oh don't get me wrong, i ****** a black girl before, it's not like i was gagging for it, i was having a little birthday party celebration, and making some **** fine cocktails... music-wise? well... you have to go beyond a bob marley track, or some ****** rap... anything jazzy? sure... but what will get a black girls attention, so that she pulls you for a snog in the kitchen, and takes your hand and walks with you into your bedroom and you start the act? cedric 'im' brooks (http://tinyurl.com/y9kdyzq8)... as my jamaican dealer once said when i mentioned some of the afro-music i listened to, all he said was in that nonchalant black way: culture, apparently it's a genre in its own right, trans-genre that is, encompassing all veins of the output; but i do get the fat-*** problem and the need for a long phallus... so much butter to pass... but this black girl had the phisique of a white woman... so... you join the vowels and H in the orchestral onomatopoeia of pleasure... and as ever... nothing can beat a bass guitar rhythm... **** air guitar! **** excessive ******* solos of rock music... just give me the bass... the barry white of instruments... so yeah... i love it, when she rides you so hard that her coccyx is ramming so hard against your soft region just above your phallus that it aches the next day.

i know i drink too much, well,
   there's a "too much"
   as there is: enough,
   to also make the best *******
potato mash on earth...
fried onions in butter,
   garlic paste,
   a teaspoon of cream cheese
infused with garlic and herbs,
a pinch of smoked paprika,
   olive oil infused with the meat
you were frying,
          crème fraîche,
         a pinch of some sort of
bbq powder...
           i know i'm forgetting
                                  something...
        never mind...
better than the sloppy job
the english do with potatoes,
and, **** me, they've been living
next to the potato popes (the irish)
for quiet some time...
all they do is add milk to the mash...
yuck! ugh...
                  i cooked too much
of them, and with only two people eating
about 7+ well rounded examples...
all of them... gone... ****!
     so they must have been good;
but what's worrying is the case
of the belgians...
   they're and were eating too much
chocolate...
   now they're having *homer simpson
hallucinations...
   they're envisioning walking chocolate,
breathing chocolate,
   chocolate lollipops...
   i swear to god the belgians are
choc-philic to the point that they
need a flesh with a tinge of their
                obsessions for sweet stuff...
i don't like where the belgians are
heading,
         i'd say: hey! move that obsession
back to congo!
                     as much chocolate
as you like!
                   me? i always preferred
vanilla ice cream, not that i lick much
of it... as it turns out,
   a woman's genitals is like licking
a new-born piglet...
   hell, **** floats my boat anyway;
       oh come on,
  you can only be a decent pornographer
if you can also have a joke on the side...
but the belgians? i don't trust them
with their walking chocolate policies...
    just tell the people that
middle-aged feminist (whatever)
  professional women asked for an import
of male prostitutes...
                            to save on travel costs
they once had to spend travelling
to their vaginal meccas for a sorry 2nd place
on the maternity ladder,
   the ones who didn't freeze their eggs...
and embarked on their ***-mission
   (great film by the way,
  **** misja (***-mission) - 1984 -
            director: juliusz machulski,
starring  jerzy "the legend" stuhr)...
    but like i said, i've stopped trusting
the belgians with their chocolate hallucinations...
i'm switching to the swiss lindt
  and the english cadbury...
    these are the days where you can't even
trust a german sausage (either).

p.s.
you know... my female cat is
   actually offended
about seeing human genitals?
  i have to cover them when taking a ****
with my hand...
  either that, or **** like a woman,
sitting down...
               every time she's relaxing
in the bathroom and i'm about to
unload a niagara falls
and she sees my genitals...
phoom! off she goes...
    but when she doesn't see them?
            well... one less scar on the eye
translated into the ***** of memory
to be revived...
huh... funny... how you can think of
memory as a metaphysical *****
rather than a function of a physical *****
i.e. the brain...
    given memory exists in symbiosis
with both brain, and the eye,
e.g. photographic-                     memory,
and the narrative memory
  currently showing in the cinema
of your life.

Can I truly love, that which I have never loved?
Be, that which I cannot, truly, be?
Is it lack of forgiveness, or lack of remorse?
A lack of compassion, lack of empathy?
Do I truly not care?
Any glance I give to a memory of her
Only resides in the cynical.
The emotional phisique, deplorable to me.
The compassion, pathetic.
The frailty, a weakness.
The love, indifferent.
How so?
Why so?
So?

Part of taking upon the name of Christ,
Is loving without a price.
Caring without recompense.
Forgiveness without the thirst for vengence.
So many were touched by her loving hand.
Many were changed forever.

But, I was one of the few that weren't;
I fell to the brunt of her brutality.
Her lagging trust.
Unforgiving eye.
Because I, myself, was capable without help.
I didn't fit her standard of being less.
I didn't need built up, I wasn't repressed.
I was myself, and needed not another,
I didn't help, was I ever a brother?
I don't necessarily show that don't I care
With words, compliments taste weird in my mouth.
Yet, all the same, I do much for my friends.
I'm there, an ulterior influence.

But that is no matter, I never said kind.
Never did display a physique: benign.
I'm troubled she never trusted my word.
I spoke truth, when she 'ccused me of wrong.
Never, once, had I stepped out of line.
I was myself, I held to the line.
But, still, she never thought well of me.
Every hug that I gave, felt hollow— empty.
Have I done any wrong? Am I the problem?
Maybe I've over-thought all of this!
Yet, why can I not find a time where she wasn't?
Where I wasn't treated cynically?
No memory, no emotion, no influence?

"This page was made in rememberence of Ms._
To celebrate her many years of teaching."
Memories, pictures, stories, events.

Not one of them mine, no joyful remembrance.