I XXI MMXV


I read the words in this book now
but you're gnawing at the back of my mind
Always.
I had to put the book down
because the words on the page
were becoming intertwined
with thoughts of your eyes
and the crinkle in your smile
and the way I miss you most
when it's only been a little while.

Let me hold you once more;
these sheets are-
my Heart is-
empty
without you.

O' ray!
O' ray!
   O' ray, O' sunshine
Bring back the hot days
where my skin shined
so bright.
It had the  sun
green with envy
for that moment - all
was surreal.
Purple becomes green.
Gold to yellow, brown to rust.
Lets go and make our
next busk
tell me of a time, where
yesterday was always today
and tomorrow never came.
The sun in an ever looping instance of "rising" or
was it "falling"?
We'll never know and
who'd want to know?
Oblivious to oblivion
Living in disproportion,
Where yelling in ears becomes
whispering prayers and crazy muttering
become insightful guides.
A place where all I Am is
confused, and I'm the
Confusion. Now bring me to madness
and (I Know the conclusion)

Stranded the shore the loneliest row boat.
Laid on the shore as if a grounded whale carcass collecting barnacles.
No rescuers ro save this noble beast.
The tide may come and take it home.
Depending on the time of tide.
The setting sun brings with it relief.
Cooler in a peaceful air.

A lonely gentlemen elderly in years.
Walking his chocolate labrador, Charlie, stumbles across an old wooden rotting oar.
Was going to sling it back into the sea.
Further along the shore he spies a lonesome row boat.
A perfect pair..
Row boat and oar reunited.
(c)Livvi MMXV
Watch this space...part two to follow.

you know about as much about copyright laws, as i do, about shoelaces; what's the word... oops?*

and what did i decide to cook today?
oh, just some hungarian goulash sauce -
extra paprika - pork -
served on a potato "pancake" -
mixed potatoes with flour, an egg,
salt & pepper, more paprika -
fried onions & bacon, and, would you
believe it? brussels pâté...
i was desperate: there was no lard
in the house...
   served on two grand leaves of
col lettuce: yummy as a sunset glazing
a hyacinth;
and no, on a flower it's called
caramelised butter effect,
   it's not actually called photosynthesis
at those moments.

i'm still bewildered by these people who
"just happen" to dictate a "reality"
by calling the dasein of events a case of:
on the internet, vs. the real world.
utterly bewildering...
no, i'm still bewildered -
let me tell you a little story...
do you know how much mail
i get through the door each year?
perhaps 4 letters...
        reality check: the b.b.c. is broke,
it's actually the broke broadcasting corporation,
the british bit flew out the window,
they're airing shows from the years
MMXV & MMXVI primarily -
oh look who's coming with the surprise -
no, it's not *pacman: the ol' jolly roger
by the name of jimmus savillius -
****** broke the bank with his antics,
not the b.b.c. is a dog with three legs,
broke! ha ha!
             there's still something
bothering me... what part of "reality"
are these people pushing, that can't see
the duality, instead choosing a dichotomy
of the existence of the internet,
ah, either they're too young,
or the internet itself is too young,
and they haven't seen the shredder impact
of the internet on the high street...
when was i at a local high street?
honest to god, heart on my shoulder,
hand on my other heart singing the regional
anthem... can't remember...
if you only get 4 letters through the post
a year, and even less emails -
unless of course you tell people your email
address...
   either i'm the biggest loser, or the biggest
winner in this fiasco...
   i get as many emails as i get actual,
post-office letters...
    **** me, lucky you if it's a handwritten
letter, without an electronically generic
signature, you must be santa claus!
ah, pretty pretty, esp. since it was written
in green and purple crayon...
     get in there my son, you're bound
to enter the major league of *******
and *** fiddlers: just make sure you mention
the black component preference,
like, you know who.
           i can't believe they're coming for these
people, i swear to god, if someone working
class was to read the saturday or the sunday
times supplements, they'd go gargamel
bonkers... as i once explained the smurfs to
a scaffolder and his girlfriend walking
from an off-lice, as we both joked:
   she's short enough for the blue...
god, her reaction as impeccable:
heaven sent no hell apart from a woman's
fury at being either scolded or joked about;
works every time,
  so, gentlemen! can we return to our
drinking?
                  and they said in pop culture that
grief was an aphrodisiac - twice down
the shoot, thrice with the shakers as **** it is...
as it turns out so is male humour is a gemini
with grief...
     the furious vagi... and i knight her:
            n'ah...
                        i still don't get where
or when the reality check will take shape...
how much of "real" life on the internet
is not mere commentary?
... ... ... ... i'm giving you some time to answer...
whatever happened to the intricacies
of the "real" world and the internet?
what about those hacks, what about
internet banking,
   what has suddenly become so unreal
about the internet?
oh right, so we can hold a welsh f-u f-off (V)
to the publishers, and bypass their
bad taste in prose?
          thinking about it: i think it is...
oh sure, we'll earn a few collateral badges
of those who fell with weak psyches -
but to say, the most splendid, known
to man, ever imagined ******* -
well... you'd be a fool to distinguish
the internet as a wachowski construct...
listen mon, you're saving the amazon,
pixel by pixel by pixel alone...
   but you've also woken the eyes of
beelzebub -
          and the irish are pounding -
and the russians stopped drinking for a month -
and the poles decide:
it's our time to march with the gob!
i still can't believe that people can't
fathom a simple newtonian calculus
of integrating two entities -
     and making them as one -
      personally?
i'm an impatient person, or, rather:
i don't like people wrestling with me over
copyright, copy what? what?!
there's only one page on the internet
that respects copyright laws... wattpad...
no other page on the internet disallows
the ctrl c through to ctrl p...
not one... ******* if you think anything
about "copyright" laws in the 21st century...
one page, one page out of a billion,
that respects copyright, and what do they do?
they kick me off it, because in
privy i asked a girl where she was from,
to get the feel of what inspires her...
like in that film the passengers -
where the girl says: i could write all day
with a view of the chrysler building...
  well then... UP YOURS!

She is beautiful.
Lives in the eye of the beholder.
She is stunning.
Shunned by society.
Her skin is thickened.
It has to be.
Face to face daily with adversity.
She is a motherless child.
Grown up now.
Mother's still there.
A childless mother.
She is a lady unlike any other.
As such she will thrive.
She's staying alive.
Living and breathing.
Taking five.
Gasping and striving.
Making a living.
The power of the voice.
A choice.
Only she can make.
(C) LIVVI MMXV

This is my world
right here
right now
don't tell me the lies they tell
I'm not afraid
of living
a silent death
feels like I'm living in a world
filled with hypocrites
everywhere I go
opening the windows
don't take my heart
don't throw it away
I got one foot in the past
no dreams for tomorrow
sleeping into oblivion
let me see you again
let me see past my mind
time flies
only to return
to the beginning

There are two of involved in this battle.
One of us just making war.
Two of us made love in summer.
Both of us just lived for spring.
Walking hand in hand together on beaches.
Beside streams.
Sadly it seems.
That the river's polluted.
The sea it froze.
The beach was covered in oil slicks and washed up dead birds.
Separately at differing places at different times, we stroll on the seashore.
We pick over the bones of those who are lost.
A figurative exercise.
Working out why we are at war.
Why we ever were.
Together in the first place.
Two lost souls walking through dark passages.
Seeking and finding.
Hunting as predators.
Wanting to eat love.
Swallow it.
So hungry.
Ate too many.
Far too many.
Breathing space.
Broken hearts.
Fractured faces.
Time repairs.
Wait and see.
Whatever will be will be.
(c)Livvi MMXV

Whispers at sunset.
Is it just ***?
It's a revolution.
Sofa surfing.
Eating toast.
Pulling back front room curtains.
Enlightening.

A revolution indeed.
Revolting.
Bed space.
Head lace.
Bed hair.
Who dares.
Caring less.
Red dress.
Chucked on the floor.
Stockings.
Suspenders.
Say no more.

Sociology lessons.
Violet moods.
Awful foods.
Sunrises daily.
A million folk existing.
Existing in bedsit land.
Government hand outs.
Signing forms to claim the dole.
Once a fortnight
Stuck in a hole.

Dining on mice that dash out of  holes.
Seeking slices of stale cold pizza.
Left on the side overnight.
Gasping for air.
Drowning in debt.
Living hard
Hard and fast.
Living too long.
In the zone of regret.
(c)Livvi MMXV

i'm just bored of seeing MMXV everytime i switch
on the television, with the end credits...
i actually get indigestion...
i live in a country famed by
pedophiles rather than Liberace...
politzen-mann! politzen-mann!
homosexuality was one step forward,
and subsequently two steps back...
where are the women?
    where are the women?!
where are the women to sort this
problem out with what the Thai boys
sell: me sucky-sucky tug dollar, un' *****'s
       hour.
where's the rebellion?
               the b.b.c. became bankrupt
once the Savile affair dawned...
             even Ed Gein had more mourners
at his grave... to be honest
Ed had a grave to be desecrated...
   Jimbo? they finally decided to bury
him under a pebble... and them phoom!
mt. everest.
    but as sure as hell he made the b.b.c.
bankrupt... i'm surprised that
strictly come dancing isn't credited with
the same year as most of the b.b.c.
programmes are these days... em em ex viva forever
                as Churchill holding up the v away from
the mouth, not insinuating gulping down an oyster.
  πютр (pyootr) - who else if not peter fuchs?
alles neu - all new, central Berlin...
   achtung achtung! die zentrale figürchen tanzen!
i'll write sluttish german,
     panzer und gargantuan truce...
          i'll write it...
                     truce: in german that's chemically
worded, hydrocarbonated: waffenstillstand...
   armistice, or army standing still.
                     Gertrude Goebbels...
   don't know, just felt like saying it.
                           Brüch and snatching schnitzels...
marvelous nouns... Hindenburg...
     Bismarck -                          pretzel -
                                   schwarz wald -
now the geese... now the strutting Gucci invoked
geese... shadow defence minister?
    that monty python guy from the ministry of
      heigel siegel play-girl partly-a-girl. party-girl
with a fetish for those well-polished leather boots
that would have agreed to kicking
                              in the teeth of Lorca...
            at least we have common ground...
    or at least we had...
                        anyone remember watching
cbeebies coming back from primary school?
           anyone remember blue peter?
       there's no reason to claim that the whole
scene went underground / onto the internet...
                                      television these days is on
a life-support machine... consisting mainly of pensioners...
   and even they decided to tune-out
playing ultra-imaginative chess while watching
a brick wall...
                      20+ years in England
and i never had an english girlfriend...
                 Savile is no surprise to me...
                            what's more of a surprise is the fact
that once the b.b.c. started to become bankrupt
                        the n.h.s. followed suite -
i can't believe i live in a country that's famous
for siberian tea (adding milk to it) and pedohpilia...
and restrictive Soho...
                                  if i get sexually frustrated i'll just:
i am probably one of the few remains of
               buying ******* in a newsagent...
and the counter argument is?
         a citation from black swan -
but there really isn't an intellectual debate in this realm...
      and there should be one...
        but i guess the debate is harder to handle
when you've been circumcised...
                   i just think that once you've been circumcised
of course *** is more pleasurable...
              but once you've been circumcised you
are donning the opposite ***'s *******...
it's like: you have to be with a woman...
                   because having a **** while being
circumcised is the lowest ebb...
                   auto-suggestive of?
              i "circumcise" myself every time i ****...
i pull it back...                  but this religious indoctrination
    of only revealing positives?
                  turns out the kippah was a metaphor for
the lost "excess" skin... later replicated
by Christianity with the tonsure of monks -
     there's not a third way... Islam is not as close-knit
as these two religions... it's just a ******* annoying brat.

Inhabiting a rubber state
Where bullets fly.
It ain't too great.
Politicians living in perfect glass houses.
Surely not green.
Never fragile.
Not throwing sticks.
Nor chucking stones.
They're draining the deserts and scoring the Arctic.
Drilling for oil.
Recoiling in horror.
Planet dynamic.
Ripped through her heart.
Redesigning circles.
Pictograms.
And block graphs.
Financial mutations of dignified nations?

Shiny panels for catching the sun.
Making ugly buildings.
Commonsense won.
Sustainable energy.
Keeping warm.
Heaven be praised.
For the warming sun.
Next thing we know.

They're bringing back hunting.
See you next Tuesdays.
Fox slaying.

And fining the homeless.
Them with no money.
More or less.
Hell of a mess.
Its all about war.
Its all about money.
Parliament run.
By brainless numbskulls.
(c)Livvi MMXV

DINNER, inspired by Yui.
It's time for dinner.
What shall we have?
Brothers and sisters, the fatted calf?
Served with lettuce and bread.
Tomatoes and fries.
Why are we eating the dead?
It may not be a fellow being persay.
Is a fellow creature nonetheless.
As an issue of conscience.
I find myself bitten hard.
Very hard.
Internal debate.
External deliberation.
I rarely eat meat myself.
Sorry to say, I love the smell.
Love the taste more.
Could never work in an abattoir.
My conscience would be ripped to shreds.
Poor creatures sadly rendered dead.
My heart it bleeds each time I think.
Killing to eat is barbaric.
This poem is written in the best possible taste.
Sadly, so is the meat.
(c)Livvi MMXV

Who can stop this thing called love?
When she's stuck firmly in the grip of winter's icy finger tips.
The seasons changing are not noticed.
The sky is nearly always black.
The sun shied away always.
Hiding behind the clouds.
The pearly droplets of perspiration are merely the tears of the insincere.
Wiped away on a handkerchief with a name embroidered on it.
***** old cotton rag.
Boiled in the laundry.
The stitching all became undone.
His sobriquet was love itself.
She's over him.
Heigh- ** she won.
(c) Livvi MMXV

Take his hand.
He'll lead you in.
Dealer of ******.
Seller of sin.
Greet the spots and tombstone eyes.
The peddler of ironic lies.
Curse the ***** that came with his gift.
That little light fix, that will give you a lift.
Trapped by the twister called Mister or Miss.
The long and short of the thrill.
Will steal your life.
Maybe ****.
Never did it.
Could have done.
Somewhere in my heart commonsense won.
Before you sit and preach from on high.
Think once, think twice.
I was lucky.
There for the grace of god go I.
(c) Livvi MMXV

Sits at the grand piano.
Listens to the music dancing in circles.
Jiggling and tinkling.
Twisting and whirling
Staccato.
Vibrato.
Fortissimo.
Picking up tunes.
Straight from the air
She's playing by ear again.
Music's feeding her soul.
(c)LIVVI MMXV

She swore she saw an angel today.
With flowing hair in falling curls.
Of strawberry blonde,
Kiss curls hugged her face.
She wore a coronet made of twisted flowers of red and yellow, laced amid bright greenery.
Her dress was coloured ivory.
Round her waist she wore a belt of rolled gold.
From her belt hung silver bells.
Bells rang out announcing her arrival.
She took her hand.
Said to her in a voice no louder than a whisper.
Mistakes we make.
But, tis decreed on sorrow thy shall no longer feed.
Arise lady be strong.
Wash away thy torment, pray let it be gone.
The angel swore unto her.
To err is but a human trait.
Worry not woman.
Throw your troubles to the wind.
Place them in a silk purse.
Let them be carried away on the wings of a swan.
A few deep breaths.
Furrowed thoughts.
Remedial actions.
Solutions sought.
By way of a prayer to the angel with the long strawberry blonde flowing hair.
(c) Livvi MMXV

My muse is not amused today.
I'm singing oh so out of tune.
A silver spoon placed in my mouth.
Loaded with cough linctus and antipyretics.
My head is full of puffy fluff.
My brain is thinking loads of tosh.
Catarrhal mind.
Well stuffed up.
Guttural laugh of a cackling witch.
A throat full up with burning itch.
A nose that's headed to the store before I even leave the door.
(c)Livvi MMXV

Staring in the mirror.
What's staring back at me.
A naked flower with falling petals.
Bare and exposed.
Clothed in streaks of green leaves.
Vine I believe.
Dolmades' with uncooked lamb.
More likely mutton alternatively.
Served up with ouzo.
Staggering about in aniseed dreams.
Feed your eyes.
On what you cannot see.
Fired from elastic catapult flying free.
Cupids arrow missed.
Guess he's always pi**ed.
At the bottom of his list.
In a filing cabinet somewhere.
Let the world forget.
No regrets.
(c)Livvi MMXV

Son I miss you.
Daughter you left.

You sailed across the sea.
Maybe you flew.
Magnetic pull.
Left blue mama.

Never coming home to me
The government said you ain't coming in.
Where you been son?

Unseen force.
Wrapped in black.
Probably not coming back.
Clickety clack.
666 war is the devil.
Devil's a beast.

Said you were leaving.
Some where out there.
Fighting unseen sin.

Sin is war.
War that destroys.
Your guns ain't plastic.
Not big boys toys.

Is wicked.
You know.
War is spreading like butter on bread.
Bang bang you're dead.

The bombs.
The rockets.
Warrior force.
The cause of the war.
Religion of course.
Religion combined with oil and money.


Wrong wrong wrong.
War portrayed in a beautiful song.
Bang bang you're dead.
Crashing words.
Explosions.
Lightning flashes.
Dots and dashes.
All In  code.
War sporting the mask.
One ugly toad.
(c)Livvi MMXV

There's a little girl inside me.
Her name is insecurity.
She's a lost lamb.
She's the black sheep to the ram.

In roars a fire breathing dragon.
In full command.
He doesn't want anything.
Only demands.

Screams and shouts of parental doubts.
"Why did you?
Why didn't you?
Why are you so weird?

Why do you?
Why don't you?
Can't work out what sparks your candle.
Mother dear mother.
I can't handle your ****** friends.

I pay my rent.
I do declare.
Stop bringing home ******'s.
I just don't care.

I care not what you say.
Mother you always make stupid mistakes.
Your stupid mistakes cause earthquakes.
Errors and night terrors.

I love you sons.
I love you daughter's.
Will make no more mistakes.
Of course I want to see grandsons.
Granddaughter,
soon when she arrives.
My friends are not junkies.
Drinkers or monkeys.
I will suffer no more.
As now I rise.
They are different to you or I.
I shall not stop writing poetry.
Never ever.
Of course I want my family.
I always did.

But I will not be a lamb to your slaughter.
(c)LIVVI MMXV

There is river that we drift upon.
Keep thinking we're making it, but then we drown.
You're full of sorrow and I'm full of bubble.
All we seem to feed  upon is each other.
We thrive upon wonderful music taste and litle bits of trouble.
I'm trying to reach you.
And still I float.
Riding the waves on a rackety boat.

You need to know I love you.
I know you love me too.
I'm  there to support you.
Together so long.

We can't do right for doing wrong.
Waking up with you is precious.
Sleeping with you,
Well it's just the best.
Lets fight to survive
We're both still alive.
I'm there for you and you are for me.
Frankie.
I don't wanna be free.
(C) LIVVI MMXV

Somewhere out there over the seas lives a child with attitude.
Bad attitude, born of ignorance.
In sadness and sorrow he stole their tomorrows.
These souls weren't lost for they had faith.
May the lord save them.
Take their hands and lead them home.
It is a tragedy.
Tragedy of a broken mind.
A lonely soul without a soul.
He will live in the shadow of darkness.
Before death will steal him away.
I am but a spiritual soul, a non believer, but in my heart I feel the forgiveness from those he set apart.
We are not born racist.
Love brothers and sisters as humans.
(c)Livvi MMXV

She lays her head on a cushion of stars.
Of all the girls in all the bars
Shockingly stunning.
A voice full of music.
Singing in tune.
A guitar that sings as well as she does.
Sings songs.
For all the shrapnel they chuck.
Every day.
All weather's.
Give her a guitar.
Hear her play.
She's beauty personified.
She lay there sleeping.
Sparkling eyes.
Dreamy and dreaming
Lovely lovely lady friend.
She sits and she sits.
She waits to be free.
In the city they check her out.
Strange looks weird stares.
Who cares.
Nobody knows who she is, under her clothes.
No one's aware what a treasure she is.
Judgements based on external images only.
Why does it matter?
She's wearing her soul on the end of her tongue.
They listen.
They pay.
If they want to
And don't if they don't.
The lady won't be beaten.
Hell no she won't.
Queen of the city,
She waits to be free.
(c)Livvi MMXV

As an angel I shall rise.
Dead from the waist down.
Dying from the waist up.
I wear around my head a halo.
Maybe a hello instead.
Kindness and sensitivity.
Lacking understanding.
Sympathy is nearly dead.
An empty vessel with a crack.
Breaking fast.
A heart attack.
Underfoot a field of verdant green.
Brighter than you've ever seen.
Reversing into psyche.
Sideways.
For today is the greyest.
The man said, it's always darker before the dawn.
See how I feel in the morning.
Probably worse than I will do in the afternoon.
Maybe you never ever knew me.
You always said you thought you did.
You didn't.
You never could.
As I don't even know myself

(c)Livvi MMXV

Guilt lives at the nib of a fountain pen.
And so it flows.
Escaping in front of the eyes of the witness.
Provided by the conscious process of thought.
Guilt spun in a golden web.
Very sticky.
Caught.
Shiny.
Switched on.
Maybe better late than never.
Now and always just forever!
(c) Livvi MMXV

140 years ago these women would have been
derided - hell... beyond derision...
they would have a personal crusade launched
against them by some Kuba: Jack: Jacob
the Ripple & hardly the rapper: pish-poor
poet... it's not enough to abhor that one
poem Walt Whitman wrote...
                 last time i checked: i didn't give
her £120 for an hour: £2 per minute for
some ****** conversation...
               we wouldn't be found eating anything
except each other's lips...
that money wasn't for lies...
or to tend to my plum-bruise of a vanity
(project)...
     a body so well worn it could be mistaken
for an antique leather chair...
not an inch of hair: shy...
superior in motif of reigniting the shy deer
******...
- because i don't like the way people ****
in *******: perhaps something from
the classical period: Italy... 1970s...
but not how it happens these days...
all those Japanese girls and the art of insinuation:
feeds the imagination...
but on the antics of the setting sun crew:
all that ****... all that... ugh...
not that i'm owed anything:
but i only spend money on whiskey...
she'll prop up the economy on little pointless
somethings to buy...
- what's the counter argument: if any?
   of those things that make life indispensable...
shelter... nourishment... ***?
if i am not owed a human touch...
   i already practice rubbing my hands:
esp. my fingertips on a brick wall before
i enter the brothel and see her body
in braille...
but all contained in that one hour:
fire & water... earth & air...
stars & vacuum...
a list of songs that best encapsulates
the act: nine inch nails' heresy [version]...
   boy harsher: country girl EP
trevor something: into your heart...
    trentemøller: deceive...
anything by portishead...
   so cruel by poliça...
   the kilink: nautilus...
               such is the price of freedom...
so much so you'd think, me writing this in 2021...
it would feel... like some second pinnacle
of liberation...
like the 1960s ****** revolution did take place:
for both women... & men...
well... for some: & men...
                           between all that anaemic take
on ***... all the rubber & anaesthetic of the digital
teasing...
no getting your hands *****...
blah blah...
             a visit to the brothel isn't a "shortcut"...
what qualms: being single...
what baby-trap... just wholesome fuckery...
like baking a muffin with ripe bananas...
oats and pecans...
*** that feels like nourishment...
*** that feels like: having a roof over your head...
*** that's not tired *** *** that needs
to be "improved" with games...
toys... roles... ******* uniforms...
at that point *** is chore...
       ******* numbing **** shrivelling...
say... how often do you walk to your local
store for a pint of milk at 9:30pm...
and find... two cans of hipster IPA est. MMXV
'heart & soul' (GLUTEN FREE)
on the sidewalk... one opened and finished...
the other unopened?
someone's watching over me...
or someone wants to have a drink with me...
of course i took it...
it was an unopened can of hipster IPA...
- in the end you're paying for something...
on a date: a dinner... the cab home...
the condoms... the flowers... etc.
why not just stop pretending... cough up
what's in the back of the mind up-front
and do away with the lies, the pretending...
after all... i find it hard to imagine
that it's easy to lie to someone when they're
naked... when both of you are naked...
she might tell me to avert my eyes
when she's cleaning herself in the shower
after the antics...
but... she'll be honest in saying she likes me...
she'll even ask where i got my scar from:
that one on my right shoulder-blade...
i'll joke and tell her:
that's the wing they clipped off...
the other one is still attached: invisible...
obviously it's... well... a romance itch...
citing that i was born circa 2 weeks after
the Chernobyl disaster... even though it happened
in the Ukraine... the effects were felt in Poe-Land
Paul's Land... a streak of autumn in the trees
in the middle of spring... pregnant women drinking:
******* IODINE...
when everyone is at it in that:
sociopathic sort of way...
    the tender man who still believes in: room'ance...
ha... i was i was: until i wasn't...
i don't even "think" it's about:
me getting some after a Teutonic stint in Lithuania
of 3 years: dry with "warring" in the pagan forests...
not the jealous type...
thank god there's no topic of rings...
******* rings... ****-hurt emotions about:
ownership... the modality of mediocre morals...
i'd still love to **** in a forest at night
with a ****** moon...
autumn... with the scent of sweet decay...
frisky air... that sort of thing...
years of denial - crow... another great song
to: mingle with the maggot **** of limb
through to limbless...
- to reiterate: i hardly paid for lies...
after all... in all brutish honesty one would
tell me: how all the black guys have
envious parts in their pants...
sure... and the ancient Greeks noted that
a large phallus implied something along
the lines of "physiognomy" a barbarism...
another laughed about my man-*****
before i got into shape and lost 20kg...
what wonders 100 push-ups a day can do...
i'm no pornographer...
it would require me rereading some of
Marquis de Sade getting a hard-on from
mere reading...
   one of those books: to be read using one
hand...
but it's no game of pretending:
that a nun is on offer...
         all the best possible **** with the least
amount of responsibility...
always stressing personal hygiene...
which was probably unthinkable 100 years prior..
but when everyone's at it: sociopathic-ally...
among the "woke" crowd: i'm: slept...
it would take a Mongol invasion...
it would take the Teutonic crusade (i blame
that ******* Barbarossa not learning
to swim... or inventing the bicycle...
sure... he made it to Jerusalem... as a rancid pickle)
it would take the Swedish deluge...
it would take the Ottoman Turks at Vienna...
it would take Catherine the Great...
it would take the Nazis and the Soviets...
to get me to somehow... bargain with
pink tushies...  wangry woes of -man...
- the fable of the infamous ****-pick "shelf-ie":
that men take it after they have just
*******... so it looks larger...
hell... what competition taking one:
oh god... a ******* intact... no MGM in sight...
then again: no "MGM" also no tonsure...
or kippah... or a niqab... worthy sacrifices should
this tight-knit beginning & end of a tux imitation
come off...
i don't see why i can't celebrate prostitutes...
they're better than priests & / or psychiatrists...
in the grand scheme of "things" of the 3P's...
priests... psychiatrists... prostitutes...
i'm last: if i'm a poet to begin with:
i don't think i am: not that rhyming is a measure
of what's doodled and doesn't delve into
crime-fiction...
Horace my guide...
- sometimes whiskey tastes best: warmed up in
a cup of coffee: i'm never returning to adding cream!
- feminists bemoaning the fate of girls
who just like to touch... touch... touch...
it's hardly a carrot & a stick tease with some
pornographic actress... it's ******* a plumber equivalent...
it's not seeing a psychiatrists or therefore a priest
because: it just makes sense...
i hate Walt Whitman for his ******-y audacity...
stick to boys... my only advice...
these women tightly knit leisured like
one might leisure after a well worn leather armchair...
not a nun in sight...
hallelujah!