I cannot write about it anymore-
the shame,
the fear…
How can I tell anyone when my secret lays
crudely hidden inside
the trunk at the foot of
my bed, camouflaged by music
sheets and the dusty Playboys
that my brother passed down to me.

I never asked for them anyway.

I hide
in self-isolation
safe from the unknowing uncaring
judgmental bloodthirsty oblivious
eyes of Mechanicsville,
Maryland.
Maybe I could catch a horse ‘n buggy
and work my worries away—

No—
they would sense my disease
and throw me to the wild dogs;
more like Labs and Puggles
but who’s keeping track.

I can’t even walk the halls anymore.
Ostentatious girls smiling, winking, tossing
their hair back—
pathetic.
I keep my eyes to the floor.
If I allow myself the luxury
of looking up I might
see their arms…

Firm, rigid with muscle
and that just leads to the shoulders
and neck-
broad and thick,
trembling with laughter—fear
skin so smooth—kissable—no
the face…

eyes back on the floor.
Building Service Workers missed a spot
I say to myself as the
ache below my waist
slowly dulls away.

Isolated. Home.
kickin' back, watchin’ TV with the bro.
Innocent stuff till he channel surfs
and gets called into the kitchen to wash
his dishes just as the vile remote decides
to land on MTV.
His lazy *** better wash
those dishes, cause I am not
about to dry my hands out
for him; lotion’s getting expensive these days.

***.
That man on the screen has a nice one.
No shirt—
shoulders muscle back ****
calves fingers hands arms
neck hair face –

I’m aching again,
Gotta get out of here before my
brother sees me and calls me
a girl for the way I run.

I need to get out of this life—
this isolation…

College.
I requested a single.
Living with another man would be
the death of me.
I spend my weekends with my
iPod in my ears, drowning out
the masculine shouts and laughter
of frat boys playing Ultimate
Frisbee on the Hill.
however—
I do not allow myself the
        luxury of looking…
        broad necks rippling shoulders
sweaty shirts toned legs
beautiful faces –
I can’t stare or they might
invite me to play.

There are support groups—
safe havens and potential
friends who will understand.
Maybe.
Just maybe.

First meeting.
So many men –
understanding smiling beautiful—
I think I’m gonna come back.

He welcomes me.
asks how my first year is going –
I’m not afraid to look at his face.
our fingers touch as we walk back to
our dorms—
—and I don’t feel so isolated.

I can finally throw out those dusty
Playboys now.

1.) tizzop introduced gangsta poetry february 2021
     no man ever before created a poetry genre alike
     gangsta poetry, robust melting *** of languages
     and ethnicities, as it reflects the united states

2.) the idols of gangsta poetry are rooted in the
      underworld, blacks, hispanics, italo- and irish-
      americans, asians, arabs, germans, kurds,
      yugos, albanians, afghans, northern-africans...

3.) multilingual are the core, heart and soul of
     a gangsta poem: glockz, rubix cubies, 31er
     salam, jebeš igru, habibis, brüder, fo' sho':
     rapid months, frozen silverfruit, whole ones

4.) every letter of gangsta poetry becomes the
     side effects of our brand's real-life greed and fury
      mourning the end of beloved baby mommas
      deaths caused by strayed bullets that vamoose

5.) gangsta poetry aims to be published among
      all ethnic communities of the 50 united states
      deadline 08/16/21 stresses american willpower
      gangsta poetry scandalously hits us's curriculas

6.) each of the 194 remaining countries is urged
     to promote and govern gangsta poetry for
     the neglected, weighted with glacial contempt
     these males and females discover their kind in us

7.) tizzop established a saying: "treat every being  
     with an open mind, but fight back, baby, if anyone
     disrespects you, the gps, or our hangarounds"
     at war, we remember our families before we blast

8.) bar none, each gangsta poet is free to connect
      affiliate and distribute with and for the gp's
      brothas and sistas -- gps create examples of
      social diversity and historical dimensions

9.) female gangsta poets are a quarter of us
      some keep it gal, united sisterhood, astute flow
      in memory of leery leyla, chalondra, kateyy,
      mountainbird, ivanka cociç, ashima abraham

10.) genderfree, gangsta poets are chosen
        undertakings composed by thugs & artists
        the spirit of a few meets strife of hood speech
        gp evolved from a movement to an own identity

11.) restrictions do not apply for written creation
        strategic outgrowth and unshaken cash flow
        gp embraces brainy ones, and our soldiers
        narrators in conspiracy, art nouveau trips

12.) gangsta poetry admires the following people:
        jeezy, killa cam, toni der assi, iron sal, dmx
        anton chigurh, sigmund freud, rashid stoogie
        larry hoover, elliot york hp, kevin of allpoetry

13.) taktloss, luis fonsi, blockmonsta, all bolivian
        and peruvian farmers, te amamos, our brothers
        187 strassenbande, senion mogilevich, nirvana
        john murphy, dem dudes alpha hotel frankfurt

14.) much love to all global units, poets, thieves
        traffic architects, hackers, true skippos
        german bakeries, all-black betting shops
        jews from brighton beach, hispanic halos

15.) benny da bandit, tony tarantula, gambino, brate
        hamza al-mighty, fat **** frank, jens, das brain
        fred merciless, familia escorpio, ruben and levi
        ali firefists, kimbo slice, scarface, oleksiy, dejan

16.) daim, loomit, dns 1up, **** my **** crew
        berlin kreuzberg 36ers, playboys hannover
        yard bird 1955, taki 183 n.y.c., basquiat, level
        dbl ffm-skychildren, bomber, city mission
    
17.) gangsta poetry overwhelmingly shaped by
       our ancestors who boosted the poetry of ages
       train bombers, rappers, trappers, taggers, cutters
       we descent from them, honor their names

18.) gangsta poets die for poems that struck
        gps, fans and critics in a possessive way
        limits of real talk and boasting are in flux
        trance batters the face of reason, at dusk


                                          *


Once upon a time at March 22nd, 2021
Kreuzberg SO 36, Berlin, Germany...
Dedicated to all Gangsta Poets Worldwide

Heaven and hell yeah, disciples outpace seconds
Greetings from Wondaland, a.k.a. The Magic City

"Your father wants to talk to you"
"He said he'll meet you at the club"
I thought, I haven't done much wrong
And therin lies the rub
Sixteen years old, the time had come
For the old many to do his duty
He was gonna tell me just the things
To help me land some ******
I changed my shirt, got showered quick
And drove off to meet my dad
I always wondered what this'd be like
You know, it made me kind of glad
Most things I knew, I got from friends
And most I guess was wrong
My mum said, "He'll buy dinner"
So, I guessed the talk was long
I'd seen Playboys, Penthouse, Hustler babes
they all set my mind ablaze
I think I saw a **** girl once
Not sure though, there was haze
I parked the car and grabbed my clubs
Met my dad on the first tee
He said "Boy, I'm glad to see you're here"
"I'll be back, I've got to ***"
I said that Mom informed me that
It was time to have the "talk"
He said "I guess we'll take a cart"
"We can't have the chat and walk"
I waited for the first big point
Information that I'd need
You see, the stuff I'd heard till then
Was nothing good or that I'd heed
"Son"....he said and cleared his breath
Here it comes, the talk had started
"Remember to excuse yourself"
"so no one knows you've farted!"
What the hell was that I thought
Maybe he was warming up
He took another sip of beer
But, he would not put down the cup
"Son, this is not easy..."
"There's alot I want to say"
I thought OK here goes
Today will be the day
"Never...never leave de-icer"
"In the car on an icy winter day"
"It won't help you inside the car"
"And you;ll still need triple A"
What? I thought...that's not the talk
This would not help me get laid
"Son, always put some cash aside"
"Every week when you get paid"
"Dad, are you sure this is the talk"
"The one we're supposed to do"
"I thought this was about having ***"
"That's what I had thought...did you?"
"Son, you have to give me time"
"I'm new at this you know"
"I'm sorry Dad, It's just....I thought"
"We'd talk of strippers and of hoes"
"We'll get there son, just give me time"
Then he hit me with a thought
"you can use an old banana peel"
"to clean shoes stained with salt"
salt stains, savings, locked doors, farts
This was not what I expected
But, at least he was here, out with me
And his duty was not neglected
"Dad, I know most of this stuff"
"And I know this is quite tough"
"But, I thought we'd speak of other things
"Like treating women soft or rough"
"****, son....I can't tell you that"
"Your mum would have my nuts"
"I can tell you lots of other things"
"If I did, she'd whip our butts"
"Now, listen close I've more to say"
"It's how to remove a broken light"
"You can use an raw potato"
"Stab it then you turn it right"
"Thanks, dad....but, I'm gonna go"
"As soon as we're done nine"
"I'm gonna go out to the mall"
"You can go and drink some wine"
"I appreciate your candor"
"And Dad, thanks for the advice"
"But, most of this you've said before"
"And now I've heard it twice"
"I'm sorry son, I tried my best"
"But if it's the *** talk that you want"
"I guess I'll have to do it"
"It's just not knowledge that I flaunt"
"Listen close, I'll not say this again"
So, I pulled the golf cart off  to the side
It was finally gonna happen
I hope the talk was worth the ride
He took a breath and stared at me
Then in one almighty rush
Came a word barrage like none I'd heard
It was an awful aural crush
"NEVER DATE TIJUANA HOOKERS
THEY WILL MAKE YOUR THING GO GREEN
THEY DO NOT ALWAYS SHOWER
AND MOST ARE REALLY MEAN
WEAR A ****** WHEN YOU DO IT
ALWAYS CLEAN UP WHEN YOU'RE DONE
NEVER TELL A GIRL YOU LOVE THEM
UNTIL YOU'RE SURE THAT THEY'RE THE ONE
YOU'LL NEVER UNDERSTAND EMOTIONS
I'M 52 AND I DON'T YET
AND IT'S EASIER TO ENTER
WITH FOREPLAY TO GET HER WET
NEVER TELL YOUR GIRLFRIEND
EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANT TO DO
AND ALWAYS  ASK "CAN WE MAKE LOVE?"
AND DON'T SAY "WANNA *****?"
The Old man, sat, exhausted
I just sat there, stunned as well
He got the talk done in one big sentence
It was something that I would not tell
We'd bonded at that moment
Father, Son had reached a stage
Where we both could not return from
We both had turned the page
I hugged him close and shook his hand
I thought, this talk could not be nicer
"Dad" I said...."Please tell me more"
"Where should I store the lock de-icer?"

The Avenger from Oklahoma

she was a doll faced little lady
looking so demure looking so sweet
she would bat her eyes and smile
and then knock you off your feet

you see she was the avenger
looking for men who had done wrong
she carried a snub-nosed 38
and she would blow you away for a song

seems her sister had been slighted
left all alone and broken hearted
threw herself out of the window
and Annie finished what she started

she found the ******* who slighted her sis
made him fall for her with her magic lips
she shot him in his own bedroom
and walked away swinging her hips

but that wasn't the end of her journey
she decided revenge her life's passion
making heart breakers pay the price
working as a model in design and fashion

she would lure in all the playboys
make them melt with her charms
and just when they were ready to cash in
she'd put a bullet in each of his arms

she would disappear into the night
keeping the cops off her trail
her legend went on for over 20 years
most swearing it was just a fantasy tale

Gomer Lepoet...

co ma piernik do wiatraka a kóra do pióra?

immortalised mortality: Achilles -
some also quote Zeno on the matter
suggesting that anyone can be involved
in the question of turtle shells:
mortal-ised immortality - meaning
it's democratic, any mortal can think
about it, since there's only one Achilles.

what has a gingerbread to a windmill?
Don Quixote. again:
what has a chicken to a quill?
Nietzsche's handwriting - kura pazurem
a człek igłą.*

but there's a majority of us that think about immortality
seriously, only because he haven't fulfilled an
adequate mortality - we haven't, there are so many
of us that haven't fulfilled mortality to depart with death
with agony, we're just happy it's over,
i end up drinking beer like it's apple juice
on the after taste - we're called the depressive ones,
but still they make money off us -
the fault is the stars, we're not in it -
and why did he drink? the shame, the travesty -
i too wanted to fulfil my mortality to the ****,
convene on naked-concreteness, on bare concrete
and cover it with tar, so that someone might
watch television...

i don't know the result of the referendum,
i woke up early, took two acidic ***** into the bowl
and thought about my mouth spitting venom,
too little, too late,
walked for three beers to balance the metabolism
and walked back, waiting for cat-food to arrive -
nearly sunstroke saying under my breath:
'if you really want to make Wales into Sudan,
go the **** right ahead, book a Disneyland trip
to Florida, for all i care, i'm a Kentucky fried chicken here,
oh no, go ahead, i'm really eager to read your journalistic
attempt to be serious like they were about Watergate,
no, please, no Pelican briefs, just socks... oh come on,
we can't be seriously, we're trailblazing the **** out of
whatever we thought about the penguin continent;
Green Peace? here?! you have to be kidding me,
i have Arabian playboys playing chasers and racers
on real-life Playstations at Knightsbridge, they think
Harrods is the only shop beginning with H in London;
what about Hamleys? i'm sure the playboys and blonde
****** would be better suited to race around Regents
Street... matchbox Ferrari ***** -
i'm not going to be some Sudanese suntan just so
you can jet stream to elsewhere -
i'm guessing they all had ***** when the Reign of Terror
happened, 'cos what i'm seeing right now is a bunch
of eunuchs biting their toenails -
me? no one gave me a firearm to shoot someone
like Napoleon said, i just posed for a portrait;
i'm not into torture, i have a memory of goldfish
reminded of a globular tank, given Newton's explanation
of the curvature of the eye, upside down and all,
i'm goldfish Bob, dubbed 'the all-seeing eye'.
i have to admit, the artists were crude when they
painted Elizabeth I, or anyone prior -
they didn't exactly represent them as human,
humanoid, yes - quasi ****,
i'm Darwin in Tate Britain looking at canvases
and regarding mascara as the new adaptability tactic
for what the Galapagos "Rhodes" colossus turtles took to
over-sizing  and imitating boulders - the art those days
was a Bayeux Tapestry - Shylock after Shylock after
an oversized ***** graffiti inserted somewhere instead
of an arrow piercing a neck - the artists weren't sloppy,
they were simply unkind - i'm shocked that so many
kings took to up-keeping their vanity of rule due
to the sloppy hand of artists painting them as if ******.

hammock and a stack of playboys.
first emerged,
boy.

feature trees and teens and punch drunk lovers.
chalk murals,
girl.

into the quiet density of love.
quiet city.
dance party, usa.

we end up making movies about our fathers
whether we know it or not.
home videos.

we double down on arcade tickets
& spin for a kite to tangle.
climb the town hill and bury our warmth.

kiss to forget or remember this bliss
& strange language.
strange sprawl of lights seen.

the homeowner’s association melt a pile of plastic flamingos
into an idol osiris.
dead god.
& wait,
wait for halloween.

our parentals diligently sweat.
they are conjurors of snacks and supper.
they are creatures of the ritual routine.

we ritual.
we homework.
we breathe easy, waiting for nothing.

   (except for more holidays)

King America,
my King,
King America,
whom i live under,
King America,
who freed me of tryanny,
replaced only with illusions of security,
King America,
you tell me I'm free,
but all that can be seen,
you and me,
suffering with no means,
King America,
to no avail,
King America,
you abolished slaves,
but with your dictionaries,
created a word,
King America,
this is the wage im suppose to make?
come on my back hurts and I'm feeling the pain,
King America,
I'll feed and support you,
sew the clothes on your back,
make the beds you sleep in,
and even scratch your ***,
but as soon as the sun sets,
your nowhere to be found,
King America,
your a royal pain in the behind,
King America,
I'll give you this,
your good with your lies,
you talk with your mouth,
making me believe your eyes,
your face might even think its telling the truth,
but all along i can see your hands,
slidding the pawns,
your think your sneaky,
King America,
you use your religions and fears,
mark the masses,
I hope they easily scare,
King America,
you think your god,
King America,
if anythings the truth,
we shouldn't question,
we wouldn't search,
we couldn't know the answer,
it's all buried beneath the earth,
King America,
I'm sick of your ****,
you **** me off,
and you know what *******,
King America,
your looking to fight,
pawns,
batallions,
war heroes and crimes,
black hawks night vision goggles,
might as well throw in a b2,
tanks,
mortars,
and soldiers,
a few million,
why not?
King America,
as you stand there behind your game,
King America,
im just one man,
holding tight my hands,
King America,
look down your sights,
King America,
he's just one man,
who cares about his views?
King America,
I won't tell you "not" to shoot,
thats up to you,
King America,
I'd be your friend but your a bit of a ******,
King America,
you say your so great,
but look at the people who have no food,
King America,
the thirty plus percent,
that have no shoes,
King America,
look at the poor and tell me,
your happy with your thrown,
playboys  and penthouses,
yachts and jets,
5 irons and 3 woods,
business deals and synergy,
banks and loans,
monopoly and mafia,
but besides that mrs. lincoln how was the show?
King America,
you make me laugh,
or at least the fact,
that so many would rather see black,
King America,
you've colored your flag,
white for purity and innocence,
red for the valor of war,
blue for the chief,
had to get fancier and had a star,
a symbol of the heavens,
the divine goal to which man,
hath aspired from time immemorial,
dont forget the stripe,
symbolic of the rays of light,
King America,
too bad thats a lie.

Don't tell me to smile
Exhortations to "cheer up" will be ignored
You don't know how far you're stretching me, do you?
Your head still in the clouds of safety where imbeciles call out to each other
Listen. Listen, do
We're exploring the heaviest things in the world
Too heavy for Sysyphyus to haul
I'm that kid you can kind of see through
The one on the left corner
With the cool bootleg Pink Floyd t shirt wrapping his thin torso
He's got a box of Playboys beneath his nightstand and he's barely 14 years old
He reads and incorporates that garbage into his pre-adolescence behavior
With dreams of visiting Plato's
Retreat
Picking up some bunnies using some of the better Party Jokes
His expertise at 'lingus and 'latio are as well perfected as can be without having actually performed them
But he could sure bust out the ******* Philosophy and would have held his own with the old geezer who wrote it
But he was only 14 and nobody seemed impressed with the amount of ******* culture he'd consumed
They weren't letting him in the cluuuub
Your ****** right he didn't feel like smiling
But he wasn't bored
And he didn't feel too serious
He'd let it slide this time

*to be continued

for all i care to remember...
        looking into the mirror was more or less...
something akin to:
"squirting"... **** me! SQUINTING...
      well... the contortion of the eyes...
"worrying" about a double-chin...
and of course... enough stealth acne
to make me... the bride of beelzebub
how i'd joke to myself...
         beelzebub sat on my face and *******
a tonne of... dead maggots...

           i never knew i was athletic standing
before a mirror...
i probably know that i am less athletic now...
but... looking into mirror made
sense... once...
   this russian girl...
    in st. petersburg...
   we were in "love"...
       and there was this great aventurine bed...
and... a closet with two mirrors...
and... we'd be at it...
i was looking into the mirror...
and she was looking into the mirror...
it was like: the opposite of *** on l.s.d. -
because it was like...
beyond the missionary -
the "******" of the mirror...
   as in ***... it leaves you wanting
to ******* to the *******...
because... hell...
without a mirror...
could you capture the face moaning
contorting like an experiment out
of the gehenna harem?

     for all the *** toys sold...
all those exceses of... woman's lingerie...
outfits... nurses...
   blah blah... it really takes a mirror
to spice things up...
this dead-eyed mirror canvas...
the dire-dead-necessary...
    tooth-fairy: ref. the red dragon...
i needed to see that she needed to see
that i was ******* her... and that she...
was being ******...

           mirror mirror on the wall...
**** the fair and the fairest and the fairies...
i have come to understand that mirrors...
work best...
when... not stressed to exemplify...
a concern for beauty...
   or... something that is worn...
clothes look... terribly important in a mirror...
esp. by someone wearing them
when allowed to be digested / investigated
by a mirror...

but... a mirror during ***?
when you're not performing inverted missionary...
doggy... and she's lying with clenched ****-cheeks...
i was in love once...
which also implies:
i ****** like a race-champ pony!
the mirror always helps...
i wouldn't know: whether s&m leather
and straps would... and whips...
made much of a difference...
when... the mirror... the ghost ******...
the: satan you could get away with...
if you didn't utter a comprehensive word...
but ensure a strict rigidity to...
onomatopoeias and syllables...
and... exfoliating nouns...

        upon memory being summoned...
i'm getting a bigger hard-on thinking
about all the encounters i've had with the police...
there's always at least two memorable
encounters...
getting poisoned in a nightclub...
getting on the bus...
getting off the bus... dropping like a pancake
onto the cement...
     being roused... asked by the police officer
whether i was o.k.:
making a slurred and lengthy apology...
giving my address...
and being... taken in a police van... in a cage
for a sinner... like a taxi...
back home...

    losing my virginity to a pair of handcuffs...
for ******* in an alleyway...
getting screamed at...
one officer cuffed me...
the female officer had a pen and pad ready...
in an alleyway where it was discussed:
and who's alleyway is it?
i'm too drunk already...
if i walked into a pub on friday come
10pm i'd be asked to buy a pint
in order to use their toilet...

         it's one sort of luck... gambling...
betting on a horse...
but another... being hand-cuffed...
  and then... having the hand-cuffs...
taken away...
              as this dialogue happened in the...
"invisible" shadow of the alley...
i can't exactly imagine what the onlookers
saw...
           a teasing of authority...
drinking a beer on a bench outside
a pub on a friday night...
which is... basically... taking away
the revenue... of being sardine packed...
and pyramid schemed... for failure...
but my... what a glorious night...

so i asked: and where am i... permitted...
and blah blah...
that ******* mirror... and that aventurine bed...
the same thrill during ***...
like... the thrill of stepping into a brothel...
without a need to ***...
the 9 of them: all nazgul attired in scrutiny...
before "the pick"...

   *** toys... can i please get a mirror in here?!
it has to become a standard for a healthy
sexed up relationship...
    a mirror can overpower any...
frivolity of during-***: attire...
  the imitation ******...
a mirror is... just that...
                 *** with: in third person narrative...
but... smirk-giggle:
you catching her eyes getting ******...
and she catching your eyes: ******* her...

so tame tame... unlike reading...
  the tame blushes of marquis the sade...
never to mention... this philosophical adventure
of ******... which it really is...
impeccable... trouble with: thought put into
practice...
                yes... that horrid... Fritzl case...
but unlike the idealist scenario...
the mother was notably pushed away from
the grandiosity of the sin...
and it was done... in public... with...
a purview of... shaking established social norms!
it wasn't... a rabbit-hole of horror...

              which is why i'm glad i do not
have children of my own...
   i once spent an afternoon with...
my... grand-aunts son... my uncle...
don't ask...
         and i looked like him and thought...
well... i have most certainly had more
fun with cats and dogs...
i was a complete mute...
i didn't feel like cuddling this piece
of cubism... it looked human and even
contorted like one...
perhaps if it was mine...
i could have... somehow...
            "relegated my inhibitions"?
                 n'est ce pas?
         to have children and begin with...
that ******* of differentiating vowels from
consonants... and then... building consonants...
what... 5 vowels... 21 consonants...
5 x 21 = 105 variations...
       prefix: ab, ac, ad, af, ag...
                     eb, ec, ed, ef, eg...
                           IF only! oof!
                 the suffix - ba, ca, da, fa, go...
                                 bat cat dad fat god...
and then... the 21 x 21 consonant variables...
squared to the power of 5...
because... chinese is... frankly...
so simple...

   - it's summer and...
            since i would otherwise... require ink...
to write... and the paper would somehow
be always readily available...
no need for ink...
the summer months are terrible...
for no requirement of ink...
what is ink?  ink is...
                         i need october...
i need november... december... january...
february... half of march...
i need to borrow ink from the night!
i can't scribble in these arab / kenyan months...
these sun-seeker months
of idle by the dream-pool... load of...
overtly-talked... less thought...
therefore... no need to scribble...

    i need the night for my ink...
                           "punctuation marks are in
the constellations": oh yes... honey sweet...
what's it called? cliche? we've all been there...
i too would sacrifice Hector before the altar
of Achilles if i were Priam...
                   only because: he was called Hector...
and the other was Achilles...
and i was called Priam...
       in such times... what were...
the trully... common-place names...
of stunt-men and extras?
   i'd like to know the equivalent of a john smith
from ancient greece...
what would one call: him?
            
        perhaps: i tend to think about *** when
i... most probably had a dream...
jerking off is a bit like...
checking one's blood pressure...
or as a diabetic might... ***** his index
to check the sugar levels...
i write about "***" when i've had a dream...
the dream...

i was talking to a man about cars...
notably... cars from...
america and germany...
circa the years... 1920s through to...
                the 1970s...
          and... then... the talk of... a motorcycle...
a specific motorcycle...
   a triump street cup...
                 a BMW R18... but not quiet...
whatever it was...
                    for the love of a double-decker
bus and a pair of legs...
                which is not...
to have emotionally invested
in *** was something a much younger
version of me would have done...
i thank the prostitutes of curing me of this...
debilitating disease / dream...
              which, i, prescribed... myself...
so no... i hardly think...
there were any... mummy or daddy issues...
i would skip several scenarios:
as much as i love riding a double-decker
bus... i abhor... taking a taxi...
       even if it requires me to walk...
2 miles... i'd rather walk:
for the love of legs and... voodoo dolls hanging
like corks... bend the knee: they might say...
bullet to the knee-cap... if you ask me...
again...

     perhaps i wasn't born english...
but... after... 26 years among them...
                          it "sort of" grows on you...

- man can perform a thousand:
dodo project genocides in one sitting:
on the throne of thrones...
before jumping under a baptism:
fully attired in the ganjes pyjamas
in one sitting: on the throne of thrones...
to "squat" while *******...
*******... *******...
"scented candles" of taking a shower...

i write about *** every time i have a dream...
it's to succumb to the lesser...
escapade of me...
i can stomach subjectivity...
but having to stomach idealism...
is another matter: altogether...
i would like to worship the men who
have had their fill...
and settled for the swan blockade
of the widower romance...
the widow swan...
the black widow: a ******* spider...

none of it... i ****** good i ******
well... come the prime of the age 21...
she was a gamer side-kick bedded...
she prescribed me...
                        Bulgakov...
              reading a ****** to a prussian...
or reading a ****** to a RUŚ: example: ditto...
                  i have heard of how
love supposedly closed and opened borders...
we are so antithesis "different"...
we aren't... some western "communist"
zoo study:
the people who say and then...
lucky us paupers...
who have to "loot" the infrastructure
of the vacating ****-tunnels...
because... someone has to ****-off...
their tongue and... gerbil fidgety!

albino chimpanzee and...
boxer gorilla fed on...
the promise of bulk... with nothing
but... the promise of fruits of your
labour... and nothing relating
to protein... or fat... of complex sugars
known as bread... none of that!
still: that fudge-packing bulk of
gorilla bicep protein: amass!

   - as ever... the murk: before the deep-water...
the... inverted demigods
of h. p. lovecraft...
because... cthulhu is... "somehow"...
not the ******* son of Poseidon?

acid-quasi-monkey asks...
   placid-didgeridoo...
                a constipated: not funny...
attempts! at solving a crossword!
-frankenstein-myrhh:
                        ******* dangling...
                                    (-) - Fatima...
is this... "Syria" yet?
  concerning the second coming...
concerning...
Syrian civil war... something...
*******... miraculous...
has happened...
or was about to happen...
and that it didn't happen...
better that it did:
but since it... didn't...
best we cover it up...
                corpse bride:
               Khadija **** Khuwaylid...
if ever: Stephen Vizinczey...
was a (prophet) Muhammad...
in praise of older women...

    ...a Fatima... fleeing the Syrian
civil war... because... Ramses II
was... telling apart the 7 good years
from... the 7 ******* years...

tell you what... it's no fun...
when you've been given the need
to bend the knee before the altar
of phantom power...
if i were 16 and she was 14...
if i was 18 and she was 16...
if i was 60! and she was... 20!
would it matter?
               if i was jerking off aged 8...
you want to know...
what... the last prize is...
the last... difference between...
"consent" of two adult adult...
with their *******-riddle
of a theatre of ***?
     you want to know?
the thought of ******* someone...
under-age...
no! no barbie! no ken!
the theatre of thought...
of ******* someone... underage...
who is... displaying...
teasing ***... in that primodial seance
of grief to ward of mother from
the ******...
and father from the parentage of
school!

               you ever want to see...
what... a kick in the jaw looks like...
omnipresent onlooker...
of some... unpardonable crime...
that it has to be ***-related...
              i wish i performed some
unpardonable crime on a *******...
i guess a kiss is a kiss is an unpardonable
crime against a *******...
i need this heart to shelter itself
in stone! i need: a heart!
of hard-earned: rock!
               with each sentence:
i find it impossible to not....growl!
to howl! to spew a bickering of...
wolves... of hyenas...
a wake of crows!
            
              i want toi write an echo!
hye! anoooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
i want to hear...
the microscope itching
of a marrow...
of maggots working toward
a closure of expressing: scotch fudge!
i want! maggot marrow!
i want! the lost sounds of...
what the fox already minded...
in...                       χαoς! ρει(γ)νς!
yes... the gamma is a surd...
                 in this... english... equation...

last time i checked:
the cognitive theatre of the forbidden...
****** "lax"...
it's enough to tease the affair with
mere thought...
to have... people "bothered"
that one thinks... such "things"!
while the girl... prime... aged... 14...
teases you with...
exfoliations of...
                      script and... censure...
like a skirt...
but of course...
you're the dodo-project genocidal maniac
about to sport a new: cushioning
extreme...
of an ******* like...
you're minding teasing...
a high-blood pressure!

          can i allow myself a giggle?
a crown of: a dozen demons laughing
as relevant: to the 12 strong cohort of...
cognitive lapses of reason?
          
  ******* before a mirror is my...
my memory and my last concern for...
"adventure"...
a ****** ******* a russian girl so freely...
she fed off of us as...
     spinning a willow to confine itself to:
those rhubarbs in... "retro"...
no... i'm pretty sure... "they"...
the western communists would have minded
it coming across as...
  rhubarb... dreads... stiff 12" drizzle /
drool bits of a tight-knit white sporting ***!
my... oh... wait...
not exactly 16... so... no...

my... what?!
    this has to become one of those...
most... "unspectacularbly": "a least"
in what's to be digested... "fogiven"...
when... there's that teasing-**** of a per-se
readied for her rite of horror to be
met with ******* the...
upper... echelons...
to the queue! to the loiter!
to the...                cue: no dry martini equipped...
sort of... joke as... a variation
of... escapism: to excuse...
fixations... of social hierarchy...

    i am hardly a misogynist...
            it's almost... fake...
how feminists point out... death-pull...
the misogynists...
clinging to philanthropists... i suppose...
it's like...
"someone" forgot...
to... mention...
the benevolent in misanthrophy...
the happily allied to the ivory tower...
whether you're a man or a woman...
or a man pretending to be a woman...
or a woman pretending to be a man...

who is... the misanthrope?
            the solipsist...
the atheist: should you be god?
the altruist... the... fiddly-bit... extreme...
the... autist?
         who is... your... claim for...
******-****** ruleZ the world?
mother of all perfected children...
a bit like jerking off to...
those gravure beijing models...

ava lauren? she is... an aged looking
*******... closure: madame...
she earned it...
her skin is like leather...
you dare to: wear it...
   but... oops: the ubermensch...
these chinese "brides" are not...
photoshopped...
they're genetically edited...
it was apparent that china
didn't have a soul...
in its summa summarum...
or in its christ redeemer...
when... india has its rich
polytheism... pedagogy:
shiva the antithesis of vishnu:
the thesis...

    i can feel... at least!
i can feel abbreviated with the raj master...
sport...
sending a few "*******" to beijing!
let's hear a story...
no... i'm fuming mad:
i'm dying! to hear that coin-flip
of a tail: of bending the... fuckning knee:
capping... as one might!

there's a <100million of "me"...
there's... a >1billion of "them"...

   while:
            i ****** off to...
          genetically edited creatures...
the western world can hide
behind its setting sun: metaphor...
photo-editing... while...
the hot-**** beijing is...
gene-editing...
west-world 1972 bronze age:
"staging a coup"..

             yeah: gurran-gu-dag...
the arabs and their bangladeshi...
queen-bee sorted...
           elizabeth II...
royal ascot...
  i.e. lamborghinis raced on knightbridge...
because: arab playboys are to be...
minded...

write long... to ensure...
people read short... little chance
of censor-loved-up-pseudo-i.q.-heroes!
100 years later: you become a pseudo-Proust /
a Joyce... but... that also implies:
you're stiff up at the neck...
in death and sand... and worms...
in a grave! so? no turkish kebab:
no malmuk / no janissary resurrection!

Closed eyes
to the fountain of youth,
to higher hopes
and new reality.
I claim spirit,
but give mind,
in fact give all
my scattered self,
in the hope some poor *******
sorts through.

Winter's guise,
I flicker off-white images
of galaxy and twine,
of breath mints and wine,
of sorry dancers
with broken heels,
reinvented wheels,
and augmented rhyme.

Light comes
and I storm it with cold,
I storm it with pens
and whiskey lies.
I storm it with science,
and I storm it with God,
I storm it with the golfers
and playboys,
about to tee-off.
I storm it with hate,
with the promise of pay,
my unrequited love
of Saturday.

And with wind came age,
came the steady hand
and furrowed brow
of sleet-strewn rain
and growing pain.
Of doubt. A bout
of flu,
a touch of death
and funds withdrew.
No more the kiddie
in the window,
aww-ing at sound,
the colour of air,
the steam of kettle,
forgiving snare,
life's poison-treats
and poison-poisons.
Un poisson hors de l'eau,
still - I'll thank you
for your time
and bad French,
old guru.

Still to shift in
this physical prison.
A prism of light,
of partial solidity,
of unending uncertainty;
a multitude misunderstanding itself.
It claims to the borders
and it clings to the bed,
it holds true to thought,
and all the worries
in my troubled head.
They descend,
never end,
in a crescendo,
a caterwaul
of mistreated sound,
dog in the pound,
and waistlines round.

Thigh gaps
and mind-the-gaps,
signposts and brochures
for the short-lived living.
They pester my mind,
interference, crackle,
prattle and rattle
of mediocre wisdoms,
of borrowed idioms
for bulimic bones
and broken homes.
They tailor my mind,
cuts and seams
of needless pleas,
for order in chaos
and blueprints
for blind entries.
All to settle the stomach,
to settle the plot
to settle this fever
that burns so hot.

Old-film stills
to the fountain of youth,
belligerent fist of tears,
for forgotten woes,
for sweaty prose
and swollen leaves.
Yellow birds and
old lime trees,
dear Suzanne
and her poetry,
about thorns in the side
and turning tides
of tambourine men,
and helter-skelter girls
turning empires
of simple love
and worthy sin,
to English tea
and to profit again.

She turns the tide
in a lover's brawl,
in winter's shawl
and Hollywood ball.
Sings Hallelujah
to the wonderful world,
to the shot girl's tips
and crazy catcalls.
To the Pink Moons
and old jazz tunes,
to the orange peel
and plastic sand dunes.
To Parisian men
and Las Vegas girls,
to twirls of meat,
and ballet shoes,
to the smoking student
and his heavy blues,
to the loss of art
in the modern street,
to busker beats
and sausage meats,
of coffee fumes
and white man dreams.

And we're entertained.
Oh boy, we're entertained!
Entertained at a rate of knots,
tangled headphones,
tangled minds,
tangled tales
of truth confined.
Television makes everything real,
it flavours life,
spices the story,
feel, kneel, heal the plight
of the Navy Seal,
invading land,
invading minds,
invading dreams
of love unconfined.
We're entertained
at the point of feeling sick,
of parrot-joy
and marketing intent.

We speak in circles
and we speak in phrase,
we speak in unending drivel,
of quote, motto and haze.
Haze of meaning,
and haze of depth,
of fortressed country
and insoluble debt.
We speak in telephones,
they speak on the bus,
they speak in the ghettos,
the nightclubs,
the churches,
the underpass
and they spill from the gut.
Whilst we torture ourselves
in the new-found freedom,
of living within
and not to the kingdom.

The kingdom of choice,
of self-salvation,
of astral self,
and meditation.
Of origin's tale,
of Earth-life passed,
of intelligence squared,
and foolishness fable.
Of infinity realised,
of time altogether,
of solidity-illusion
and falseness of summer.
Of warmth in the winter,
of red in the sky,
of collective catharsis,
a universal sigh.
A sigh for relief,
and a sign of mercy,
a plea for conception,
a gift for the future,
and humanity's redemption.

Every era that has ever been
Has engaged in the auto-dissection
Of their yellowing underbellys.

Yes, every generation has predicted
that the end is nigh,
That god is on their side;
But the devil has a crowbar
And is busting out of the basement.

Each decade is a mimicry of the last.
Different fashions, same trends
And always, with a fool on the hill.

A lonely steel harmonica can pierce the airwaves
Across space and time,
Through the grooves and crackles
To enthral an audience,
And to beguile that every generation
Into believing in their autonomy,
Their solitude,
With a fate independent of all those centuries past.

Through every disembodied spew of Dylan lyrics,
Or the corporeal and common alienation
Sympathised in every Wilde reference,
Comes the same fury at the chaos of a world
That is no more than indifferent at the plight of the people it houses.

Indeed,
Every generation has sought to either
Cure the ills of the Earth;
Or else set lighter fluid to the lot.

This stretches back to the first blood-spattered edition of the Bible,
And further, much further.
To all of the captains,
The heroes,
The anti-heroes,
The road gritter,
The malevolent dictator,
The schoolteacher,
The emancipated woman
And the borderline feminist.
To every young child who is reluctant to take the spotlight,
Or look you in the eye,
Ask questions, or speak out.
For every one of those who at some point were labelled
‘maladjusted’.

And so the Pharaohs and Caesars are all but gone now,
Replaced by the big-wigs,
The fat-cats,
The purple hearted,
The playboys -
The men in suits.
But they are all the same.

The same behind the decadence of
A solid gold sarcophagus
Or an Armani pair of shades.
They all built their empire on shifting sands.

And so we will all kick and scream
To our own tone and our own time
At the indignity of the world.
At our bespoke knowledge
To deal with all inconvenience
But that which privates the preclusion
Of any and all major slaughters of justice.

As for that young child,
With the lack of eye contact -
And all that he will become:
He will sit. And he will type.

He will type until his words fall beyond that
Of the spiralling noises inside his mind
And blossom into something pure and ugly and beautiful.
He will sit and he will write

To forget.

I have laid claim to the Tyne Bridge - it is my home.
You can keep the streets, the shops, the bars
Share them between you
But please
Let me have the bridge for myself.

The bottle green arch of Newcastle,
And the stew of water that runs beneath
The sheer drop of air between them,
Lightly salted by the sea.

It is but the only childish affectation
To follow me and hold true
Through the contaminant of temporality.
Just please, let me keep it.

I shed the skin of adolescence
And left my school tie at home
When I made the journey North.

I arrived expecting transcendence
But instead I received the unwanted gift of the present.
From the clamour of Manhattan,
To the desolation of New Mexico and Peru,
The present will forever be the most effective ammunition
In shattering the stained glass of the world’s wonders.

I know this from the beauty of memories.
Those wonderful fragmented images of childhood
That so efficiently cut out the hours of exceeding boredom,
And the tedium inflicted by the men in suits.

And the future,
The future of flying ships,
The mining of the moon
And downloadable pizza.
But we know in truth, when we arrive
There will still be lawyers
And adverts,
Beggars on the street
And apostrophe’s used incorrectly.

I digress.

Let me return to the Tyne Bridge
My bridge on the Quayside.
For despite the bird ****
And the playboys that trundle over it day after day,
It stands defiant over deep waters,
Daring to cheat death
Or vice versa.

Spent the evening walking nowhere streets
dodging horns and sirens of hungry motorbike taxis.
It was a parade of street-food vendors,
security guards half asleep by bottles of whiskey.
Every woman I passed was beautiful,
laid their *** on the numbered tables
as off-hand as their mobile phone, their purse;
their bored men. Each one had their toenails painted,
wore short skirts and vest tops in the stifling heat.
The best of them wore tight dresses of black or red
and ate their food in the same studious manner
I imagined they would take to the zip of my jeans.

Could feel the sweat roll down my back
kicking gravel out my sandals every ten strides.
The playboys rev their motorbikes
as if it were a talent they had been working on,
a kind of siren song to tempt the free women.
Each one is on the lookout for a bargain.
Each one streaks past to some indiscernible point
where they will bury themselves amongst
the massage parlours, karaoke bars, and short-stay hotels;
Each one a straight-up brothel once you make it through the doors.
I feel too awkward in this ******* town to order a sandwich
let alone try out my second language to ask for a cheap *******.

Every foreigner here had some kind of breakdown.
Some kind of complex that drew them like a moth to flame
to some place where white skin is enough to feign riches,
stimulate desire and place you amongst better men.
We steal a living for a year or two of forever blue skies.
We eat good food and toast ourselves every evening
with cold lager and palm leaf cigarettes.
We cannot read a word in these humid streets
where every single building holds a portrait of the King.
Spent the evening with my shadow, both alive in the night
beneath the heady aroma of cooking oil and street-food spice,
both hurting to become, both slipping out of sight.

childhood
is full of once in a lifetime experiences.
it is full of smiling,
living in the moment,
not worrying about bills or mortgages,
or gas money or grocery shopping.
childhood
is something we always wanted to grow out of
moving away from our barbies and bionicles
and trading them in for make up and playboys.
even though, sometimes,
when heads were turned away,
we dug up our favorite plastic friends
just to see how they were doing in the darkness.
childhood
is something we always wanted to leave behind when we were children
become big adults
with our fancy clothing
happy homes
and lack of vegetables.
and yet we forget
that childhood
is, simply,
full of laughing.
and fully grown
i now live on the memory
of my sandbox sidekicks
and their laughter.

Parents are the weirdest - of God's creation.

I mean, who on Earth would desire the responsibility of another human being from the time they **** in their pants to the time they leave saying 'what have you ever done for me?' ?

Who would, of all the things in the world, like their homeroom stuffed with stupid CDs and stuffed racoons, waterguns and Legos, dried acrylics and miniature utensil sets, ugly pyjamas and strange half-knit sweaters?

I need to know why parents don't object to their kids pooping everywhere.
It's either the kids are super cute or the parents are super crazy.
I'm sure it isn't the former.

A certain lack of imaginative faculties, in parents, is evident to me,quite frankly.

Think of it this way- if it weren't for us - kids, our parents would have been carefree playboys and playgirls, and 'living their lives' - cliché.

What weirdos really!

Their standards of children's safety too possess a particular oddity.
It's only the exact moment of physical contact during a hug that our parents feel we're safe.

Their sense of economy and finance is oxymoronic.
They love discounts. But they'll pay extra for whatever their kids wish.

I wonder how they resist TV shows of most sorts just because they won't have their kids watch remotely explicit content, visual or auditory.

I bet their sense of direction is most unnaturally affected too.
Why do they even follow their kids, when they know kids don't have a working GPS?

Do you have any idea, to what lengths parents go to make veggies seem delicious?
Veggies, Really?

Parents will have you take disgusting syrups and painful **** injections,
And claim they love you.

Parents will have you hit the books,
And claim they love you.

Parents will ground you because you do something they don't like (but they too did it when they were kids),
And claim they love you.

Parents will stop you every time you say a swear word (but they swear all the time),
And claim they love you.

Parents will claim they love you,
Maybe, because they really love you.
Oh, their weirdness never ends.

Parents may seem eccentric,
Their ways might seem a bit too bizarre,
Maybe that's how the people who really love us behave!
Yet, we're always rushing away from them.

If you have ever traveled in a bus, you'll know how absurdly keen the passengers are, to get off, when it stops.
That's how keen the kids are, to leave the laps of their mothers, quite literally the most comfortable place in the world.

Parents really are - the weirdest of God's creation.
And the loveliest too.

I'm tired of feeling all this pain, I feel so num
I wan't to go back to when I was young
To the time where nothing matter
No worrying, No jealousy, No guys
Just friends
I wan't to go back to the time where depression didn't exit
instead of cutting wrists
we cut paper snowflakes
The time where boys had cooties not hormones
The time where all I wanted was to be a princess
The time where I cried over broken crayons not over boys
The time where *** didn't matter
It's so different now
instead of looking like a princess, you have to look like barbie
And guys expectation are just so high
And even if they say we are perfect
we aren't
because it's the same thing ever day
they still look at the naked chicks on the front of those playboys  
It's so painful
Now I wait to get hurt
I'm just expecting it
It's an every day thing
Worrying that another girl will take my place
You say that they are just friends
But you use to like them at one point so it's not that simple
I'm a girl my mind over thinks
I've been hurt so many times by you and other guys
I just don't trust anymore
You've lied to me
once you lie you lose all my trust
now I'm laying here while my mascara runs.

outrageously funny
the matters of the heart
makes clowns of us
when we play the part

the cast keeps changing
with the part

from stalkers to streakers
charmers to weepers
lovers to cheaters
playboys to loners

the cast keep changing
with the part

walking out of the theatre
of dead spectators
i think i played
each part

the cast was nothing
but only my past
and my heart
it plays no more parts

Never Forget Your Pills

Pretending to be normal,
its so hard when you're immortal.
In bed I'm called a god,
stand up for me and applaud.
Me more happy than a clam,
I'm more American than Uncle Sam.
I make your dreams come true,
I'm more famous than Playboys Hugh.
I love to flirt, I love to tease,
my goal is to always please.
I love being in the ****,
I'm just that kind of dude.
A few times I've almost died,
I get emotional and have cried.
Some say that I'm delusional,
I find that to be kind of disputable.
You try being so **** perfect,
coming from me, what do you expect.
Not my fault, I'm the best,
I live by the power of suggest.
I open so many closed minds,
if somethings lost, I give it a finds.
I make magic with my pen,
I'm smarter than the three wise men.
I have no more competition,
everyone failed the last audition.
Everywhere I go, I get praised,
happening so long, I don't get phased.
Some say i suffer from schizophrenia,
all I read is the newest encyclopedia.
Can't help having god like features,
back in school, I taught the teachers.
Today I forgot to take my medicine,
everything just written was irrelevant.

before the sun sets, and i end up writing... i end up laughing; but you began revising the body with Abraham attempting circumcision of Isaac, thus you encountered the anti of your shepherd practice, in building a pyramid, since the two revisions met in Egypt with female genital revision, an what feminism called: a soft cushion naked **** readied for kept ******* of *****... you were already revising your bodies before science came and allowed you transgender orientation and plastic surgery... unlike the mandarins who wrote from the head down, you wrote from the genitalia up, but because you didn't start at the feet, you wrote from either sunset to sunrise, or sunrise to sunset of arousal or limp... limp or arousal... monotheism is so ******* disgusting... it precursors darwinism, a historical analysis that should have not emerged had man not revised the inadequacies of his genitalia... and left the disharmony of the sexes to accept an ethnic population of an excess of 1 billion: puberty riddled man, menopause riddled woman (e.g.); i've failed, i know, now the talk is of pseudo-******, anti-globalisation, global warming... hardly any revision to mind to resurrect a historical past.*

listening to the Boss,
bruce "the boss" springsteen,
" or the acronym a.k.a. or simply
the word alias, or dub-slang,
but then the sweet return of the Celtic Odyssey,
reminding sweet Dublin sirens
of their song rather than my Aegean drowning
pain... in such nights such laughter
as mine be given to an unheard
comfort of a woman's breast,
a truck-drivers' fable in stance against
arabian playboys... the hyphen of dislodging
caring for us men hardly internalising
a woman's deed of internalising violence
should the greek testimonies be true for Byzantine,
for such a man of supposed status
have internalised his peace with violence
as did Buddha with two billion of Chinese
and Hindus... no conquering of status...
but my life laughed at in the night...
the hyphen is a dislodging for us,
cowering before both Madonna and the Magdalene...
to incubate the ring of Belgian entrenching
in a war... so if in womanhood only a duality
why in man the sole precursor of Christ,
namely Oedipus, to one saved from the fates of BC
the sole inheritor of AD via birth 19 centenaries late?
if duality in woman why then a trinity in man?
why no resurrect something more revealing
than what 19th century allowed with Freud?
i once said that a loss of ******* made man warring,
then come unto me in Eden's form, wholly
dressed, and wear the clothes i wear as intended,
or succumb to St. Paul and other visionaries -
or go into battle that Napoleon in graffitied optometric
said to overcome awaiting St. Helena for stupor ******...
or as that Roman girl daughter of a centurion who
first did encounter a missing ******* in the pagan
world worthy of "casting out demons" as the lover of jeruslaem -
thus the revisions of monotheisms with censored
foreskins of prior Abraham the Pharaoh's brides executed
to a skin-cut... later then the male, competent
in boxing the other dead... indeed what apple
is in metaphor is merely ******* in reality,
of either genitalia... that woman came first in Egypt
and man a wandering tadpole later is true to Genesis;
and the story goes no further,
for all are now entrapped in an exodus of nations
with the genesis of globalisation.

Right captain, in people we cannot trust?
What Is that smell?

Cut the crap this is planet hell.
Dogs sniff butts of girl dogs men sniff butts of girl dogs also...

He would do a ****** donkey if no one watched then cheat on his wife take off to Reno with the bosses wife.

Run with the money let's go to south America. Cheat steal lie **** up the system before some dope does

Leave nothing left for the children of tommorow. Let them suffer in land fills of sorrow.
Toss more trash around puking bums ****** young girls uptown

The Catholic priest hates the cannon law of 1982 when the Pope was ashamed of me and you...

The nuns play bingo in the hall
While alter boys ******* in the bathroom stall

Emancipation proclamation was the quest of Playboys centerfold
Hue Hefner is still the hero some hate to say... Now most have grown old and gone astray...

Now internet ***** has taken hold?
These times will pass unto a stranger day...

The golden rule has rusted away...

D. Clare

i'll write my german like my father soap operas his english, mangled, and disturbed... i mean grossly misjudged.. i mean like: did anyone really understand him? they must have since he now has a house... but then i was too lazy to begin with... which is nice, to begin with... i mean: that nice: clap clap... clap clap... all i need is a hope for encore... it's Borat pseudo Kazakh nice... i mean, i can speak the most perfect assimilation tongue for my host nation and end up on the street... just like i might become the ****** argument in germany... where i actually left my docier... now i love to write a bit of dangling ******* in german, dunno, maybe the pole in me felt like it... thankfully no knows jackshit about Polish history, or Mongolian history after Genghis Khan, therefore i'm not prone to a phobia of repeating historical demands! i mean: who the **** remembers John Casimir in the anglophone world?! umm... no one?! hurrah! we get the blond penguin tuxedo quiff juggernaut into power... but allah'u akbar... it wasn't the playboys of Dubai!

nein!
du kann nicht eine
  zivilisiert brutus,
mit verschwendenvolk
führ hyänewirbeln....
ja... art sortieren kindsouffle
wie mehrsaga...
   hinweis papa-pauß?
deine ein sauer antlitz...
ein fuchs-hyäne: herablassend,
trocken- nordpol otto theodor,
                 ein! sú!

i basically write the broken limb tongue my father speaks
on a construction site...
          i mean he speaks out of time, and sometimes
out of place...
   and every time i write his invoice i am
left heart relieved, had i a romance: i've be broken.
                        but the funny thing is,
i write this ******* and i can't even own a coffee machine
having said it...
             he speaks pish-boor english and gets a house,
a t.v. and a car....
      i write this perfect assimilate english and get
a postcard from australia: thanks, move here.
                   i'd hate to imitate the jew and turn to be
a nomad...
               but globalisation evidently demands that of me...
   it just gets boring after a while,
with all these needs and Neds trying to compete,
i just want to end up failing with fireworks...
become god at the age of 33...
                     and **** the rest of it if i should live
to be 66...
                        ah, come on man,
show some veterinary bias...
            some cult, some basis and futurism without
a regressive attitude... give the dauch the scoop...
and the lady her pooch pouch of vogue!
                  ah, then you're like me
talking german, like my father talking english...
perfectly... via fuchs-hyäne: perfect to the laugh
defining night; or licken-icken:
          für deutsche! über alles: für deutsche!
do brody, byczo jest! und nichts est!
               nienen warschau mitteklasse!
schwarz zirkusegen schatten: krächzen!
                pirdolony or-zełek twy... hujnia i motywa
      na badziewie.... mówi: matka... a potym... kórwa.
ha ha ha ha ha ha!
a po co ty i ten cymbał azjatyk? ten czambo kazak
i  pierdolony cynamon?! huh?!
po jebaną plombe, kasztan, mogiła, figa i pflaume
            i śliwowice?!
Liban na odzew reszty oliwek?! pospolity ruch?
   wnikąt rzeszy! masz! masz marsz kurwa na stambuł po wnót!
Sobieski Sobieksi i na głowie szambo!
te pizdy znów ci zawrót i chęć i nadzieją dały z
          genezą na coś by początek nie smiały miał być?
   ale tak naprawde nie tu... rogiem of warszawe roku '44...
bo wszystkich zycek wybito gazem,
gina musztardowym *smrodem... senfstinken...
                    furzschreiten...
to wtedy tak naprawde to:
tak naprawde poza Warszawą to powstanie do głuchych
          oślą mową wzdycha wzbogaceniem zdobytą
                                 psim sumieniem i czekam na zdobycz
            to zwane honor i państwo... czyli
wszystko braku na uniwerku... póki braku ideału...
no ta... cerkwiew Piłsudskiego! ach ten wąs! niby Stalin!
ale brak tego romantyzmu z nad Litwy!
co ma ten sławny wąs z pod Gruzji!
już mi miód w portkach!
       na ten twój! w ochote i zamiar tchuża i
                             żacier w mgłe i proch!
jak i w papier i piasta mrok w paproć o zacier modlitw
                         i czarów!
       kłam ty oczekiwań mioteł i motyli takich fabryk
których... kochasz...  
oj oj... wmojym gardle hydra!...
                 na tyle narodów ile da sie pokrewni nadrobić
brata i siory... tak, dam te wojenke...by tańczył mi kozak!
a o tobie wspominał mnie jakiś tajny Romon zwany Wład,
Piłat ******!
             ksywa: wampir... nie wiem...
sporo drwena na maczugi... ale nie wiem po co on chciał
  tak na ostrzyć jak na ołówki... w dupy macać?

sometimes I feel too easy to play.

is that even a thing?

is it possible to be so open minded, that these playboys just run up on you,

and leave you blindsided?  

it must be,

because for every girl like me,

there's about 10 playboys
running free.

And man,
are they good at the game

of keeping us women sane,

long enough, to watch them

walk

away.

The fun I had at my new school




You see as I entered my new school, I was given the red carpet
By a friend who grabbed me by the neck and gave me tickle torture
And some of the older girls were saying keep away from me Brian Allan
And just muck with the boys, and then after that I listened to the 70s and 80s
Music on the boom box and I really wanted to hear it, he played songs from
AC/DC, and also from the red hot chilli peppers, and even the best from Billy
Ray Cyrus, and then some of the other boys spoke to me about going bowling
And others spoke to me about getting playboys, and also after that the girls
Were teasing me because I went to bed early, but I wanted to function
Well, so I can feel good and also some of the other families picked on me
Just because I was playing outside with my brother, especially when I was having fun
Playing football, you see back in my previous life, I played in the SANFL and
I don't have to worry about not playing footy in this life and I hear everybody treating
Me like an old fucken fogie, just because I want to go to bed abd get ready for work,
You see my friends are saying to me, through houses, things like, imagine what I would say
If I,,,, and he was so determined to treat me like a koomarri man,,even if I am still cool
And I know if he is still trying to tease me like that, he is living in 1987, where he is looking like a total ****** fucken ******, even if he ain't really saying it, but if he is, it just goes to show, that he is still living back in 1987, where he was actually very hip, but as a natural
Fact, dudes, I don't ever see him out, so I don't want to worry about lasers like him anymore, because, really, yes we had fun times, but, I mean, I have to move on, and if I don't see him again, well, dudes, so be it, he was fun, but I ain't jittering for him, no fucken way, I see visions of him trying to contact my brother through houses, and saying the kinds of things he said to me, he said, mate, don't be like Brian lately, I don't want to teaee Brian really, it just that he is unaware of the kind of old fogie, we treated him like, and also, I ain't a yeah mate yeah kid either, cause if he doesn't answer the phone, which I won't, it's his choice, you see, sometimes when he was young, he was too shy, and I wouldn't mind him hanging with me, but, he seemed to enjoy the family life better, but I never realised he didn't like Lyle, but, no, I don't think he is like Lyle, I want him to go to bed, because, if he works, he needs to sleep, to get rid of any sign of tiredness to face the day at work, you see, sometimes I hear my father and mother teasing me, because I am obsessed with evercise, and also I am obsessed with arty things, and I know dad isn't into art, but also Pat wasn't into art either, but I only want to muck with adults with an interest in art and not the rich ones, I am very interested in having art exhibitions showing off al, my art, and also I know what all my art is about, and a lot if it, is the fun times I had with my friends at school, I love art and I love to put on an art exhibition, and I want people to understand me for the artist I am now, and not the ****** I was in the past. I am aware that people are teasing me, but you can teaee me all you like, but who gives a flying ****, oh yeah, dudes, get ******, mate, get ****** mate yeah man, as you go down the dunny can, and that girl says, we're not mucking with you Brian Allan, no Brian Allan, we're not mucking with you, and the Canberra crowd says, your still like the kids, man,,don't try and be like us, I don't wanna do that again, neh, your still like us, ya ****** buddy, Bri,  urn, so sit there Bri,    Urn and do your stories, you see mate, your still not like us, mate, you are still an old fogie, cause you keep leaving me on my lonesome , and I will say, come on, you poor little baby, I am leaving you on your own, what's wrong little Patty, are you worried that I am not mucking with you, I went to pubs and danced with the chicks, I am still a ******, dude but I don't care, come on Patty, call me a loser, come on mate, call me a loser, come on mate, call me a loser, and then Pat says, I might kidnap him in a minute, but It was only Pats voice, in fact, it was Steven Bradley, who
Noticed my last life, Graham Thorne, jittering for his sister like a boy, and Steven Bradley has kept me in, so I wouldn't be a young dude, you see he went, trying to be a young dude, trying to be a young dude,,trying to be a young dude, cause you are still a ****** man,
So sit there, Bri.   Urn and don't move a muscle, you ain't a young dude anymore, so u don't want to tease you Bri. Urn, I just want you to lighten up a bit, because, get ****** buddy, yeah yer mate, your like us, but I might yell out get ****** Brian every time he jitters from now on, especially at work, but he is allowed to have music on, but, you know, mate, we ain't really teasing him, and  don't want to tease him, by ringing him up, cause I have a hunch that he gathers it might have been me, who rang him up, but, mate he wasn't like Lyle then,,but I was treating him like a mummys boy, because he is too shy to leave him home, but I heard that he might've moved out when I rang him up,,  I the hell would I know, we don't see much of each other much, you see, jt's nice to live on our own, but you should still go to bed when your tired, and you should make new friends,, and yes, you should talk about cooler things than just about people, but really, we just don't really want you to tell us your life story, but if you a creative keep it up, we're adults now, your cool


Sent from my iPhone

Wally and I would race
Fulfilling our childhood task
Collecting office papers for fire.

One of us: your office.
Grabbing your wastebasket first—
Looking for fobidden pleasure treasure.

Around the fire pit,
Forms 623-A and 506-D were flames.
Miss July? We claimed!

Up in the hay-loft,
Buried in the way-back,
*** caches established.

Thanks to Amazon,
A thought I think upon:
My dad read SERIOUS SOCIAL ****!

It wasn't always all about ***.

Dreaming Bob Wills

Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys performed
my life in a six song set in Tulsa
in late forty-seven.  Only a dream but they swung
through San Antonio Rose and Don't Be Ashamed of Your Age,
Tiny, Kelso, Smokey, Johnny and Herb playing it
*****, *****, Tommy crooning
my ups and downs and Bob,
who put a fine point
on an uneven performance
with his running commentary of high “ahh ha's”.

Oh, don't get mad or upset.
When you hear these words  one of many.
Playboys operate this way.

And many women volunteer freely to play a role.
And its of titles , we all know.
Doctors, businessmen, politicians and policemen and others.

Some ladies living under this belief that physical desires will hooked them.
While never understanding they are just a thrill to them.
Because they one of many.

One leaves and another comes.
A thirsty man just hungry for more.

A fool lives blindly in this world.
Especially if they don't comprehend they are one of many of his girls.

He loved me
and that set me free
In account of my flaws
he embraced my claws
I attacked and I fought
all in response to gifts he brought
He loved me
but I didn't love him

We fought and we had silence
while trying to build resilience
But the world is cruel
and a lot like high school
I wanted to give you more
but I had nothing more in store

There's always new stock in the market
Beautiful men have always ben on my docket
I thought wed have a chance at forever
but the inevitable is never

Playboys and drinks
spinning in cycle like the roller rink
I've let you go now
but I'm not sure I know how
I wanted this to last
but our feelings were vast

that's the girl
that makes playboys fall in love
and committers think twice

.well... if they have been circumcised... but do not succumb to ramadam, or anything hebrew... in a secular world, with the feminist movement... if they're not akin to eunuchs... they're certainly *****-whipped... playboys... and that doesn't imply a positive connotation in any respect for whatever it might counter-intuitively imply for the audience of, one, one who might benefit from such an association.

or maybe i just don't appreciate how
women fiddle about with
an uncircumcised phallus...
how's that?
               how about i tell them:
i can ******* much better
than you will ever **** me off...
how's that?
  clearly...
             it almost requires a reminder
via f.g.m.,
concerning the know and
"whereabouts" of *******...
clearly!
          clearly?
  because this is not some *******
jack-in-the-box yanking game...
retards...
         i'm not sorry...
        only one *******
becided to play back the predicament
on me...
******* on: *******...
peeling back the *******: ***...
what's... the... "problem"?
     **** me... van gogh chopped
off his ear akin to st. peter...
i guess jesus christ was also
faced with the same predicament
as i am:
         the caduceus protruding veins
enveloping the *******...
but in all honesty...
with or without the *******...
all of them would yank at it like
some ******* mongol
attempting to skin a yack...
not fun...
               i can pull it back you know...
but no! oh no!
they didn't have any of it...
yanked on it like it was
a ******* plastic serpent thing...
maybe i should have tried
going to a homosexual:
sure as **** i knew what to do with it,
sure as ****: they didn't,
even the prostitutes...
maybe circumcising the females
while keeping the males
uncircumcised would be the worth
of gravity in teaching ***
to these ******* camel jockeys...
'cos' clearly...
    simply circumcising the men
is not helping...
    numbed phallus heads...
numbed cognitive constraints
with no allowance for empathy...
unless the hebrew imbued concern
for fear for the lax...
   instituted by a deity...
       or the ears...
how about we snippet the eye-lids?!
how's that?
             Onan: yes oh grand one...
but i have my ******* on...
you're looking at you with me looking
too, implying:
but i'm pretty sure you were not
born, circumcised, were you?
oh... you were?
  not ears, no nose, no lips...
no eyelids?
              well... well well well...
how about i help you
              to revise the, "situation"?
i guess all the men i ever talked
to were given the hebrew snippet...
and yet... being given it...
they never applied any religous rules
to made advent from the advantage /
disability - highest moral fabric,
i.e. subsequently unable to *******...
no *******: no jerking off...
             but she has *******...
and a web-cam and a *****...
     my oh my: what double standards!
stop circumcising men
without giving them
   a religious grandwork of rules...
and then... watch...
  giving back to them the *******,
and their already waiting:
                                 secular inheritance...
jordan peterson's self-help
rules for life?
  ah, ah, ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
last time i heard,
most of the men on the north american
continent were circumcised,
right?
      at least that's what
***** movies show off...
    how about less of the self-help
*******, and more of the ******* back?