philosophia est scio nihil, continuum timor et taedium ego: actus automaton: in excelsis hospes.

in england the ad hominem principle
is easily brushed aside,
someone might have something
interesting to say, even though
all would agree to an abhorrence
in terms of moral relativism
which is an abhorrence-in-itself,
why make anything apart from
space & time relative? people change,
get with the grooves and your
free will and your freedom to commit
mistakes...
in england the ad hominem principle
is a farce... it doesn't exist...
that's why the english can't philosophise,
they can sing, but they can't philosophise,
because instead of ad hominem
we have the principle *ad populo,
yeah, i'm an apologist of heidegger,
it took me 2 years and several other
books in between to finish his being and time,
because i believed he was onto something,
and the argument against him
on the principles of ad hominem is deflected
toward argumentation ad zeitgeist,
yet in england engaging with controversy
of the times is curbed and censored
by the principle ad populo, i.e.:
to the people.

I could give you an emotional catharsis cavorting a chorus between pleasure in my prose

and upheld distortions in the pain of the throws of each moment I've held up to my nose

to tell if I can still recall it fresh, the scent of the locker room ribbings and hometown chiding's

"This is who you must be"

Make you come to grips with the absurdity of having to compete for attention to voice in a craft that

is by all intents and purposes subjective

much as all success is subjective

much as all states of mind are subjective

much as I tried to deflect this disconnect, correlation not implying causation

Work not determining happiness

Pain not conducive to Catharsis.

Instead, let's make em all laugh

Because it's already stacked into a sick joke

Speaking truth to power self congratulators talk about field workers like a **** case study

A case study my grandparents walking with Cesar Chavez wrote pages for with their backs

I  don't want to hear more trustafarian folks tell me about the struggles of my people

No.

I want poor folks to tell me how full of **** I am

I want to shout out truth bombs to a crowd that doesn't want to hear it

I want be a contrarian to remind people that they're alive

I want to rap battle with the parishioner as he lays another childhood friend into the coffin

Car Crash, Car Crash, Leukemia, Car Crash, always take my golden ones, have another road rash
You gave me thoughts of god distraught I locked myself atop the lofts compelled to pressure, mom and pops have got the answer down on lock, I'll hail thee mary full of grace til I can't feel another trace, the news that I was read today was sad so I can pray the shame away, get *****, take the blame away, get *****, touch myself again to make me feel like I'm a man, but I don't know what that should mean; if I'm a man am I unclean? ***** Mexican poor boy, embrace that ****, and crack a smile.  Depression is a myth you see, and god is real so follow me. You have a healthy fear in you, and this is good for this is true, the fear of god, the fear of love, the fear of judgment from above, and fear to let yourself be heard, you couldn't say a single word, the fear of if she'd ever know, the fear to let your demons go, the fear of hope, the fear of help, I think you even fear yourself.

"Parce domine Parce Populo tuo, ne in aeternum irascaris no bis"

Oh lord please let me be misunderstood, please let my illumination and voice go beyond the choir

I don't need a bunch of yes men in my life

I don't need people who've never tasted death, tasted pills uncounted and unmarked

Never woken up groggy to the feeling of "thank you what forces may be, I am still alive"

I don't need to preach to the choir.

there's always that trailing off i get when i write,
oh god, whiskey is a ******...
    it drags you like a mermaid to the depths,
i start to feel an anchor in my mind
even though my heart is steady-numb...
   and i evidently become slightly dyslexic...
  but hey! what can you do:
     either drink and be miserable,
  or drink and unfold with terrible spelling at
the end of a session... and feel shame the next
day, having seen the outpouring
from the previous night...
      better still... i could recommend tending to
a small vine-patch...
and like me: taking a break from whiskey once
a year and drinking your own produce...
    unless of course you have a local turkish shop
nearby that sells out-dated beer
  at half the price... let me tell you:
that's ****** marvelous... nothing like
out-dated beer... it's right up there with the rollercoaster
and the kick! my my! it's so sudden...
      but it hits the spot,
all the disorientative effects of mushrooms:
without excess Dali lodged in your eyes...
so yeah, out-dated beer... double the trip...
but today is different, i have about 30 litres of
home-made wine just ready to be drunk,
   i've downed one bottle and i'm running
errands with the next... but i'm not miserable
in that i'm washing away my sorrows...
the funny thing about making your own wine
is that once you drink it: you celebrate...
you start to think about all the effort you put
into making it... how you picked the grapes from
the vine, how you squashed the grapes,
how you stood bedazzled by melting sugar
        in a little bit of water over the stove
(and how it started looking very much like
heavy water, or mercury, but see-through) -
and how you sniffed the stench of yeast,
and then waited for a month or so for the ****** thing
to take up strength...
   and now you're drinking it...
                    oh yes... wine in essex is very much
agreeable... and my my: i am really celebrating this
endeavour... it's not as fake as going to the shop
and buying a bottle of wine... i am drinking
my own work... i am celebrating, there's no god
or omen in the world that can tell me otherwise...
    i waited a year for this, well: two...
i don't know what happened last year, i mistimed...
the grapes froze, there was a sudden surge of frost
and i was really upset because of it, 2 years ago
i was drunk like a skunk for several days
and wrote some poems in between,
      and put my own wine on the christmas table,
but since i was ****** for so long, i could only
showcase one bottle...
      well they do say there are spirits out there,
and i must say: wine, esp. your own really is
the veritas, as the saying goes: in vino veritas...
    bring it back to whiskey, or Ms. Amber as i like
to call her... she's not sour, and she's pulverising,
so she's no friend of the tongue... in case you're wondering
i'd like to call herr goebbels right now...
         but can you feel a shame of having misspelled a word
drunk, because your hands started to feel
   a bit like a daddy longlegs with one or two legs missing?
in terms of the keyboard...
what are the prime digits?
right hand: ******* - ****! now my hands feel conscious
of me talking about them...
middle and thumb (for the spacebar) -
   index finger for the opening bracket (  
pinky finger for the enter button -
                 to make room for the next line -
which makes me wonder about my left hand,
it would appear that i'm left handed when before
the keyboard -
   the main provocators are the index
middle and... surprise surprise! the ring finger!
the left hand thumb sometimes does
                       use the space bar also...
the the right hand ring finger is hardly used...
i remember watching my doctor type at a keyboard once...
a bit like a crow pecking... it went like this:
index (right) index (left)
    index (right) index (left)
               index (right) index (left) - it was agony...
it was a bit like standing at a supermarket cashier with
an old lady in front of you, buying butter and milk
and talking for an hour while counting her change...
   ageism? no! just your typical life-bound comedy of
how the stats stack... we spend this many years in traffic...
and my, the hand thing...
       yep, next thing you'll - aha! there is the ring-finger
utility in the right hand after all - it comes with words
that come shortened, i.e. you'll... the ' mark,
and also the backspace button...
                  i was going to say: (the shift button?
pinky owns it) - as the great kabbalists have this fetish
of looking at your hands, it's worthwhile to note down
this geography of the keyboard...
   they'd just point at the indententions of the hand
and spew words out like: girdle of venus...
     malkhut (silent h) -
                 which brings to mind:
   we already know the name is silent,
  since you might be served an indian dish called
dhal... and in fact you would be served such a dish,
but you'd only say you ate daal... or dāl...
then again that's also true with the pedant puritan
who'd note it as: dhāl... which is funny that this isn't
merely coincidental... a language that doesn't
use diacritical marks, and has a third arm sticking out
of it in terms of what letters remain silent (but are
inserted into words nonetheless), and a concentration
of the same rubik's "cube" akin to y and w...
      y and i are so close! you can almost feel them pushing
together, or giving birth to something!
  why?! why?!
                         (insert snigger)... drunk humour:
it gets the better of me sometimes...
   so yes, that thing about kabbalists and the hand thing,
other words could be included, like: keter,
               bina(h),             gevura(h),  
strangely enough Hod...   tiferet (what a beautiful word),
    yesod....     chok(h)ma(h)...   chesed...
netzach! hey! surfing u.s.a., i think i'll bring my banjo
to sniff out whether i'm part of the scene:
dangle dangle plop plop... ah poo...
                   p pi po'h...           and last weekend
we had snow... it scared the bejesus out of people
for a while, but things returned to normal nonetheless...

- interlude -

the tyranny of being conscious...
long recognised by eastern philosophy and the practice
of meditation...
  to be away from me...
        and they do so, splendid,
and then all toward vanity, given you're forced
into dreaming... so even when you're not even
conscious... i.e. unconscious...
   you're being fed a dream...
  and however disroted that you in the dream
is... there's still you...
oddly enough: if i make thinking = dreaming
   i can honestly say: i wish i dreamed more
than i thought... me not a mighty oratory gob
after all...
            evidently doing hallucinogenics
   was to excavate the dream into the waking hour...
and that's how i'll leave this interlude,
   i just imagine andy warhol testifying about fame
at the opera...
   or that's me bound to watching:
   alain de botton... or what does need diacritical
marks: alain dé bóttą...
                        dé bóttą... the art of travel,
                    on the QE2...    
      dé bóttą! oh the marvel, French of all languages
is nasal and glottal! when speaking Polish you
might as well be talking in razors...
                  Greek and lisp, English and Cockney rhyme...
and the lost trill of the R... R hollowed out...
                and once again to modern times:
the imperial march (darth vader's theme) vs.
     beethoven's 9th symphony...
                                                             tra la la -
both as universally acknowledged as the sound of
a ****... and perhaps a pigeon's coo-woo
                                                                                       -

...the interlude actually contains what ignited me to
write... drinking aside, but drinking too...
   in all too a great happiness that somehow i live
a life that asks for narrative minimalism,
               i can say: and in between i did **** all,
i thought profanity was necessary,
            and how i'd wish i'd have written a epic
like don quixote... but then i thought: keep it real,
keep it real... av a laugh...
                           i'll probably taste the sour from the wine
sometime soon, once the narrative becomes a Gobi
and i get worked about the eventual loss of
   a carpe diem quickie...
                           but it's still there, for the moment...
        and having realised that: it's gone.
               and i did say:
    by the personnae principle, in line with not writing out
a Tolstoy, i have to admit that i never know
who i encounter in my exploits...
            and there is a personnae principle at work here,
it's not Shakespeare, that much i know,
   it's the practice of personnae incorporation that
does away with: and Titus said:
                                      veni! vidi! vendredi!
(oi oi, enough of the French static, ya ponce!)
          so that's that, poetry has come to resemble
   modern art... given the personnae principle
we have done away with all the intricacies of
        writing a Shakespearean play...
Titus - lo!
   Anthony - a plum tree!
                          as a person competent with narratives
i ask for all people to leave the building...
   a pit of tongues i might also add...
      populo in singuli!       ah freckles and ash...
it has to be: pertaining to the vulgate...
   nothing better than speaking illiterate latin ol' boy...
  a bit like richard brautigan
writing the pill versus the springhill mine disaster -
there the buds of the concept personnae (without clear
indication that we are dealing with a crowd,
so no memorable quote or character, the narrator
is trying to keep his **** together, pardons for the laziness
and lack of indicative marks that there are actually
more people in the room than could be expected...
me and drunk me make up a thousand crude-essentials
as to what is intended to imply: having a good time) -
    sometimes poetry is just that: a quickened code for
acting, albeit without any character-study,
        or diet, or paparazzi...  and it's so quick... you've
watched a movie like a mosquito lived its life and you're
writing the credits...
       like richard brautigan wrote that poem -
      when you take your pill
           it's like a mine disaster.
       i think of all the people
      lost inside of you.
richard brautigan! richard brautigan!
this is the mine disaster company, over!
         yes, we number 34 souls in total.
       and there's your thesis! it must be hard to
write "poetry" and never, not once: experience
the Styx in your travels, the pit of tongues,
         or the personnae principle...
              always bound to rigid narrative constructs,
alway having an aliby with a 'he said it!'
          it must get horrid sometimes,
   living that life of a puppeteer / narrator -
     never really drunk with pesky humour -
       never once enjoing a wicked thought -
        a meddle on the omnius frivolity of life...
but personally? i find it almost bewildering that
of all the ancient Greek gods... Hades was homeless...
that's before Hades was a noun designating a place,
a realm... i just find it hard
to believe that of all the gods, Hades didn't have a temple...
    the only god from ancient greece that didn't
have a temple... sure, they had a statue of him,
  but there was no temple to see to benediction...
now i really think i've over-stepped it...
                     the wine is imploring me to end this
polyphonic nonsense, and think of a monophonic
sound of a woodpecker... relax... think of the sound
when wood is chopped...
      relax... forget this circus of what could be
described as a theoretical exploration of a schizophrenic
symptom... think of a monty python sketch...
        calm



                                                                                 .

"Tu solus puer, non solum tenebris est, et mori pro populo. Fortis puer es, sed ego sum ultra vires; Ego in finem, et venerunt tibi"

"You are alone child, there is only darkness for you, and death for your people.
You are strong child, but I am beyond strength; I am the end, and I have come for you."

i'm trying to think of a greater joy than that
of: drinking cheap wine
in the form of kalimotxo...
i'm trying to think: so much for thinking:
let alone trying...
i was doing some gardening today
since the weather allowed it to be done...
trimmed the evergreen bush...
this other Japanese bush of tenderness...
mowed the grass...
and by some "miracle" of absent-mindedness
i managed to cut the cable...
the fuses in the house popped out...
flicked them back on...
i wasn't "there": had to cut the cable
expose the copper wiring
and "connect the dots"...
   absent-mindedness: guilty of cognitive
negligence...
why? well a wire usually has two streams...
one encased in blue rubber
one encased in brown rubber...
what did i do?
technical man... ha...
i fiddled the two streams together...
the arteries with the veins: as it were...
the fuses popped out once more...
mind you: rarely can an appliance break:
if you first check the plug fuse...
the **** thing comes back to life:
regardless...
an unbelievable faux pas...
first encase the blue copper wiring...
exclusively... then encase the brown
copper wiring... and then...
bundle the two together...
but... since this was a demand of chores:
i was most probably thinking
about the joys of cheap wine...
i've tried it: the more expensive the less
joy in it...
perhaps i was thinking about that
Turkish ******* and... how...
she'll be gone in a year's time... perhaps more...
will i wait that long...
another hour with her:
i'll even bring her a signed copy
of a book of verse i published...
i'll get to the bottom of knowing her name...
drinking cheap wine
is a bit like riding a bicycle in the night:
or walking into the forest: also at night...
esp. when it's autumn and its dry
and the leaves murmur a polyphony
or rustle... crunch... hell: if ol' baldy is there
too in the sky... and you catch glimmers
of him through the branches that
begin to resemble cobwebs with your
one eye squinting...
just now, though...
i came across a video...
'the great gaming crisis' - thinking-agape...
not judging: men still in their 30s playing
consoles...
my last memory of gaming came
in the form of PS1: final fantasy seven...
tenchu... metal gear solid...
i wanted a PS2 so badly...
dead end...
eh... the odd spell of Rome Total War...
or Medieval Total War...
but even that fizzled out...
having invested in vinyl...
and more music... it's all music...
an old mix tape: where i surrendered
to "guilty pleasures"... mostly pop...
i'm a sucker for pop:

manfred mann - doo wah diddy diddy
the monkees - i'm a believer
joan jett - i love rock & roll
the rembrandts - i'll be there for you
phantom planet - california
sixpence none the richer - kiss me
suzanne vega - luka
madonna - beautiful stranger
eagle eye sherry - save tonight
leonard cohen - take this longing
belinda carlisle - heaven is a place on earth
deep blue something - breakfast at tiffany's
the cranberries - dreams
the connells - 74 75
4 non blondes - what's going on
leonard cohen - in my secret life...

drinking cheap wine might be deemed a guilty
pleasure...
for all the riches in the world...
give me all the emptiness of the head
and all the stone-grip of the heart...
what's the alternative?
stay sober: play video games...
it's hardly a reciprocation within the confines
of backgammon...
i tend to never touch chess:
su doku... that's me:
no room for crosswords...
i'm playing a game of stalemate with words
as we speak: i don't need clued avenues of
dictionary / encycloepedic entries...

no... i don't want to be a Buddha story:
to have it all and then give it up...
me? i want a trickle of having it all:
but at the same time: not having it...
a rare injection of: the banality of the carnal...

besides... what scene of horror gripped me
most?
in Amsterdam i spent an afternoon
with two Germans...
we went back to the hostel... an Egyptian armed
with a bottle of Absolut ***** and a joint...
i spent the next day with him...
he smoked... i drank beer...
he introduced me to Le Trio Joubran
and gave me a single **** of a joint...
while putting headphones into my ears...
my jaw dropped and i sat there
mesmerized by the abyss that my self
had become...
i must have looked like a ****** *****
i saluted a girl with a V (not for 5 or peace...
V for: i'd like that oyster... very much)
she sat there in awe:
no bigger awe that i was in...
we walked back to the hostel while i laughed
in the street...
those two Germans?
me and this Egyptian: an architecture student:
great at cartoon doodling...
we looked at each other with horror...
in the dark lit room...
the two Germans just ingested some
mushrooms and...
   ended up... watching American Dad cartoons
on the t.v.

- you heard stories from London about stabbings
and idiotic cyclists playing the wild card of
solipsists en route to something unimportant...
headphones in...
eye in the back of my head...
the thrill of the roundabout... always looking
out for a speed ticket...
usually an ambulance...
or just gagging for something than might
**** me... the momentum of a large
truck... always exposing myself from
the thrill of the blind-spot... swerving into
the eye-sight of the driver in the mirror
on the outside of the lane...
large gear into 3... small gears beginning at
3 working through to 6 for a sensation
of cruising in a convertible at night...

the bulging sensation of having a pulse...
in the legs and in the constraining sensation
of the torso being endowed with muscle...
watching the first proper summer
lightning and thunderstorm...
watching how the rain turned to hale...

underworld: born slippy...
if only i had the sort of chemical nostalgia
surrounding the end of the 20th century...
lucky me if she'll offer some angel dust
to sniff... she'll disappear in a year's time:
i'm not going to give up
that sort of ******* any time soon...

it's all true what William Burroughs is known
for having cited:
never a wasted moment with cats...
they'll dream for me...
dogs? that ******* leash...
and... toilet hours...
cats like plants: they can entertain themselves...
they don't need to be recognised
as cats... as pets... as hierarchical cretins...
although: children should be raised with
dogs if they don't have siblings...
cats come later... much later:
when the peers have hammered in
a preservation construct of their genes...
waiting game before child becomes
the automated self-fulfilling will:
how soon: sooner than never those...
happy pictures of having offspring will...
fizzle out...

i could sometimes be bound to watching old
movies while admiring the beauty of
seemingly ancient actresses...
then came a moment in my life where:
i stashed enough memories
for them to become a cinema:
while i played the leading role...

and as i aged: i became less and less angry
with youth... i stopped being the
"angry young man":
my anger was rooted in youth: per se...
perhaps i'm tinged with melancholy now...
but i'm hardly the repressed-depressed
reflex symptom carrier:
i like the romance of the melancholic
reflection... i don't know the i.q. scrutiny of
my sense of humour:
given i'm inclined to laugh at impromptus
that don't deserve much thought:
innuendo... or whatever you want to name it...

a scuttle for truths from advertisement:
this is why i don't like international football...
this is why i prefer club football...
i don't want to belong to some "whole":
so "entirety" when all it is: is a game of 22 ballerinas
kicking about a guillotine dead of
****** into: sensibly done...

now... me sober occupied with gaming or me...
drinking scribbling this...
best case scenario:
i'll be choking on my ***** of happy Cheerios:
oh look... here's a loop... here's another loop...
here's a cut-back...

come 2am i will leave life encrusted with all
the necessary impromptus:
because... this load of bollocking (on my part)
will still preserve itself as being: best left alone...
unscripted...
which is why i wondered: what of the tenacity
of these actors... their gargantuan gloat...
oh... right... they're only so because
they have been... scripted...
i am the antithesis of actor...
i'm looking for my whip-tongue from time to time...
i can't find it... if i were an obnoxious woman
in need of soap-opera company i'd be on
the ready...

       last time i heard...
a small dog barks...
a large dog... bites...
a wolf can't bark...
what am i... a barker... a howler...
or a biter?
never mind...
i see it as follows:
i'll cycle and spare myself the excess
calculation of the 20 odd mile
from the outer-reaches of what's
considered London...
into Hyde Park...
i'll drop to the height of pansies...
wrap my legs around my bicycle frame...
and drink a bottle of Merlot lying
back... sipped through the side of my mouth...
like a drip... drip... drip...
i've... had enough!

i'll expect myself to be peered at...
better that than... imitating
voyeurism not expected in a brothel...
to be seen is to be:
in some, questionable... heights of Frankish thought...
well... let it be known that i might be seen...
to hell with the whims of pissy-pants ms. chastity
who later feigns a lost "free-will"
among the... Pakistani abusers...
to hell with her:
give me the ol' raven haired Turkic woman!

wine wine more wine!
i don't want to hear another iota's worth
of a woman's whining!
and now the grave warm with
her expectations...
you bring women to the fore...
you can't expect the war to end:
any time soon... esp. this... "culture war":
death by proxy...
to hell with it...
           a war: a supposed war
where: no one dies... but everyone else
i numb-skulled senseless seeking out
positively-passive narratives...

i like the idea of cycling behind a greater
momentum than i can ever have...
behind a truck of concrete behind a truck
of ash...
behind a truck of solipsistic dunces coming across
the altar of sacrifice...
so far so good: concerning my wedding with
death... tight grieving ***** with tattoos of dates
and all her: crocodile tears...
almost as if a mother that...
no... sooner a sister i'd want to ****...
because: all that's good feels false...
and all that's evil is a conundrum of thinking
too much about, it...

all that same **** different cover
moral lingo...

mistletoe: a variation of: cancer:
botanical cancer...
i'll be feeding my sleeper cancer cells
some poison a while...
all those trees coming up to Warsaw
equipped with afro-bundles of
jemioła...

unlike dogs: dogs recognise drunks...
dogs don't allow drunks to get: tender...
cats? eh... a drunk will pass them by
with smooches...
my grandfather was a drunk...
and a solipsistic fiend...
my grandmother knew...
now she's happily widowed:
but my mother has this pristine
effigy of her father that...
boils under my skin...
that's simply not true...
the problems started when he retired...
and the entire shift of
the satellite-state post-Soviet
metallurgy industry came to a halt...

for the love of dogs: but not the leash
or the muzzle...
i can disown a concern for either
in the domain of the bonsai tigers:
i can: and since i can: i will!

cheap wine... nothing comes close:
except... relapses into spineless love
being adorned with an hour's worth
with a *******...
two bottle of red wine...
lord of mosquitos: nameless...
give me more!
between the cling to climbing mt. Everest...
and second sights of looking
at a naked body of a woman...

chase the tides!
put a stick into a river and will
a change of flow!
i'll go twice mad
looking at this altar before
i'm even once alive: therefore twice dead...
it's not her raven hair..
her ****** contorts when she follows
up on ******* with a kiss...
may i sacrifice her hands:
before the ice and the fire...
hands: one knuckle "short"...
it took me 4 years sleeping: bypassing my libido
to "somehow" suddenly wake up...

that old thirst for... underperforming yet
all that body that's heat...
toward Hyde Park...
drinking a bottle of wine while...
reclining: i'm not denying the fact
that certain words rhyme...
ancient Roman poets weren't lyricists...
they were: prosaic masters...

   scurror ego ipse mihi, populo tu:
rectius hoc et splendidius multo est.
   equos ut me portet, alat rex,
officium facio: tu poscis vilia -
           verum dante minor, quamvis fers te
nullius egentem...

utrius horum verba probes et facta, doce,
vel iunior audi...

i, joker unto myself i am,
but you unto the people;
i live better, moreover lightly,
a steed by the will of the lord lifts me :
the king feeds...
you, thus... begging...
        lash out and so tow horribly...
you are the sire... without...
needs...

no one is expected to sing these words...
2000 years from now:
i presume them to be cited:
once... the English tongue comes across
an impossible transformation:
that this here: now... tongue...
becomes... unrecognisable...
like Latin is to the modern amore! amore! Italian...
no?

  between the sight of the mountain:
or the sea... my death... and the sight of a body of
a naked woman...
i will forever cling to the latter:
starve me some more!
more! but don't expect me to be the pawn
in the supposedly sufficient "games"...

that i grieve these stones
and a softness i hardly begin to fathom as:
welcome... that my words are the illuminations
of a chapter lost...
a paragraph first written...
i will not allow time to be kind...
i will want time: to... shackle me toward
an unforgiving tide...
drown my sorrows in the croaking
of the priesthood of crows!
come i resurrected:
with any eye that's worth a
clepsydra's libra.

litany of the Church of the Ecstatic Coma
I was playing pinkie dinkie
with next door Suzie Woozy
her father was a CIA spy catcher
with a big spy catcher mitt
try not to leave town he warned
you are someone's project
come here Sweetchops she coos
you get your molasses rubdown today
I sizzled like a Siberian shashlik
skewered with the awe in awkward
their witchy priestess had smoked me out
her tongue slid down to my sternum
the boys from Central Scanning drooling again
going all area focus on the ****** pixels
her teats were wheels of fortune
I had no choice but to place my bet
You're quite attractive I lied
I've heard it before she lied
at that point it could go either way
what else can you show me she teased
having hesitated too long I went for the guts
I wanted take out she wanted road ****
let's do it daddy-o she tugged
and plunged a foot of sharpened rebar
into my 3rd eye
this is your song she hissed
her hips slowly grinding coffee
a Gobi princess half horse half bowstring
ten ****** on her team as a handicap
like Venus disarmed by wit
horrifically stuffy may I and do you mind
threw me to the rabid chihuahuas
guarding the Temple of Loud Delights
the other church goers heard the commotion
I immediately checked my utensil
and the dish ran away with the spoon
to the Babylonian nuns of St. Thuggurash
protectors of women on bar stools
gave their coyote yell and he was cured
of his ****** extravaganzas
no more dancing harlots and magicians
no more leg ******* the Delphic Floozie
counseling instead Chinese all you can eat
with a band of handy mandarins
their cleavers gleaming
asleep at the foot of his bed
a plate of pasta for a pillow
avanti il populo
**** the menace go play

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon