soon.
Never permitted to be late
We ate dinner at six each day
Eat every bite on our plate.
About the menu we had no say.

We had baking soda submarines
Popular Mechanics magazines
And that was technology back then.
Decoder rings and roller skate keys
Shooting marbles on our knees
And playing crooks and G-men.

Those days we had three channels
On all black and white televisions.
Just the same thirteen inch boxes;
Nothing like 3D or Panavision.
Loved Uncle Miltie and Lucille Ball
And considered Korla Pandit a waste,
But we must be forgiven because
Back then, no one had much taste.

We could spell Kula, Fran and Ollie,
Said words like “gosh”, and “by golly”
And were anxious to see flying cars.
Many movies were in Technicolor
But you always had to take your brother
And he didn’t recognize the stars.

After school we played sandlot ball
Saturday were TV cartoon shows;
Dancing trees with belly buttons
And a local clown with a red nose.
We joined Cubs and Boy Scouts
Had lemonade stands by the street,
Matchbooks in bicycle stokes
And used bottle cap taps for our feet.

It seemed like days were longer then
And summer was slow to come again.
Those were the days when we had fun.
We built our forts and hooked up swings
Kids did all crazy kinds of things
Before these modern times had begun.

i'd really like to punch Roger Boyes in the face... that kind of therapy talk akin to Fight Club... i'd really love to punch Roger Boyes' smile off...  can't stress how much i'd like to punch his face, simply to add the mascara of plum with that grin of his... i'll say it one more time for the therapeutic reasons, akin to 1916 and northern irish zombies; god, i'd love to punch that man into a Picasso.

why... the pristine supposed involvement of
Colonel Kentucky in Syria...
leave them to it! your opinions are just invests in war,
look at you, cooked-up in a semi-detached
in Warwickshire... i'm sure the select journalists
ageing have moved from the column to
the opinion section, because they are *proper
bulldog bred to choke a Belgian waffle
and *****-up a moth for a tartan pattern;
******* in the Caribbean - pilot features added
to the wingspan about what i wouldn't integrate into
even if Dickens or Shakespeare was an ice cream moment
of melting into a society... honey pooh...
you want the community experience?
abolish the strategy for urban areas and Greek-likened
free-city states... you want a community?
move to a village... no immigration will change
that demographic, village life means village life,
and villagers... and your neighbour's breakfast
on your table given the gossip at the hairdressers...
get a prim and the low-down;
that English, functioning atheism:
left hand (a-, the indefinite article) - and right hand
(the-, the definite article) - Kula Shaker'***** -
but i'd really love to punch Roger rather than Gandhi...
for Aleppo... i guess it's fun and morally pristine
to serve a comment along with oysters away
from the tabloid section of Loners of the newspaper,
a poet best dissects a newspaper -
did Cromwell ask for aid? Charles got the Chaplin
chop - Russia assured everyone, the support
of the Armstrong - because Colonel Kentucky and
every other entrepreneur of capitalism was not
part of bookmarking the last few pages of the Syrian
civil war... is that because no English civilians
knew the reality of war that Syrians concerned themselves
with? hence the punch for the journalist...
how about infiltrating a far-right perspective to counter
the spread of Jihad in Europe? being an island will
hardly help, as pseudo-****** said: now the channel
tunnel... let the tanks roll in.
England is under this fake impression that America
cares two-shots of whiskey three shakes of the dice
about its opinion... it doesn't...
America is pro-Israel.. England is quasi-pro but by
majority not wishing the Palestinians to experience
a 2000 year old Exodus... so here come the balaclavas
with black & white or red & white Houndstooth patterns.
still... i'd love to punch that Roger into a tombstone-flat-face.
leave them to it! it's a civil war! none of us
were ever Syrian civilians... we were civilians elsewhere...
in the green mint-fresh rolling hill countryside...
this isn't your son's Special Ops first-person shooter
on a computer screen... **** me... let the gym meat-heads
pump the iron... you a covert disciple of the diminishing
English high-street franchise... you know
that when a franchise begins to become turned FLAWED
it invests in adverts - capitalism's exposure comes
with advertisement, when a company is on the fault
line of bankruptcy or making profit, if decides on
an advertisement project, a crusade - to rekindle
public trust, i.e. naive handshakes all round.

as ever, not a preference, or a pr.s. (pre scriptum)... more like an afterthought... never presume too much in case of diacritical ownership or necessary use... the language had terrible fathers... sure, once they said thou instead of you... nay instead of no... thee and still said you, as in: to be (that's thou without the index finger)... but when they applied diacritical marks ******* their faces, they attracted ridicule no one seemed to be bothered about... kinda like a Copernican trajectory... why put a dot above iota? well, the answer is the same as saying to clown-juggler (a) jesus... and saying to clown-juggler (b) yehovah... apparently the former is a res vanus (an empty thing) and the latter is a res cogitans (a thinking thing)... and a crucifixion is a binding process... collateral damage: it's the reverse... and you get to keep your yuppie christmas lights... but there a limb missing... ý and j... both have adequate indicators of children with single mothers... it like this genetic encoding, ** for woman, xy for man, xxl for a t-shirt... but why bother ι (iota) into owning any diacritical marks? that's ******* overly presuming to start things off to an Orff composition of a bulimic neptune that's why i suggested diacritical marks on a y... to transfigure it into the presupposed j... you know how many diacritical marks you can add to an ι? many... you can have a dozen brats while you're figuring out the plumbing... presumptious... presumptuous... see! false applicability of diacritical marks makes you a ******* worth of spelling! you're bound to be naturally dyslexic... ****, what a magic trick! ****! gone! dis and then there's dys- and the lexicon going berserk... make your ******* mind up! yes, i know that between dιs- and dys- the former means without, and the latter actually means an adjective, i.e. bad... or a jumbled up lexigraph; then into the tornado machine we go peacocking at the height of synonyms... but i still find it overly presumptious... ****... presumptuous to apply a dot above an ι (iota) and subsequently a dot above a non-diacritically existent j... it's how you yoyo and how you jump... there's so much ambiguity in anglican that the yhwh was drunk obvious... hence i'm drunk... and stating the obvious... you can clearly apply many other diacritical marks to a letter, rather than simply applying two: to aye and to hurray and forget the rest... rhyming couplet that... follow suite with jay... but write anything else in anglican and you see a Cardiff lazy... first the cymru, then the gaelic... well, you have to... given that english didn't come but shakespearean from the caribbean or india... you have to mind saying syrkloffipompusdumpus in Cardiff... it would be a bit diff not not... be gentle... get the rolling hills motto into that word, extract syllables like a German, or a chemist, please.

sometimes it really takes an evening like this, you go through
them until you hear the prompt and emerge on stage
and say a few lines...
you start off with *the connells 74 75,
then move onto blind lemon no lemon,
then through to kula shaker govinda,
      then reef with gimme you love,
    then onto snake river conspiracy
with a cover version of how soon is now,
then you decide to take the steps toward
formalising a mix-take (ancient history
courting techniques, high fidelity crap,
and i did manage to make one for a former
girlfriend... how ancient it all seems right
now... it also seems that i should be
70! by the looks of it... sadly i'm not...
yes yes, my teenage dreams was to work
in a music shop... swear to god, once the mp3
format came out i knew now future anti-Beatles
maniac had his hands tied and couldn't
buy the Beatles vinyl and burn them...
what can you do in Tron-land that's equivalent?
buy a Salman Rushdie and rekindle the
          bonfire night of Munich?
i had a muslim friend that really fancied
natalie portman... but because she is a jew
that was kinda difficult... how about
i obliterate that problem with alicia vikander,
hey there, poster boy... reach for the stars).
the thing is: we're in an en masse shock,
it happened all too quickly...
then came placebo with pure morning,
and then back to covers, daddy cool -
             and then back to boney m with
rasputin... and and then i picked up a book
by jack spicer, and then i thought:
i hope that i write enough so they can do
a my vocabulary did this to me: the complete
collection, yep, i hope they can't hone in on me,
that they can only print (if ever, yuck)
           a selected works artefact
which, given the Darwinistic interpretation of
history... is not even worth bothering about...
the damage has been done historically,
it's answered in seven (if not more) news channels
with 30 minutes of original script, repeated
24/7 until another headline blip appears and
changes the narrative, just a tad.
    indeed i did pick up a book i own by the
san francisco renaissance poet jack spicer...
      and i immediately forgot what song i was
going to d.j. after i finished with thinking about
what she said when i made that mixtape for her:
listening to king crimson's epitaph at
around 5 a.m. on oxford st. going to work...
              i don't have a library, i have an a-to-zed
of avenues, streets, possibilities...
i don't think... i make cocktails...
                       the un-literal... literally applicable.
philosophy really taught me to not crave intimacy,
or bemoan it as some genius robotics inventor
who equates all things responsive as necessarily
needing an artificiality... so where's the antonym
dividing line between artificial and superficial?
men are from Mars and women are superficial?
               oh sure... we can have this talkshow logic
going round and round...
   wolves don't bark, but the domesticated dog
can't wow us with a howl... is that whining or whimper?
and i know i don't have a novel in me,
      tragic (said keith lemon style)...
                    because i never wanted a zoo,
or wanted to cage anything or see cages...
and then become scholastically holistic -
                      it was never going to be a chance to see
"the whole picture"... at best all you're going
to get is interruptions in my life...
        which is hardly what you'd call the disappearance
of Tiger Woods after rumours circulated that
he owned a harem...
                               and i really do believe that
hinduism got one thing wrong... Shiva is a girl's name.
        shaven... never stirred... sounds just about
right as if were indeed a mexican ****** drinking a mojito.
yes, we can have a mini lecture:
i abuse language, i enslave it, language the over way
round can have a bunch of protestors with
placards walking down the street and chanting slogans
that never make it into advertisement...
     speak ill of the Pharisees: get crucified...
speak ill of the plebs? they disperse - ha ha... i should
know... i could be considered a pleb anomaly...
        broad shouldered and strong enough to move
a tonne of bricks (once)...
             so anyway... i picked up this jack spicer
book i have (that ****** Lorca fetishist!
he'd **** his **** any chance he might have)
   and this weird thing came about...
i lost track of what song i would play to
murmur out the clicking sound of the keyboard
(forget it, typewriters were rapists compared
to computer keyboards) -
             it's from the poem phonemics -
and by god... i'd be gutted to have derived the same
conclusion... and i did...
    yhwh is a phonetic study...
esp. given the anti-diacritical approach of anglican
pragmatism... it's not exactly what people
expect you to believe: circumcision and kippah
and niqab... that's for people who own
about... well a single book or as Erasmus could
have said: in alles reiche... including spanish
dutchland...                        it's not even
mean-spirited that i say it: i said once:
i don't want fans... i want snobs.
                                 any respectable man with
a following of siusiumajtki (a queer way
of saying the verb of ***** and majtki?
                          )maýtki? ý, yep, rarely done(
just means underwear... what the pop stars
get when they ****** standing up)...
                   i really feel like i should write
the second to last part of the poem...
   it's itching me to do so...
             i just don't understand why i see it differently
to how jack sees it... i treated it as the case
of two Adams... aleph and ayin being
the protruding vowels...
                i didn't treat aleph as a consonant...
  maybe i made a mistake in doing so... but akin
to the Greek principle and the rule of prefix and suffix
you cut apart omicron and get o- out and attach
it to ν (nu) - of course once you cut up ν and extracted
n and forgot about the cascade that leads you up
to upsilon - to get the word νo out from the pick 'n' mix.
unless i'm speaking dutch, then i think that
makes sense.
              why wouldn't aleph and ayin be vowels?
           Semitic languages aren't going away...
as is neither the semitic religions... forget it...
it's too complicated, adding to the fact that i'm
bewildered about treating vowels as women and
women veiled and women in hiding and consonants
as men... in the same way that the Latins hide
their children in English... children? diacritical marks...
where the **** are they?
      you get them scooped up by consumerism,
only about 10% climbed a tree...
          the rest are churned into premature adulthood,
and you wonder, with all these advertising
campaigns why most of them develop mature
negations of ease, in ref. to premature depression...
  you wonder... where are the children? swallowed up
by another set of pop idols?
          did they ever play with marbles,
or hide & seek, ever played games with girls
and toys and tic-tac-toe?
ever skipped a rope?
                         it's fading because it's being exploited...
so you end up with a song that prescribed this
poem, folk implosion - make it with the best...
from the soundtrack to the film thirteen...
as it stands i need a refill, and i'll probably cite
the poem by jack, giving about half a second's worth
of care for copyright laws of a dead man...
   just so i can see if my logic serves me right
in saying that hebrew has to variations of a-,
as in aleph (א) and ayin (ע), as does greek
  with thought (θ) and philosophy (φ) -
but let me get back to you on that one.

Before uende tizi,usikule ndizi,that could make you feel uneasy,nowadays injili naspread bila bibles,the only player kwa hii game anacheza na bi-*****,hii si  kujichocha ni  vile skills nimeobtain kwa makocha,luku safi na maganji kwa toja,na hi I dunia ni ya sir God so kaa unategea downfall yangu my friend utangoja.

Art inatoka kwa heart,PETTY POET is about to change ile narrative imekuwepo,my lines are full of flavour kaa ni diss unapokea kichapo,ni  heri uko mnaeza kula vako,huku kumekauka kuliko kichwa ya babu owino,na Jana na Leo mayutt daily ni  kilio,promises hamfulfill kisha kwa mbulu unabrag venye  uko na spirit ya kuokolea,zote mauongo,I wish ningekuwa na kalamu ni-underline na rangi iliyokolea.

Kama ni  uhondo unatafuta songea,si kubrag ni course ya success nilisomea,daily  nikiota nagrow ka mmea,kila mtu  ana-views tofauti huwezi sikia nikikusemea,ukibehave abnormally tunakutreat normally,si  wasapere pekee wanapenda mali ata  mayoh utaskia wakisema no-mali,

Hii time short nimespend apa  nilikuwa na blessings za mama no wonder sijastammer,kama nimekubamba scratch kwa tenje uniseti stage name sijaplan kuhama.
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is it me or does Led Zeppelin's all my love of the burnout feel akin to The Doors' hello, i love you feel similar bigger than Spirit's taurus, i think it does, the sparkle-clad-show lost. after being born in the 20th century i feel no nostalgia, nor regret, why is nostalgia the bridal maid of history? if threes are a Poseidon's tridents - history, nostalgia, memory then correspondingly: how it is, what if, how it was - respectively. i'm also prone to the nuance of Jamaica in D'yer Mak'er... or Lenny Kravitz's my love (the twang, not the message - necessarily tiresomely true, not Kula Shaker's govinda) - but this is still early 21st century, we're well ahead of ourselves, Miloshevich (a.k.a. Geert Wilders) vs. Blaire at the Nürnberger Prozesse - bachelors and barristers and lawyers have this thing about defending democracy and the spread of justice wearing Mickey Mouse's gloves spreading colour, and to boot: as if **** didn't affect them...

hunter (a) - see a silver-back politician scurrying past like a rat?
hunter (b) - was it scurrying with a ten-tonne white elephant?
hunter (a) - might have been, very much would be.
hunter (b) - what was his name? i have a fail on face recognition.
hunter (a) - we nicknamed him Hannibal.
hunter (b) - yeah, he was here, went grey-haired
                     like a hare on steroids the minute we mentioned
                     the Arabs weren't sponsoring any foreign
                     investment in the internal combustion engine
                     as having no future via the investment sector
                     of conscience via the law-courts having lost.
hunter (a) - that's him!
hunter (b) - a mile ahead, a Kali icon with the skulls
                     of twenty Saddam Husseins around its neck!
hunter (a) - if i were a pensioner i'd shout bingo right now...
                     ah, **** it... BINGO!
hunter (b) - you're very much welcome.

there exists no democratic essence in history, history isn't democratic because it's theocratic in the examples of who's remembered, if democracy would reign over the practice of historical investigation, no one would be remembered, it would be democratically just to forget the stupendous and the un- of so stated consideration, history is investigated by theocratic resolve - no one actually voted to remember Saladin or Genghis Khan, democracy played no part in these figures being remembered - why hasn't democracy involved scientific scrutiny in its argument to persist? by scientific i don't mean chemistry, biology etc., segregated from the humanist studies, by scientific i mean omni-, the all embracing - after all, history invokes a memory of absolute anti-democratic examples of ruling, given present concepts of democracy none of these figures should be remembered if democracy is to experience a pinch of **** ideology of being a pure idea without deviation into ideology that might hijack it - but it's just that - the purity of the idea, always persistent, coupled with the mongrel tactics of it being exercised.

/NI LIFE/
Sometimes mi hu-wrong nikijaribu ku-correct,na mi si perfect so daily niko  kwa  risklt ya ku-loose vitu ata  nili-collect,so we skiza hii  tune,yeah ofcourse hii tune si  unajua mali safi zi huzinduliwa June.Pingu za maisha nishanunua shoneni vitenge juu nazifunga soon.

Samahani,back then kudish kwa sahani kwangu ilisound kifahari,world yangu ilikuwa so untrue na mauongo ki-kanyari,kupata kwangu then ilisound ka monkey kuonekana kalahari,nyi mkinyonga tai zangu nabaki ni  nyoka nanyonga,ni  saa  nane  usiku nikiexhaust my poetic pen igeuze words ziwe dishi,DJ akiscratch ilikuwa opportunity ya kuflow nayo  na mistari haziishi,mtaa 1960 ndio iliniwai courage ya kusimama mbele ya mahater nikiwashow hii mwaka haiishi meza moja na nyinyi tudishi.

Mi hu-acknoledge power ya sir God jo juu ya kuniblessia creativity tangu pre-unit,usitafte amani  bila unity certificate ya kugraduate from petty poet to plenty of poems nikailaminate na case ya glass,after kuchoma kuna wasee nilianza nao na siko nao  si  zao ziliwashow wako "high" class,hii  dunia ni ya God so ka unaplan downfall yangu jua success naiwai a thousand times plus.

Hii sanaa  mi hufanya si  rahisi,ata ka Nadia na kalikuwa kashaa tamba ilibidi ameitisha maombi,ka si Sunday siogi,mi nimezoea kula jasho yangu that's why unaskia nikiongea sh*t that is stinky.

So ukihustle na biz ya kuuza charcoal jua ***** hands zi hukuwa sign ya clean money,na since muka aende silent mi ndio nimekuwa nikiwasha nare kwa stage bila lyta,mi ndio nimekuwa nikijua mbona mapema ye hurauka.Hii time short nimekuwa hapa nilikuwa na blessings za mama no wonder sijastammer,ka nimekubamba scratch kwa tenje uniseti...stage ndio home na sijaplan kuhama.
-P€TT¥PO€T ✍️
©2020.

Mundu hu mundu, is what it need to be, but before we are there, simba akikosa nyama hujaribu kula nyasi.

I at times long for that touch, the breath of a woman next to my ear.
I long for those nights where we wrestle in bed.
I long for those moments where a heart beats next to mine.
I long for the touch that weakens me.
I long for the gasp, the whimper, the silent scream of pleasure as we ***.
I long for those days where we kiss and am hard as a maasai warrior,
I long to have her in my arm to see her melt,  
I loong for such, but not with a stranger, not with one night stand, but with one we have a mutual understanding, where we fulfill each unmet needs.

As we lay down on the bed exhausted and satiated, we just doze off with a smile in our mouths. It was a great time we had.

trafficking ideas:

sad first,
angry: much much later.

i'm leaving  a trail of unfinished poems behind, half efforts (almost)... oh no... i'm not having a dissociation meltdown of a second coming, i'm pretty focused, ah... it's like what Nietzsche said about writing the most content within the fewest number of words... i was never a fan of maxims or aphorisms... i know why i'm writing unfinished poems, or rather, why i don't want to finish them... i rekindled my relationship with marijuana / Afghan hash and i stopped using synthetic components to induce sleep, i.e. painkillers / anti-inflammatory drugs (same ****, different cover)... maybe that's why... or the fact that for all my efforts in writing? i have yet to reap any rewards... on the monetary front... ergo? no proper incentive to continue with a seriousness... or the fact that i started living again and it's a life of postcards, nothing worth celebrating let alone writing about, but precisely! the "petty life" grosses the best yield in terms of being scribbly-fertile, as i am...

i still can't understand it, i woke up in a daze...
i'm still pretty dazed...
if i am a man... unlike what Harold Norse mentions
with regards to him not being a man...
categorically, outright, Harold Norse exclaims that
he's not a man...
well... un-categorically me: if i am a man
(it's a bit like writing ich kampf rather than mein kampf...
i struggle is a continuum "bias"
rather than an ownership stressor,
i struggle is indefinite, i.e. when pronouns meet
the articles
while my struggle is definite, i.e. my coupled with the
as oppose to i coupled with a)

anyway... what's your name? Alina... how old are you?
22... at first i thought i didn't notice the plumpness
of her young body... i pretended it wasn't a familiar
sight of when i was 21 and she was 19...
full *******... although... she asked if i minded
her Cesaerian cut on her tummy?
no, of course not, that's before she didn't see me
standing with my back facing her and my "clipped wing"
scar of a shark-bite laser on my shoulder-blade...

i could tell she was pregnant... the ******* were slacked
or rather: tortured by a baby's suckling...
i never had a girl so petite before...
it felt ****** weird... i looked like a monster
after i climbed out from out of the shower
and started to dry myself while she started to undress herself...
when i put her hand into mine it
disappeared i should have cut off my index!
exactly! my index finger rather than my pinky
in order to give her a chance of pairing up with my hand...

raven hair, all the **** pretty features...
but... i must be a ******* outlier or something because
the whole affair started off well...
finished? even the prostitutes are changing...
she doesn't want to do this, clearly she's not the type
that likes ***... of all the ones i slept with pretty
much all of them enjoy ***... borderline pornographic
acting styles, but it depends...
i'm a paranoid p. so i get to play that game
of hide it or fake it quite a lot (oh thank god
i didn't qwerite quiet)...

all those men gurus online... young, fertile women...
yeah... if you want to have children...
but ***? maybe a 21 year old is more relatable to a 19 year
old given it's a different atmosphere
and you're both young... but a 36 year old man
and a 22 year old woman?
i'm not going to go through some *******'s worth
of a mea culpa as to why i didn't ******...
sure... i had an ******* at first... but then?
i switched off... it was borderline necrophilia...
i swear to god ******* a 22 year frightened little creature
is borderline necrophilia:
i don't care what the pornographic industry shows you
when there's this petite girl and some Hulk...

first encounter, upon a second encounter i'll need
to break her mentally, she'll have to give me her
lips to kiss... for starters she'll have to not watch
some much ******* TikTok videos and pay more
attention to me... how i will do this, i don't know...
well... i devised one way of doing it...
i'll have to come in my casual clothes,
expose the Karl Lagerfeld in me...
a tree wearing a baker-boy cap blah blah...

in that one night all my desires hit a ******* wall...
she was the first one that jumped at the opportunity
of starting ******* in a ******* position...
what was before me was the equivalent sight
of first seeing the cover of Marquis de Sade's novella
******: Hesperus, foreward by Janet Street-Porter 2003...
the aesthetic of a "tortured" plum of a woman's body...

no confusion concerning the apple of Eden...
the larynx of man and precisely for no reason should
there be mention of both the rib
and the phallus as somehow death and devil respectively...
even if i had any ******* envy, i cured that with
dissolving my former beard-envy...
but even with my desires men i felt beside content...

reframing: some hours later, it's a Friday night
and i just mixed some dark *** with some whiskey,
not a bad combination for foraging new music,
i thought Kula Shaker threw in the towel,
what do i find? the opening track from K20...
infinite sun... boys really came with a song to topple
Govindam...
mind you: i'm already converted to the sub-continents
cuisine...
i even took it upon myself to cook like Indian women,
i.e. not follow white girl tourist trail-blazing
with strict methodology...
i'm not an absolute hell-raiser of spices in the kitchen...

obviously the standards are in place, the base:
cumin coriander (seeds or powder),
green cardamom, chilli, turmeric,
garam masala...
now it's up to me whether to add coconut milk
cloves, black cardamom... always happy
to use the bay leaf... all spice? hell... why not...

what was i "talking" about prior...
oh... i feel relaxed... type in SELINA18
and it will give you a rough estimate of who i ****** last night,
aged 36... i'm surprised by a body only 22 summers old...
but i couldn't: i could for a period of time,
she's too young, i look like a monster compared
to her, she, this tiny creature...
i don't have ******* issues: i don't need
to be dropping blue pills... i know when it's
a woman's fault when i...

but she was the zenith of my hidden desires
and, hey presto, no surprises: she failed me...
a tight firm *** and all the more eager to
do it *******... what's with this aversion
of the eyes...
and her smart-phone screen addiction...
another put off...
i don't think she ****** enough men
who have put her off... if i was so unappealing
to begin with:
having washed myself prior to ***...
as is standard... she shouldn't have gloated at me
while the other 4 girls i already ******
smiled at me with enticement...

i'll learn, sooner or later... by now i'm *******
intrigued! i had to **** myself off to pictures
of legs donning nylon because i'm not into
too much pornographic culture and all that liberaton
*** *******...
funny... when i was younger all i wanted
to become was a monk...
well: now i'm just a ***** monk...
pair-bonding and all that evolutionary psychology
crap is sort of beside me:
i have one fault: why borrow...
why would man borrow the ontology of animals
and incorporate it into an ontology per se...

i don't care if animals have a soul or not...
they sure as **** have character...
esp. the ones you pet... not the wild ones...
the wild ones are generic... replications...
"clones"...
              not the ones you pet... though...
£25 worth of Afghan hash and i'm still smoking
it... it's coming up to 30 days...

i need to break this girl...
    not in a bad way... i just want her to feel pleasured
when she's with me...
i'm not a necrophiliac...
   i'm certainly not a dummy-******...
i need to steal her kiss... i need her to look me into
my eyes...
otherwise? i'll just please myself...
but i can't imagine how it began:
young women boasting all their prowess on street
interviews: but in the bedroom: frigid frightened
little things...

i must admit... woman sexuality still has some allure
left in the "bank"...
it's rare to find, but it's all hope when found...
i just asked the five... well... the four...
whether i was a funny man...
some Romanian whispers and i just wanted to know...
i received jack-**** in terms of coordinating
replies...

maybe her Caesar's scar thought i'd be put off...
the stretch marks on her stomach...
i don't know what put her off...
her being put off instigated me being put off...
oh... i'm not angry with myself:
my "ego" is not "wounded"... i'm just thinking...
i need to be a monster another time...
next time i'll toss that 5ft1 body from side
to side like i am the sea and she's a helpless ship...

oh **** me... i need to break this *****...
i made mistakes in my life...
but when it comes to crafting a luxurious pleasure
from ***: there's no past there's no future
there's only a here and now...
she was silent, i was silent...
i sweated from the shift like a boar
being chased to chase the wild out of him
and perform the arts of the Eden barber shop
on it for the boar to become a pig...

Romanian girls... well thank **** they're not
English or the glutton-free--prone American accents...
i hate the American accent...
it's so nasal and raspy... absolutely: totally:
uninformed about the affairs of men in the world...
when American women start peacocking
their accent on the train... i switch off...

what, a, strange, looking, creature, lying before
my arching over her with my clenched knuckles
giving myself grit and the proper function
of the pelvic piston... weird...

the last time i ****** someone much younger than
me... at 36 and she's 22...
wow... i just couldn't help myself from
tearing apart the body size difference...
i became a monster...
literally... if the female to male dynamic works
in the favour of females
in the insect realm with spiders and mantises...
**** me: in the realm of mammals...
we're going back to ******* basics...

the shift started pleasant enough...
i was paired up with cerebral palsy
Martin for the night... we talked about the "weather"
an ****...
funny moments came...
even the punters were looking at us in a weird
spotlight when i was left with no armour except for
giggles when i was picking him up...
Martin: dear dude... come on... you're going
to give me a second hiatus of pain of a hernia..

so i showed him a profile picture of one of the girls
we're working with...
i showed him the picture...
then told him who she was: the daughter of this
most ugly looking "dude"...
there and then i watched him "catch wind"
a whirlwind... he folded like a pancake...
he twirled saying **** me on repeat
before falling on his ***...
i had to giggle a bit while picking him up...
yeah, i told you, Martin, that she was a stunner...
a 10 out of 10...
the sort of girl you'd make sure that Guns 'n' Roses'
November Rain was the last song you ever heard...

what came next? i wasn't expecting my coworker
to almost start nibbling on my ear while
whispering into it some horrid gossip...
well... that's me ******* off to the brothel...
as i sat across the whole five lot of them...
all of them smiling...
am i? that special? or ******* spastic-fantastic...
i just finished a shift... this "work" is not challenging enough...

fair enough: getting your ear nibbled at like
it might be an oyster about to getting gulped down...
so i went to a brothel...
i always thought: if you see a fox or a cat
in your squandering ways doing
the best of keeping sanity by automatically
vomiting in the Ancient Roman sense
of easing the passing of judgement...

there she sat with a pretty face...
a pretty face for a prettier goodbye...
an even prettier hello..
22... Alisa... if not Romanian then at least Turkish...
body buys no body
and there's this headache within the confines
of the heart...

but i'm not going to blame myself for a limp-****...
if she's only 22, she still needs to learn from
inexperience...
she needs to **** plenty more men before she
***** me again and i'm up to her standard...
it felt like doing a "thing": all prosthetic...
she was so much smaller than me...
of course i didn't ******...
how could i? she was disengaged...
she forgot how much fun *** could be...

what astonishing lies we tell each other...
just in order to pretend to not have
told them before...

22... i tried engaging with her:
she was more engaged with TikTok videos...
i tried to be tender with her like
i might ever be with the flesh of an orange and the peel...
of course i didn't ******...
she just said: do you have to drink?!
but i like drinking...
do you have to be attempting to be so disused...
so absent-minded? that you have to
watch Chinese propaganda snippets?!

i don't mind climaxing...
she's only 22... she asked me: do you mind
the Caesarian cut on the stomach?
while i asked her if i could smoke a cigarette...
i showed off my own scar of a clipped wing...
do you mind?!
i can't ****** if what i'm dealing with is a girl
in her 20s and not readied for
the flea and flesh market...

but that doesn't bother me...
enough of the night is available for all of us to somehow
wish we had the *** lives of rock stars...
i just recall being blockaded
before leaving the brothel...
some other punter was coming in...
wow! the moment i walked in all five of them were smiling...
yes, i trimmed my beard... come Saturday and
i'll torture my hair... i'll come ln Tuesday
and i'll wear my casual worn...

what a pristine body... such a tiny... almost porcelain
indignant "sorrow" of
whenever under-performing...
my fault?! my fault?!
         *** is a case of what happens: both ways...

just because she's smaller than you...

in theory contra: through experience...
younger women are a turn off...
                           they are unruly with their bodies
that are only geared up for reproduction
and not geared up for bedroom fun...
they are stiff... they are toughened with
expectations...
                         just as bad as virgins...
what?! i'd rather **** an experienced *******
with saggy **** in her late 30s
than a ******* in her 20s with the most pink-peachy
pair of ****... but with no clue how to have a quickie
with a man...
what?! the ****** revolution happened for
no reason? i can't, just blatantly state the *******
facts?!
like **** i won't... i will...
but i'm not an explorer concerning the sort
of people associated with getting bored
with standard ****** positions...
have *** less = enjoy the ******* more...
simple, no?

tight ******* ***... my god... but she switched off...
i too practice the Ancient Roman rite
of passage when it comes to regurgitation...
whenever i'm constipated or ate too much...
i ***** in an automated mode...
i don't even need ******* down my throat
to instigate the throwing up...

so i've been following up on some counter-culture
material in the "manosphere" for some time...
inter-****** dynamics of "things"... really?
that infamous term: c.c. i.e. ****-courasel?
seriously? turns out...
i don't feel like doing the sort of work
that the men "at the top" perform in order to
get such access to "****"...
me? i just want to sleep throughout
the night, with synthetics,
i just want to listen to some good music, man...
seriously.... i want to scuba-dive with
a thrill of what happens when water or gravity
**** each ohter up...

rought ***... hard to find... not with an inexperienced
22 year old who has just given birth...
has stretch marks and a scar of giving birth to prove
leaving her youngling with her grandparents
and her ******* off to England to work as a *******...

i too wanted to age with someone...
tend to a fireplace...
drop acid and have an aquarium: certainly not
the original proposal i received,
i.e. grow old and watch the television set...
**** the t.v.!
my brain is already fried from all
the interactions i'm having:
i need someone with *******
cerebral palsy to make for a stimulating
conversation, for, ****'s sake!

no, men are not visual creatures...
men are auditory creatures too...
if there was no Picasso there was also no Mozart!
i watch ******* on mute:
if i watch it... usually i just flick through
legs exposing themselves in nylon...
at work i'm suddenly **** and a threat to
the other "alpha males" because i'm bilingual:
i find it funny, they find it funny...
it's all funny-funny...

i don't need to ******* with a woman
and later smoke a cigarette of Afghan hash to
find a wormhole for my heart to sink into
and twirl and...

hmm... and... what was this end of and?
me feeling guilty?
            wow for every other wow to come
in a row and for me to give
two ***** and commas for it to boot!

Mundu hu mundu, is what it need to be, but before we are there, simba akikosa nyama hujaribu kula nyasi.

I at times long for that touch, the breath of a woman next to my ear.
I long for those nights where we wrestle in bed.
I long for those moments where a heart beats next to mine.
I long for the touch that weakens me.
I long for the gasp, the whimper, the silent scream of pleasure as we ***.
I long for those days where we kiss and am hard as a maasai warrior,
I long to have her in my arm to see her melt,  
I loong for such, but not with a stranger, not with one night stand, but with one we have a mutual understanding, where we fulfill each unmet needs.

As we lay down on the bed exhausted and satiated, we just doze off with a smile in our mouths. It was a great time we had.

There was Kidal and Keling and Kabalan,
Jajawa, Jabung, and Kahuripan,
Kudadu and Tumpabel, Lumajang,
And Wengher and Lewa by Gegelang.
Keta saw Sedang, they met at Blambangan,
Madura had Songenep, so Hasin Mataram;
Tuban, Pajang, Lasem, Keta, Lodaya,
Tulangbawang, Palembang, Dharmasraya!

Mateu asked Kwalu, why took it so long;
Kwalu told Mateu that the great king was mad,
said Tinggo and Wungpong in detail had gone.
For the Cirebon legion, the folk of the region,
They would not talk, so they rode for Kula Ngoro,
And there the people were bold in the mountains.
A woman came in, she was called Sunjurunga,
And she met with the men of Yunga.
The woman told a tale, saying it was her
Who took away the power of the king,
And she felt no remorse,
And if she had a chance again,
She would **** any king with a swipe of a hand!

There was Juma with the men of Yunga,
Who knew Hari and Bari and Sunga,
They knew Wewak the Weak of the Pambans,
And Hapu in the house of Wunga.
Pasip and Tumukawang, Nachalawang, Goyan,
Mingusang, Makun, Ngutubak, Noyan,
Kawai said Bari ought Bokamok not,
Tambora adjacent, Sumbawa went hot!