We don't have partners
We love ourselves
And pleasure ourselves

We are alone
And used to it

We make ourselves ***
And isn't it fun

Good Morning
My fellow masturbators

Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy.
Obsessed with self, there is no answer
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
So what if nothing rhymes and I don't
bring my life into an expressible state
or fight purposelessness, anomie. No one writes.
Running the gauntlet alone. A good day to die, the Apaches say.

For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. We're not talking to you.
Really, it's a perfect day. Every leaf is out
that's coming out. The grass is high
and unidentified yet another year. Being knowledgeable
is the best defense against your insignificance.

Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing
about the effects of your anger unless
you want to be an angry man forever.
Coming from the funeral with friends,
talking on the telephone. OK about being alone.

Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
This house could use a good cleaning,
dusting for ghosts. I should subscribe
to the local newspaper, do my job well,
do less until one thing's done well.
What would that be? Old, and yet so young.

There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.

There are certain indicators, undeniable,
inexorable. Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
Although we cannot make the sun stand still
yet will we make him run. Brave revelers.
Signed engagement letter attached.
Attachment to self and to things to do.

Boring old militant Marxist Farts
who blather on, in fits and starts
about class war and revolution
(demonstrably a failed solution)
rather than pitied should be scorned;
their websites tapped, subscribers warned.
Such talk begins as plodding fodder
dull as lead – yet even odder:
people read this wretched dreck!
History ought to hold in check
their pawn-shop plans to topple kings
they talk a good game – till it brings
armed madness, rage, the peasant wars
thugs and riff-raff looting stores,
death-camps, purges, civil chaos
union dues, returned to pay us
****** end to a treacherous story –
guns for butter and guts for glory.
Mao’s red flowers, Trotsky’s pick
Stalin’s bearhug – lies as thick
as honey dripping on a corpse.
Centralized control that warps
a free man’s mind. And yet they find
their audience loaded, pumped and primed.
In spite of numberless essays
the true believer bucks and brays
hee-hawing on, in Maoist jargon,
urging buyers to the bargain:
shining paths – that lead to graveyards
strewn with texts by Marxist blowhards.
Endless screeds by tenured traitors :
dialectic masturbators…
Marxist dullness has its edge.
Boring – yes, but forms a wedge
to split the status quo in factions
gaining time to plan their actions.
Arm in arms; so sad it tickles –
hammering plowshares into sickles
battering bewildered readers
(propagandized bottom-feeders).
Red conjecture never softens
pounded in like nails in coffins,
though their pipe-dreams burn away
when exposed by light of day.
Communist theory rings the blows
to forge the chains. The movement grows.
It’s lengthened, strengthened, link by link
ensnaring those who’re prone to think
they know what’s best for rank and file,
propagandizing all the while.
Agitating Marxist praxis
forms their struggle’s central axis.
Starry-eyed, they sing the anthem
plotting mayhem. Yes – I grant them
zeal, devotion, earnest madness…
but their ends begin in badness.
Brooding hate – their only god,
biding time to shoot their ***.
Nip their notions in the bud
before they blossom into blood.
Point them out for what they are:
faceless scribes of future war.
Worst of all: they’re as predictable
as their theories are inflictable.
Gaze into the hole of history
comprehend the tragic mystery…

I woke up to a beautiful summer morning. The sun was shining and the rainclouds were far away. I decided I would spend the day on the beach. I always enjoy visiting the beach as it gives me an opportunity to laugh at people's hideous bodies. But where? And then, suddenly, a wonderful idea came to me: why not go to a nudist beach as they always attract the ugliest people with the worst bodies imaginable. And you get to see their naughty bits too, for added humour.

So I rushed to my computer to check the Internet for possibilities and, to my utter amazement, I discovered there was a naturist beach only fifty miles from my beautiful home. As I read the details of the beach and the directions, I had a sense of déja vu; I realised with a frisson of ****** anticipation that it was the very same beach described by Victor the ****** in his wonderful story "Confessions of a ******" which held pride of place on my toilet reading shelf.

I was at the wheel of my incredibly expensive and luxurious car just as soon as my servants had packed my essential requirements: icebox with chilled vintage champagne, lightweight folding gold-plated sun-lounger, vicuna picnic rug and of course my lunch hamper. My chef had rapidly prepared a delicious impromptu luncheon of smoked salmon, steak tartare and a selection of other goodies. I decided to dispense with the services of my chauffeur in the interests of preserving the confidentiality of my destination.

In less than an hour and a half I was there; and the place was exactly as Victor had described it in his immortal novella: a long stretch of mixed sand and pebbles, backed by dunes planted with wild grass, waving romantically in the sea breeze. Idyllic, and crawling with naked perverts as a bonus. I parked my car and transported my equipment to the dunes. I regretted not having brought one of the servants as the hamper and icebox were quite cumbersome and heavy. I was perspiring gently by the time I had unloaded everything and set it all up to my satisfaction.

I took some care in selecting what I felt was the optimum location as I needed to combine the potentially conflicting benefits of wanting to see as many naked people as possible (hopefully including some *** action) with the need for privacy. After all I am famous. I finally chose a spot where there were several ghastly specimens on view for a few laughs and where I could also see a potentially interesting couple who might be exhibitionistic perverts. The man was about 45, shaven-headed, skinny and prematurely wrinkled all over by the sun (yes, I do mean all over) and he had an interesting tattoo on his back: "I love hot ***** ***", which I saw as promising. The woman was plump with pendulous ******* and very prominent buttocks; additionally - how can I put this delicately? - her **** was totally bereft of hair.

Before settling down to my lunch, I felt a little perambulation would not come amiss. So, as bold as brass, off I went for a little **** stroll through the dunes. I will not describe in full detail the visual horrors I encountered: hirsute old men playing aimlessly with wizened, shrunken todgers the size of a thimble; obese old biddies, their rolls of sun-tanned lard hanging round them like rows of bloated udders on a pregnant sow; tattooed bald queens, muscles bulging under lashings of sun-oil, their pierced genitals glinting wickedly in the sunshine; the list was endless. How could such grotesques revel in revealing their corporeal repulsion to the eager world?

And then I saw him! It had to be him! In a dip in the sand dunes lay a middle-aged, paunchy little man, intently watching a couple of old ******* groping each other incompetently. It could only be Victor the One-Legged ******! After all, just how many unipod Peeping Toms are there?

I strolled over to him, coughing discreetly so as to give him a chance to stop his furtive *******. 'Do excuse me for disturbing you,' I said, 'but are you by any chance Victor the famous ****** whose confession I read only last week?'

'Why yes,' he admitted, 'but how on earth did you recognise me?'

I smiled and pointed to the cast-off artificial leg lying next to his beach towel (which, incidentally, was emblazoned by a giant "V", a bit of an identity hint, I felt). He patted his stump ruefully and laughed uproariously so that his average-sized ***** flapped like a pennant in a Force Eight gale. 'I forgot,' he bellowed deliriously.

'I'm just about to have a spot of lunch,' I said. 'My personal Michelin-starred chef, Jean-Claude Anusse, always over-caters ridiculously as he knows I often pick up people on my excursions, so there'll be more than enough. I'm afraid it's nothing special: some smoked salmon and some assorted cold meats, possibly a spot of pâté de foie gras, if I know Jean-Claude. And, naturally, enough champagne to drown a hippo in. Please do say yes, as I have so many questions to ask you about your hobby.'

'That's very kind of you.' mumbled the astonished Peeping Tom, 'I should be very happy to accept your generous offer. Incidentally, to whom have I the honour of speaking?'

I was, frankly, shocked when I realised Victor had not recognised me, and then I remembered I was naked. That explained it. 'Why, I am none other than Edna Sweetlove, poetess to the stars, creator of the Barry Hodges "Memories" poems and biographer to the intrepid and incredible superhero SNOGGO,' I murmured sotto voce, not wishing to be mobbed for my autograph.

'Edna Sweetlove!' he exclaimed, 'you mean THE Edna Sweetlove?' And so saying he glanced down to my genital zone in order to answer the question which so many of my fans have asked over the years. He grinned as he saw the solution to the great mystery.

Victor quickly strapped on his prosthesis and accompanied me (slightly lopsidedly) to my little luncheon site. He helped me unpack our repast and then made himself as comfortable as a naked one legged ****** could reasonably expect to be without a chair.

I must say Chef and his team had excelled himself in the thirty minutes I had given them: smoked salmon roulades, a magnifique plateau de fruits de mer including a three-pound giant lobster, steak tartare, a whole cold pintarde à l'ail, a few dozen sushi rolls, a monster summer pudding, and naturally a Jeraboam of Krug '92. No wonder the hamper had been so ******* heavy. I could see Victor was impressed as I offered him a chilled flute of the most expensive champagne he had ever tasted. 'Better than the pathetic, poverty-stricken muck you were going to gobble, I expect,' I commented in a friendly way.

'Mmmmmmmmm! Absolutely delicious, Edna. I was certainly not expecting this! exclaimed the grateful freak. But before we start on what looks like a truly exquisite nosh-up, I must give you a word of warning.'

'A word of warning? What about, Victor dear?'

'Well, you see, there's no, um....er,' he blushed charmingly.

'No what, Victor? Don't be embarrassed, sweetie. This is Edna you're talking to. Spit it out, baby.'

'Well, um, there's no ******* on the beach, Edna,' explained Victor uncomfortably. 'So, if you need to pump ship, you have to do it native-style "au naturel" in the dunes over there, which can be a bit messy what with all the filth lying about the place in that area, not to mention the lavvo-voyeurs hanging round. Or else you need to swim out a bit and unload into the sea. Judging by what's on offer at your stylish picnic, we'll both be bursting for a good old **** and crap afterwards.'

I shrieked with laughter and explained there was nothing I liked better than a widdle en plein air or a double act dans l'eau. We then tucked into lunch with a vengeance. It was ******* delicious, even though I say so myself. After about fifteen minutes' happy munching, interspersed with witty small talk, Victor suddenly went rigid. 'Look over there!' he hissed and indicated the middle-aged couple by the windbreak.

I looked and I was surprised. The plump woman with the big *** was on her knees in front of her partner, giving him a vigorous *******, and he was lolling back in ecstasy, a broad smile on his face. He seemed to be looking straight at us, almost visibly willing us to watch. He winked repeatedly in a conspiratorial fashion; maybe he had St Vitus’ Dance. Or even worse, he wanted me to get stuck into the action with them.

'They're regulars here, they normally put on quite a good show,' explained Victor excitedly, his hand reaching down automatically to his rapidly stiffening ****.

'Victor!' I admonished him, 'I would prefer it if you didn't **** yourself off during lunch. How about another oyster, you silly old ****?'

'Sorry, Edna, I forgot,' he replied shamefacedly. 'No more oysters thank you; they only make me more randy than I already am. But I'll have another lobster claw if I may. My compliments to your chef.'

So we sipped our champagne and enjoyed our luncheon as we watched the couple give us their little exhibition. After a few minutes *******, the fat lady turned around and leaned forward on her hands and knees and her gnarled bald hubby ******* her doggy fashion from behind with some gusto; this made her beefy buns bounce about like two ferrets fighting in a sack.

I glanced around us and realised that, totally unbeknown to me, the little spectacle had attracted quite an audience. Nine men, young and old, short and tall, fat and skinny, stood staring transfixed by the petite scène erotique before us, all ******* wildly. 'Oi!' I called out. 'Can't you see we're eating?' I admonished them, but to no ******* avail whatsoever.

Victor was visibly torn between his innate desire to watch the copulators and masturbators and with his understandable wish not to offend his lunch companion by manhandling himself unrestrainedly. But, thank God, his natural good manners prevailed and we continued to converse and enjoy our meal in the midst of this Bacchanalian scene of depravity.

I watched dispassionately as the couple came to what sounded like a very satisfactory mutual ******, accompanied by the observers' seminal tributes to their performance. I naturally had filmed the entire scene secretly on my state-of-the-art mobile.

'If you give me your email address, Victor my love, I'll send you a copy of that little show,' I promised. He nodded in gratitude. 'Victor  the ****** at yahoo dot co dot uk,' he mumbled rapidly, 'no dots, Victorthevoyeur is all one word.'

Once we had polished off lunch, I told Victor I would like to interview him with a view to writing a short story about his life's work. He was touchingly flattered and, with a little judicious prompting and probing, told me his saga, which I recorded on my Edna-phone. I naturally don't want to pre-empt my forthcoming mini-biography of Victor, but suffice it to say that Victor told me how and why he became a ******, he regaled me with some of the staggering things he had seen, he gave me a list of some really ace ******* locations, he shared all his best peeping places with me, he gave me the ultimate lowdown on the world of Britain's most celebrated *** snooper and I was touched by his burning honesty. I felt a tear ***** my eye at this tragic tale.

All too soon it was time for us to part. After thanking me profusely and making me promise I would visit him one day so he could repay my generosity, he re-attached his metal leg and limped away towards his beach towel. I knew he was raring to go as the best of the action normally took place in the early evening.

'Farewell, dearest Victor,' I called out as he tripped clumsily over a fellow pervert who had been eavesdropping near us.

i can be a sadomasochist with myself sometimes,
given the videos i watch on the internet -
but then i'm again bound to being perched on
a windowsill, married to a dialogue with
the moon... and to tide bound,
sometimes the graciouis words comes my way,
sometimes the ingratitude... but then clouds at night
are never so by day.... and i feel blessed...
for they contort in such a way that i see
all paths toward pandemonium
leading, how they contort without
Mickiewicz toward no hope of castles or swans
being conjured - but hollowed out eyes of death
with a jester's smile of awaiting Tripoli -
are thus bound and exhausted
in exceeding their time there...
once monotheism conquered
the gods of both norden bound
and classics... it should be faced with a new
barbarism, and bygone strides
       against the demigods...
with a demi-**** that's Muhammad
of semi-applause allowed the gratification
of being literate, but as all good myths
abide by: unable to write out
δ ι κ τ α, plus minus 1 + 1 be the = dicta...
clouds in the night...
breathing magnimonity -
         as merely: cloud in the night,
Ilsidore...
had i been given the confirmation name,
now i can think of a name, i'd would like...
izydor...
             this is this last precision of magic...
had i been confirmed by a church,
and the bishop of some obscure essex country,
only being aged 30 i'd like the name to
be Isidore...
                     a bit late, i know...
  but i am an apostate, and i want
to drink from the font of baptism...
but you give me no water for my scythed lips...
for death scythes no bones...
had my confirmation be, it would have been
Isidore... the 16 year old me would have taken
to the name Michael... give it time
and it would have matured into Isidore...
Izydor of Seville...
but i am an apostate... and i don't believe this
egypt crap of the nag hammadi library...
i can't argue with a muslim,
i am given the archeology of the library,
and given the death of the prophet Isaiah...
it's too real to have these two prophets burried...
and in script re-awoken...
           that the new testament and the koran
make no sense... archeology sort of dislodges their
heart's intent to kneel and make macabre at the mosque...
it's impossible to convert... because you just can't convert...
   Isaiah was cut in half and Jesus was crucified...
i can't believe in the son of god...
                           both were burried...
       but the catholic bureucracy remains,
and if my confirmation name goes as anything,
i would now be called Isidore...
                                and if i'm mad for doing so:
then i have prince purple as my sparring partner...
                       nag hammadi & the dead sea scrolls...
no wonder the koran is so agitated...
      it has lost its profound origin...
it has lost its profound cool because it was lost...
the current muslim affairs are due to the fact that
the nag hammadi library and the dead seal scrolls emerged...
there's no simpler explanation,
   it's hard to testify irrational emotional
                                    coagulations when something is spoken
in archeological testimony...
    thank god the new testament speaks of jo and ma
moving to egypt, where the nag hammadi library was found...
and we know the prophet isaiah was a courtesan,
which is why we find his book in israel...
but the koran brotherhood is *******...
   i think the new testament wrecked more havoc
on northern europeans than the koran ever could
on the Indonesians... to be honest.
but because the two archeological findings were found,
the koran crew is *******... they're simply saying:
we prayed five times a a day, and for what?!
you ask me, i was expecting falafel and baklava.
                i can't expect them not being angry
when the koran has been undermined...
and it has...
                       when they hid the gospel of thomas
in egypt and sold the truth: by jew for jews alone...
no one thought it would backfire...
     st. paul can sorta forget mass circumcision as benefit
with these women...
  it's a question of: you have to re-learn
the benefits, to see what you lost.
              and you have lost what you couldn't appreciate.
so in america: anti-religious circumcision,
or secular circumcision and ***** paved the way for
what we have: rather happy masturbators with foreskins
and women with circumcised male partners,
and neither masturbators nor secularists want to
start families... d'uh.
             the koran is ******* because of what emerged
in 1945 and was guarded by the logic of archeo...
                                    you can't stop
because they know they're simply wrong...
we know from those adhering to st. thomas' gospel
as promoting trans-gender bulletproofing
that poetry can only be stretched so far...
   you can't tell demons to be methapors
   and tell transgender bi-genital creatures that they're
figments of our imagination...
you tell me a demons doens't exist: i tell you a transgender
person doesn't exist... this is the glorious
anarchy of st. thomas' gospel implemented without
the authority of the church...
the mystery of lawlessness? archeology:
hide it long enough, even the koran will crumble...
and lo and behold! i'm drinking! why?
because i'm celebrating this glorious whirlwind of
insisting anarchy!
         and why do i not feel rebellious?
that might be a good question...
                 but it's not...
              i don't have a proto-koran to begin with...
i have the old and new testament,
  and the emergence of
                      a 2000 year old hidden
mingling of the two, beginning with the prophets
Jesus and Isaiah...
                               one was a Jew that lived as a courtesan
and was cut-in-half...
the other was a Jew that became militant and later
made sure that Muhammad was also a militant
prophet starting off from a non-militant position
of mere merchant... according to the historian Josephus...
the compendium of the profanity of
tetragrammaton came with the historian Josephus
at the rule of Nero... hence the quickened
book of revelation being written...
                       once "the" beast reigned...
       it's no wonder that the two books are so unknown
in christianity...
            the fact is that the simultaneousness of
the emergence of nag hammadi and the dead sea scrolls
being simultaneous meant that the two old devils
of christianity and judaism would firmly diverge,
make divorce... and make secularism married to islam's
antagonism as the last blind-man fondling the elephant...
   i can't be jew because i'm not circumcised,
but i can't be christian in my liberalism to accept
the anarachy steering away from church,
   and family... or nation and federalism...
and i know, that's obscure; i just can't see
trans-gender ******* as a priority for humanity...
i can understand wearing a mismatching pair of socks...
but genitelia? that can't be jewish...
that has to be egyptian...
that has to be egyptian in terms of undermining
a jewish psyche...
                worthy of a crucifix... meaning that jo and m
really did travel to egypt and escaped herod...
               but je suis was cought up in the egyptians
taking rule and i bet one ******* duck-quack
that je suis was robbed from being capable of
conjuring up a dream... i bet je suis
couldn't dream... all the icons point toward that
crusade analogy.
                 it's still no excuse for the koran plebs
getting so frustrated that they have no archeological
involvemnt in the matters of today,
which is why they turned to brute and bully...
because they have been excluded from the archeological
findings, they can only do the meanest thing imaginable
and stage a violent insurection into the dialogue...
but since they're not really welcome,
and because they're actually talking *******
they can only resort to terrorism...
   it's a harsh reality to be met against...
    i'm not surprised they resort to terrorism,
given that they have no archeological grounding to
introduce themselves...
               into a civilised conversation...
          i'll probably bemoan this fact for
about 10 seconds... and then laugh for the next 10 minutes.

She blew smoke rings like halos from her lips, she tried to teach me, to teach me how to make death look beautiful, like she did.
If angels had mirrors, they'd be as vain as she was.
I got sick of being the cotton wool kid; they never heard me say the word '****' but they all knew I did. They all knew I forgot to wear knickers that one day in school. They all knew I placed my hands firmly by my sides at night in fear of them wandering.
Say your prayers before bed and kiss your mother goodnight. Dream about killing your father.
I thought about seeing a shrink once; but upon that thought, I remembered psychiatrists don't suffer from insanity. They enjoy every minute of it.
I read somewhere that there's a Psychiatric Hotline.
If you are obsessive compulsive, please press 1 repeatedly.
If you are co-dependent, please ask someone to press 2 for you.
If you have multiple personalities, please press 1, 2, 3 and 4.
I can only imagine the awkwardness of small talk for the insane in the psychiatric waiting room; "My invisible friend is Caligula, who's yours?"
The hotline suddenly seemed viable.
I want to know your favourite serial killer, I want to know your last meal on death row, I want to know your weapon of choice, I want to know what you really ******* to. Because my crude aunt told me; "There's two kinds of people in this world, masturbators and liars."
Show me your primary colours. Truly, tell me the first thing that comes to your mind during the Rosarch test. I know you don't just see Eamonn Holmes and Ruth Langford, sat on the famous red couch of 'This Morning', innocently announcing to the world, the birth of the royal baby, George Alexander Louis.
I used to wait till everyone in the house was asleep to play with my chest of toys, because it's the only acceptable time you can make two Barbies kiss without getting caught. Good girls go gay.
It's societies last chance to save traditional marriage. Homophobic columnists writing about how Lesbians will enslave men in America if all fifty states legalize gay marriage. Lesbians already enslave men. Two triangles, a summer of 69,  a Star of David, a new religion.
Tell Father at confession how you like it when she talks ***** as she falls to her knees in front of you. "****, I love it when you pray. "
But ******* when you're insecure is like trying to losing weight, you don't use the scales, you just keep going until eventually you like what you see in the mirror. Until you're satisfied with the person staring back, until you don't want to damage them any more. Then let them eat cake.
I think it's why so many "last meals" on death row, include Diet Coke.
However, Noah built his ark before the flood.
Society and politics make it difficult to afford the trimmings when it comes to 'good health.'
Get rich, or walk with a stick.

Ones and Zeros
In the online digital world
Every boy and every girl
Are villains and heroes
Who knows which?
Son a of a *****
 
The truth is lies
Wrapped up in disguise
We want to believe
Electronic love we receive
Is not there to deceive
The flirting
The sexting
The online molexting
**** pic rejecting
 
Encrypted ascii code
Sent through internet nodes
Wireless whispers transmitted
Thoughts of endearment committed
Fact are conveniently omitted
Lies are ruthlessly submitted
 
Straight jacket
Packet hackers
Hijacking a loving heart
Holding it ransom is their art
Scourge of the community
Harassing
Surpassing
Any level of dignity
 
Players and haters
And the masturbators
The downright crazies
Acting like timid daisies
The cheaters
Defeaters
And quite possibly
Wife beaters
 
The losers
The boozers
Mentally abusers
The popular sexter
Who may not be a her
Quite possibly a guy
But will vehemently deny
 
The whiner
Data miner
The ******* seeking minor
The scammer
The Christian Damner
Super **** grammar
All thrown in together
With the digital picture collector
 
And still we’re looking all around
For love to be found
In a world of made believe
That anonymously deceives
We are ones seeking zeroes
Running into villains dressed up as heroes
 
Hearts shredded and deleted
Retreating and defeated
Yet somehow we try again
Hoping for something less than pain
We are all a little bit insane
Playing the online dating game
One’s and Zero’s

sometimes the title would just do,
                                                                      in the days
when fame doesn't echo throughout
the ages, where to find
   a Hector or an Achilles?
             only in times when life was
precious that it was doubly precious
by being audacious and teasing death -
where are the death-teasers among
us? who among us is a death-teaser?
no one... the myth of Sisyphus isn't
exactly a myth... what was a myth
in the 20th century is the plateau reality
of the 21st century -
                             there's a great joke
concerning Norway...
    a book sold half a million copies
          in a country populated by 5 million people...
so it's basically a village mentality "nation"...
i already said you should teach evolution
on the canvas of vikings rather than working
from neanderthals...
            berserker turned cultural clique -
the joke about the british decision to leave the e.u.?
hmm... multiculturalism? taking the genes
     to the cleaners in fear of hereditary weak genes?
isolated muslim communities who think that
britain is a country that's 75% muslim?
           it's, the, *******, irony... the brits can be
as well gifted in rude humour or smug with their wit,
but they've hardly explored their gaft of irony,
well, that's a miscomprehend use of a word,
for the mere phonos of the word: i had to use it...
   like gaffer is the chargehand on a building site.
what i mean is that the brits put so much energy
into a monty python sketch that they can't see
the irony they're implementing...
         can england ever become clique?
              did the british empire ever exist is a similar
question: yes, the british empire imploded,
we have three generations of the Raj living in
Islington, three Saudi generations living
in Marble Arch on Edgware Road...
                           we have hobnobs Harrods
lit up like sitting on a marble toilet with gold plated
toilet seats... tacky... that **** is tacky...
          and when people get rich, they just have
   a new way of saying they're poor... no taste.
me? i feel like having a patron... the pope, for example...
for all the god willing reasons i should have been
the poet along with the Renaissance masturbators
of the ******* in clay.... boy... Donatello really rubbed
that impression right into a David post *******...
look 'ere, placid like a gluttonous mosquito...
n'ah... fame these days is too much of a corpus -
it attracts hyenas and vultures once the lions
got bored...
   fame these days is too much c.c.t.v. -
             the omni eye looks at what colour my ****
was (and what consistency) from last Wednesday.
plus modern dialectical discourse has either become
too much solipsistic / autistic... or it's a wanking
marathon... which makes assurances to unsafe
*** between partners, and ultra safe *** between
pundit and *******, with the *******'s
reassurance: i get regular health checks...
        i mean, when she's so hot that after zenith
you jump into the bath and pour cold water
over yourself and she remains in bed *******
herself looking at you? genuine scenes there...
i have a ****** imagination... experience is so
much better... i'd rather slit my wrists than
work for Disney.
no, wait... wait! there's a point coming, referring
to the title... yep...
   a culinary rebellion against modern art backed by
Cézanne... you seen the recent Turner prize?
         i used to see a Turner prize every time i went
to the recycling centre near Upminster...
or a car-boot sale down Walthamstow...
i also used to go and see the dog-races down that route...
E17... when you used to have yella-double-decca
buses 123 and 179 travel the route...
        alright... look at a Cézanne still life...
(i call it instilled life) - now... can you imagine any
artist attempting to depict a modern culinary
experiment? can you, imagine a heston blumenthal
on a canvas in oil or watercolour?
      no, because you can't!
                                  the china or porcelain is the canvas
and there you have: a painting.
             this is a culinary rebellion against modern
art... the chefs decided to work from scratch,
or what you might call: working from Cézanne,
just because we returned to the Lascaux caves
  with huge open space art galleries and a toothpick
   that is cited: abstract of a pine...
                           and it takes 20 cubic metres to
be admired...                     (ever tried nagging?
  it's a steam-release, or like watching an entertaining
homosexual, same ****, different cover);
    and if you have a thumb's worth of a litre bottle
of whiskey? well... hail west!
             no sane artist would re-apply the modem of still
life into depicting modern cuisine...
  i know, i know... some dynamism went into
             turning a pear into a poached pear...
the hand of god...          but that transfiguration cannot
escape the stillness... it's not moving...
                 it's prefiguring a diner (not a place, a pundit
in a restaurant) doing a minor Pavlov experiment
when the plate is before him... at this point,
unless he's not a starving refugee, i think appetite is abstract.
          you know what was in the background
while i was writing this? ambiance...
  feng shui... refrigerator ambivalence...
     in a world when a chinese cobbler gets paid 2 squid
a day... and a poet in england gets paid zilch or close to
10 quid in a decade.

i must admit...
its going to hurt
all this irrelevant *******
just to keep you distracted
from doing what’s actually necessary

i must admit...
you got this
i got your back
and don’t worry
because no one’s gonna attack you
cause all there is is existence

I must admit...
that all this belligerence
i see through
that b.s.
sadly
its pretentious
and if it doesn't serve our attention
than what the hell are we doing with it
anyway
let's forget our hesitation
for a second

I must admit...
they control you
with your own amazement
satiated by
shadows
dancing for hours
upon the points of arrows
feeling forlorn
and scorned by the establishment

I must admit...
that i am laughing
in satisfaction
indeed
the need is clear
to clear your head
and pay no mind
to childish temper tantrums

i must admit...
that I am not defined by politics
so solve those faulty equations
or seek salvation
grieve for the lonely masturbators
who long to be held by your heart
they jump out of windows
as we partake
in the greatest experiment ever undergone
and then call it Art

I must admit...
the mystique is here
and the path is clear
and fear is not the answer
i swear
do I compare my love to her dresses
to her kindness
to her fantasies
to her faint caresses

I must admit...
*** is best in the moonlight
while future stars stare at your heart
you seek for love
and you grieve for love
while doves are flying
in the sky
magic is passing by
right now above your head
we are blessed
yet still afraid of our own essence
you sentence me to heaven
again and again

i must admit...
i know shadow
i know shame
and i am not a stranger
to all of this blame
served in pots made of pewter
served in copper
served in aluminum
served in cast-iron
serve it cold
serve it hot
serve it proper
or all of this may be used against you
and you will be shot
and killed
for your transgressions

I must admit...
the breath renews itself
and you too
so before we stand tall again
i want to crawl upon this floor
and kiss you
all over
again
for music halls
are ideal
places to run, skip and jump through

.if you had any, you'd also know, that the act of urinating, while standing up, is equivalent to a video of a woman ******* in the shower... although... in this scenario: water isn't coming in, it's coming out. ****! i hate being lectured by circumcised men that aren't rabbis!

i always wondered whether
   richard brautigan
was right about laughing
in bed, with one of his girlfriends,
giggling at the work
  of richard von krafft-ebing
when it came to the act
of a man, *******...
peculiar case: after that shot
of lead went into his head...
  not that i'm laughing...
perverse ****** acts...
   apparently...
      i should be inclined,
   as the passive recipient
      of the homosexual amour...
impotent masturbators...
hmm...
        as one deviant said
to the other:
               just give me the 2D
framework of a *******...
the other scenario?
  of a 3D woman...
  oh... you mean the type that...
might...
    "suddenly" become pregnant,
akin to the "******" mary?
funny story, that,
it's been going on for well
over 2000 years...
   i mean, the simple bias
for curiosity just, gripped me...
then i started thinking...
but was richard von krafft-ebing
circumcised?
was he exposed to a strobe-light
effect of flesh,
just... *****-nilly... parading?
did i ever think about *** like
that before i heard of whittle richie
prior to being "indocrinated"
to the freudian cluster- / mind-****?
it (or he, i.e. me)
   can get an *******
with a *******...
but with a woman, say,
    a nurse, or a, whatever...
he's got a limp ****
     for some time,
   before the arousal kicks in...
and hey presto! little jimmy
  has a birthday cake
and a hogmanay bonanza of:
metaphors, fireworks, metaphors,
fireworks!
- i'm that sometimes has
a melancholic "******"
when listening to templar chants...
like... i'm giving birth...
through my head,
   to a foetus, that's actually
a vacuum...
but it feels so good...
it's like: you weep for the pleasure,
and you know you're
enjoying the lament...
because, right at the end,
when you stop...
  you leave a sadistic signature
of a quivering giggle...
point being... over-exposure...
which began, in my life...
around aged 7...
started jerking-off aged 7...
after having found
a *****-mag. in the catacombs
of a church that was being
built...
     but it never became
a scented candle moment...
it never became a web-cam.
*****, live streaming,
earning money moment:
    which some girls frequent...
no...
  it was straight on
the ******* (throne of thrones),
done the no. 1,
done the no. 2 (sort of)
doing the no. 3
   (dilation) -
   ploop...
      done the no. 2:
useful, really useful,
    this, god the ****,
  son the phallus...
   and a holy ghost of *****...
next up: every time i *******
i begin to wonder:
that butterfly effect, "thing"...
you know... a butterfly *****
its wings in one place,
and a tornado happens
to take place in another...
so... basically only women
shooting blanks (****)
  get to enjoy the standard
deviant act of ***...
but...
     i'm starting to suspect
that... having a *******
is a bit like donning a habit...
what the monks wear...
now i'm guessing that
pearl jam (that grunge band)
released their album
vitology when reading,
if not the work,
  something akin
   to von krafft-ebing's
psychopathia sexualis...
i'm guessing:
naughty boy touched
his fiddly bit...
   yeah: as "naughty boy"
always does when he's
standing at the ******
aiming for that: 100% accuracy
of a welsh longbowman
in the 100 year war
against the french...
look... they even paint
bullseye in some urinals...
gotta aim: j-        -ust
   about right... squint the eyes...
but would circumcision
make men more...
degenerate, over time?
if there were no jewish
rubric involved:
  it's like a... "treat":
that "extra" skin can come off:
snippy snippy...
but you have to follow
these rules...
   what happens when
those rules are no imposed?
hey... i'm starting to stare
into blank, which i once called:
the feeding abyss
  thinking:
         sure, the added
impetus...
     to... search for the supposedly
"lost", "extra" weight
of the body...
  a soul "apparently" weighs
21grams... what's a *******?
i'm seriously going to start
calling it a habit...
          (NO EXTRA B FOR
INSINUATION OF: HABBIT,
was shouted over the megaphone).
homosexual feeling as an acquired
manifestation in both sexes...
p. 188 of the psychopathia sexualis...
love those words
mentioned - parathesia
  & hyperaesthesia...
or... sometime -esque of what
a man feels, within "god's gratitude"
of owning a habit...
you cut that **** off...
well... what are the chances
of aggression being, triplet?
****... the arabian girls were so
*****... they first had
to snip-off parts of their genitals,
and then made them
      put on a niqab...
             ***** as... well: ****!
all of them could be
the equivalent of a genghis
khan in terms of:
    in the *****,
of the Mecca Surrogacy club...
as i suspected:
surrogacy: the elevated form
of prostitution...
but at least now two
gay-lords (meet the parents
ref.) are *******
     and incubating...
me? as free and as brisk as
a ******* sparrow at this point...
i just want to see
how far relegated i will become
when more, and more
human freedoms are unearthed
and applied to: zee vill
               aus zee wolk.
   so that's all good;
    it's already one thing
to have anaesthetic type of ***
with prostitutes, once a year,
or perhaps two...
   it's another to be told:
you ******* because
you're having gender disphoria
or... you're the *****
in a homosexual relationship...
funny that...
   maybe the whole
  "erectile dysfunction"
is related to mingling in a society
of circumcised males...
who subsequently have
no religiosity,
  no moral authority
ascribed to them,
  as related to the orthodox hebrews?
you know...
i'm starting to think...
i could probably find
a common parlance
with an orthodox jew...
given: he's circumcised,
          and i'm not.
- because that's what
this: extra bit of "flab" is...
   you don't feel a need
to explore: "further" territory...
you're not strapped
to a ******* *****-machine
conjuring up new ways
to fill up that absence...
    the ******* van gogh /
st. peter's sentiment
of the ages...
       my bet... in the furore
of the events...
   jesus wasn't circumcised...
hey...
i gamble... but not on horses,
or dawgs (as...
   ***** ****** would
                          put it:
                  yeah... i like dogs).
so yeah...
not many jokes about
    circumcision, of males...
  and... not many uncircumcised
males... making jokes
about habit comparisons
and: the exponential rise
of ****** deviation
  of circumcised males...
being *******...
   that... the one ****** "deviance"
they could have been allowed,
of sitting down,
taking a ****,
taking a ****,
and bashing one to the grave
of: "imagining" genocide
was stripped from their,
should they ever encounter it,
state of rejection...
   **** me, shylock asked
for a pound of flesh...
   i'm asking for what's...
****... dunno...
  how much does ******* weigh?
yeah... 21 grams?
the same as the superstition
of the soul when it leaves
the body?
    cool...
                 that's not much...
- so my sole ****** deviation
is to do the nos. uno, dos, tres...
but ***** over there
was a web-cam,
scented candles...
    income...
    and... what appears to be...
something more than
  the missing *******...
            i look down:
oh... right...
              so i keep the *****...
for all their use...
  i'll be excluded from
the castrato choir of the vatican:
******-dooby-do;
i'll just ghost-**** my way
                 out of this scenario.
- so what wouldn't be
a problem with circumcised men...
their hindered libido...
their subsequent
                      rebellion against
their hindered libido...
no religious structure...
the woman no being in the mood...
and the subsequent
possibility of outlet
   of a simple: uno, duo, tres?
****... i guess i'll never know.

******* the machines that press
the makeup cakes
we should take the machines
that press chemicals into pills
and turn them into
masturbators

******* and your ******* degree
your sense of art
your working thinking knowing of anything at all
its the same as the pill pressing machine
your ego
your sense of yourself
sense of accomplishment
twisted view of the world
no matter who you are
no matter where you come from
working to live and living to die

why shouldnt we be ****** ?
murderers?
theives
politicians
fathers
gods
eternal children maybe

just think about your death
you will die
but its ok
we all have to
after all

I.

smile and drop the facade

tune into your suffering and lie to yourself

he's lying                         (watch his lips move)

take whats mine

take the pulse under my skin

**** it all away

                                                           ­ i just need one more day

II.

half pack of cigarettes no wrapper

next to the body of a man fallen from his masturbators

walls plastered with the back of his head and a

dead body saturating in excrement

gun on the floor one casing spent

wasn't long ago he sat there smoking

one burning red fountain is sick 96¢.

the hole they put him in cost

4000 rounds.

III.

open your mouth and ignore the

scorched mounds dissipating into the wind

your whisper your breath your flesh

go they all go

c'est la vie.

Calculators
Masturbators
Swiping by numbers

to write: in order to be unable to recognise
oneself in the writing -
        impossible to stress a variation of amnesia:
it's a... it's a...

             the current philanthrope: archaic for:
philanthropist -
                   because no there's no new-outfit
for a misanthrope...
                             vaccinations blue-checkers...
a game of chess:
   with narratives...
               alliance of white: as doubt...
                     and alliance of black: as denial...
but this is not a game...
  no one plays a game to feed such
a gluttonous slouch of staging:
                       demoralization projects...

brain-sponges and some variation
of music as a wheezing...
                    or a helium gargantua:
laughter in a vacuum...

it's sometimes to think about the eyes:
unless there's a concern
for either mountain of a canyon -
it's impossible to think without the sea...
i somehow wish that i could
fathom the eyes as a simple
prelude to having two stones
in a trouser pocket...
and fiddling with them...

i want to make my tongue enshrined
in the confines of an oyster:
some forgotten gem...
   i dream about homelessness
and all of life's tragedy
                of: beside a prison...
the freedom to roam...
        but i somehow stumble...
if only the determination
              of a classical lore akin to
Sisyphus...
              
                    it's always impossible
to borrow something from
the Greeks...
           then again:
who were the Greeks at the fall
of Contantinople...
             breaking bones to fiddle
with the buckle of Islam...
            it's almost tickling the suspense
lying in wait...

a marlboro cigarette is unlike
a camel cigarette...
              i say they add something
to the puff...
        happy to have been freed from
the nicotine hangover...
but it somehow aids these scribbles...
it's not much...
    it's not madame bovary or
anna karenina...

                                time is playing catch-up
and i... hope for a seclusion
of assets...
     i mostly lie before
a sleep pattern completely petrified...
not that i rarely conjure
ushers of dream...
                   but that...
            it's always the same impossibity
of being a son of a father...
or some other monstrosity
of time: noted... when abiding
with a grandfather...

if i could question the ownership
of my ears...
if i could replace my eyes
with either two stones in my pocket
fiddled with like a pair of dice...
or shelter in the "myopia"
of: one eye for the canyon...
the other for the mountain...

  how is it that i am so at loss...
where is a pick-me-up of ambition...
i am without ambition...
in that: should i enjoy ambition
and make myself a prospect
of a career in politics...
in that old sequence of...
people coming together!

      i as a we! are not! corrupt!
it's so impossible to attempt to live
a life of an honest man...
then again... before such a question
is posed: one must...
turn the fudge... bother the barley...
grind the bits to a flour...
if i were given a compass
and asked to be placed
on the spectrum of:
counter the philosopher's stone:
money... what would i do...
if a servitude of implosive meaning
were ascribed to a sudden
revision... if name and title should
be engraved on... peanuts...
and we were all... "suddenly" elephants
behind the "riddle"...

   it's not merely impossible:
it's just plain stupid...
  if i had one ear as a cave...
and the other as a savannah...
for sure: one to feed the concern for echo...
otherwise the derelict disguise
of a splendour of lingo...

        this... is an abadoned house...
feel free to roam in it beside...
i will have left it once i have complete
the doodle...
    it's not much because:
it's not rhyme-friendly...
                 but thanks to the h'american
school... it's doesn't matter
whether poetry is an art of
the scalpel or demands for pedagogy's
regurgitation...
whether h'america is sleeping
or whether russia is reading...

           there's that currency of the narrative:
an expediEncy...
     i'd write an A into that "affair" if i was
to be all too honest...
              it's not like english
allocates orthographic pressures
of shame... should a transgression
be posed...
                   the old mechanical baron arm
of carrot forward! stick! is precise in...
what's to be allocated!

it's impossible to drink these days:
since the moral hangover...
it's impossible to smoke a cigarette...
since the same impossible hangover...
it's not even a question
of who's contesting a replica of 100 years
sober samuel...
     it's impossible to make eternal
demands of life with a posthumous p.s.:

for lack of a better word...
of the concern for what's to be ate...
the eyes pleasure...
the ears are... ears...
cartilege: an impromptu revision...
but the tongue oh so ******* critical...
it's almost necessary to learn
a second language in order to justify
being a foor critic...

food critic? this is what happens when...
the *** drive of humans is over-stated...
bogus work... and the unemployed masturbators...
the same spectrum...
a bogus job title at one end...
an unemployed masturbator at the other...

        the grass grows plenty for the rabbits...
if the desire for banana dries up...
for the baboons...
  and there's no will to straighten those
parades... then there's... "platanitos"... etc.
                   but there's a need for a plethora:
counter the forests with paper...
        should i desire more priests?!
       it's a fear... that i will absolve myself
from retaining the last remains
of authenticity -
        for the filled goblet made by
a spew of lies...
        it's such an impossible...
  "nuance"...      "bereaving"...
                 ­                      hyphen antics...
          a *******!           compromise!
   like Noah... building his project was...
all about... the made collective individuals...
i attempt working for a lie...
i die at the attempt of working...
unless of course...
             the mind of man is so...
intricate and spectacular to be without
fault...
as to the genuine promise from afar in time...

it's a terrible affair to have
homelessness as a fear... first, highest...
to then watch videos of people
going through the tides
and somehow stomaching the lacklustre
adventure...

- so to write something that
can't be paraded - that it has to gravitate
towarding a biding personal -
to heave the half-breath
of tendering sycophancy & scrutiny...
for there to be a...
whisper of rome...
come the advent of the caesars...

what an old ******* of hope...
             it's not near impossible...
when confined to...
   the cul de sac of gauging out of eyes
and rat inclined impromptus...

the current philan-thropist
         is so bothersome like a c.c.t.v.
installation that the misanthrope is a complete
bonkers jazz *** las vegas inversion
perfect!
         via / in between the solipsist:
self-conscious autist
    and the whoever takes your fancy...
   i'm making myself suspect
of what's being readied as: "digestable"...
it's not impossible...
it's just... cow-towing i.e. depressing...
     who would have thought
that a simple trick could...
fool... magnus primo maribus -
         the first great adventurer...
the shackled chimpanzee to a 'shroom...
or the 'shroom: a fungus riddle
of the primate seeing UV and ultra-red...
the first prized cinema of purple
with fluorescence: liquid light...
                                         lux liquidum...
the demands for phosphrescnce revisionism?

thus to be schooled: "schooled" without
a slightnest idea of how to deal with
a psychopasth - that one ordeal of being robbed
with the intention of the purely materialised
mechanisation of life:
the depth of the slit into soulness...

a hybrid of nothing and ego...
to borrow a figment of the imagination:
the gravity toward an engineeer
of a longboat that's
about as useful as a piece of paper...
perhaps the assurance of a kite...
which implies the wind...
"sloth" beside an attempt at water...
if the sea were a river...
and the tide were the narrative...
but the lacklustre of heaving "nuance"...

  we weren't schooled to be carpenters...
as we weren't...
to enjoy the ******* and a narrative
of "leisure"...
       before the gnat crescendo...
like some altar for the breaking of the bones
of a horse heaving
a sought at sigh...

                 could i ask the priest crow
for more? when addressing him to quest a q.
of a magpie or a birch tree?
could i heave a stomach so riddled
woth indigestion...
                to forever quest for
a mountain's zenith...
having to begin with a pyramid's nadir...
this sand... this time...
this impossible demand for...

a lasting: a debilitating concept of hope...
that's beyond crying...
a concept: but at best...
a concern for a dog...
then again... a dog: a leash, a muzzle...
the perfect cat the "homeowner"...
the gap-year striptease crescendo!

i want to fear this avenue of
life's worded tolls...
because...
there's a respect for them...
unlike... like there's a celebration
of Diogenes... if all the homeless
were to serve a fate
of this sour-**** of a gritting over...
               what am i: as question:
possibly having to write?
if all the homeless people
were a Diogenes of Sinope...
                
  i was in Athens once...
armed with a glass of absyinthe...
some yogoslav toll-busters...
a freak-magnet of a striptease bar
with myself ******* my trousers...
finding to a bind
of a way-back...
              hey presto!
            it's not a fear...
it's an anticipation...
               a manhunter prodigy affair...
to have to have done
so little of the world attested
concept of bad: an east germany concensus...
to be in a prison
of homelessness: nuance...
the dream of the broke...
the baron of the breaking...

best equipped: with a car and a gun...
but "somehow"...
no new old: or old new h'america...
i still somehow want
to yoddle my load of unbelievable
switzerland that has to
grieve my load worth
of iowa!
         my burried the unforgotten
list of "good luck" few...

the vanity project: prior to not...
anticipating the homelessness...
it's such a judas low duo due...
                   i want as hope: and a death..
it's not but there's the braving
the tide of vanity:
the better-sit-my-*****-sit-lem'oh-bedding...
it's a continent's worth
of a lingo... it's not like...
england cruise... croatia riddle...
******* dim-wits!
           new b'est h'america!
toll the brittle old jonah cull hard-on-an-adams...

my heiving little...
               my loitering "lost" of
                     the last impossible....
that impossible looting custard
pie of heart...
                   the happiness
  of the neared impossible heart...
this bypassing this cat fickle...
my best kept nuanced smile &
faking it...

  the shoe the fiddle... the mozart
the beard the hybrid
bypass the last
vanity of a fed...
             it's my best breast
fretted the knuckle,
and a bone...
          and a lost carpenter's
*****...
        witch and no nordic
leisure of an itching...
                   because!
the ******* guise of basic!
the broken tree
with a basic of breaking of bones...
gravity of the "loitering"...
there's always the
loitering play of rambo...
     johnny-yo-yo..
            iowa: new croatia!

  lost towing the burning tire!
because! i own's us a bus!
grieving the legitimate
    and what's otherwise...
the crease...
and death is a sudden..
               my scuttle bumble:
breaking the bee.

The rich are committing suicide
and taking us along with them
the prosthetic limbed *******
Fort Darwin tottering on fewer stilts
once the Masters of the Universe
presently picking through garbage
looking for an Icarus to pilot
some way back among the clouds
their telepathic goon squads
armed with the ******* of God
squat in the darkness of doorways
lightning strikes all around them
even their telephone poles were clairvoyant
several thousand watts went up my leg
shorting out the only attention span I own
left me perforated but far from lacy
wearing all my masks all the time
fragments of self are selves
in a bulemic deconstruction
where form and content
mud wrestle incessantly for attention
on the crazy train to 3 color 3 finger hell
apparently the ancient gods still rule
in their madhouse heaven
ambivalent petulant flatulent gods
brandishing sword point conversions
wielding gun point perversions
the protagonists the antagonists
fornicators masturbators liquidators
pariahs and unlicensed poets
preaching hellstone and brimfire
now their carcasses are steppingstones
it's psywar out there kids
better find where they hid your dossier
mesmerized of the world unite
you have nothing to lose
but your failed methods of addressing reality
said his slowly twisting tongue
struggling for ratings like any media
the soul cannot erase it can only go sightless
a phantom trapped in melancholy
when we were built to dance
with the twinkling summer stars
he finally learned to undestroy memory
being an ascended master of non sequitur
carried aloft by the wings of Mother Goose
his metabolic hurricane of why
an inferno of intrigue and  superstition
our embryo-headed UFO ruling class
have me inside their fence of skulls
an investment in diagram futures
the idiots