Martin Narrod  just now
I started working on a comment in response to "Filling A Bottle With A Tundish"

Sadly I must admit, that even for an American with a college degree, who is a self-proclaimed non-Philistine that grew up in a suburb of Chicago, IL. Where I'm from I've been told is much like some parts of Sussex(I believe it's Sussex), my friend Lili Wilde described it to me on an occasion.

So I must say martin, that for having a voracious appetite for language, language of all sorts, from **** to sin, to cinephile to cynosure, pulchritude to tup, exsuphlocate to masticate, irate, irk, perfervid, wan ewes thwapping their tails, nearly stridulating like the cricket in the thistle. The advanced undulate troche of domesticated shadows, and the sesquipedelien dulciloquent surreptitious diction and other floccinaucinihilipilification and tomfoolery about.

martin, please do tell me what a 'Tundish" is? If you haven't yet, there is a phenomenally interesting reverse dictionary, entitled onelook.com/reversedictionary , and quite contrary as it may seem, and for all the Virginia & Leonard Woolf I enjoy reading, especially his somewhat innocuously underrated novella he wrote, I also read with extraordinary gratitude Ted Hughes's The Birthday Letters, Take of a Bride Groom, The Complete Works, Sylvia Plath's Unabridged Journals, Ariel, Johnny Panic, Ariel, and other poems by writer Richard Matthews. I am still unfamiliar with this word, Tundish. Online dictionaries don't give the best explanation.

As I was mentioning earlier. The OneLook Dictionary-Reverse, will let you for example, search: beach sand. And in response it will give you up to thousands and thousands of word which relate to those two words, together, seperately, and opposing each other. Such as: water, swell, wave, arenose, peat, dirt, seagull, Pacific Ocean, suntan, bikini, The Beach Boys, vitrify. It's very fun indeed. From one Martin to another, I hope you'll stay in touch. I'm excited about your work!

Best Regards

Martin

P.S. The text below is the original message I typed before learning that my presumptions of you being Anglican were correct. Have a great day!

Another Martin, YES! How exquisite, I've never met another one. I have so many questions I barely know where to start. I love marigolds, nose-bags with oats, and as I started feeling the essences if equus and what lurking prurient pedagogy for the didactic zoology that took me and the mind of me to wonder perhaps if though I am quite certain(though not 100%) that your native tongue is English, but using that ridiculous skill-set of immense benality I seem to someone have, am I wrong for asking dear Martin, are you from Scotland or Wales, or maybe even from a country where you learnt English as a native tongue but it's your secondary language?

As aforementioned, there are a plethora of questions that this runnel of sludge and dross that've now arisen in the turpidity of your antiquary of delightful speech. To whomever invited me to play along in the debauchery, and dance merrily with merriment, mine younger docile succubus's slendering beside me, puking up their tissue paper and vegetable soup, so that my pretty girls can fit into Size 2 TuTu's, and learnedly imprison themselves into the tatterdemalion of portentously lurid self-****** and abuse. , and the opprobrious trollop-gossip the gaggle of my skinny victim women eschewing food groups, in order to appeal to my conservative eyes, thrice the child's wild idling to absorb the rancor of their stoic and noisome sedentary lifestyle in the polluted sudatorium that I myself don't use, but that these nonparticular Philistines would serve as Surf & Turf with glazed Christmas Hams for the Hebrews to eat, and another sad storm surge on another deserted quay of sea sands, and our vessel and our deserters, worshipping the Virunga, sacrificing the ghost skeletons of the million year old ape. So I ask you. If even you're capable of expressing yourself under the maddening yet advesperating evening listening to Miles Kane and The Arctic Monkeys, followed by listening to Black Sabbath play Fairies Wear Boots while we drink our childhoods free of the rod and **** the war out of our teenage girlfriends. And in the morning when awoken by the sound of Sopwith Camels arriving on the early, frost-strewn milky, azure-banded stripes of moonlit ecstasy that make for this unquantifiable gesture of succinct believers driving in Summer get stopped for blowing a rice-white swiveling consortium of dishonest affair rivaling ****** addicts, with hummus, plastic bags, and forks in their sphincters, while they autoerotically asphyxiate themselves in a plastic knockoff Mickey Mouse hat, and a Pirates of the Carribbean bandana wrapped around the ***** eyed nightmare of having unsuccessfully sedated a 400-lb crabby, Lowland living-room Silverback Gorilla. More than a primate and a prostate exam. It's like posthumously straining to push tingling 119° Vaseline through the grey and white coffee stirrers which spilled all over the floor while I was saying goodbye to our daughter, while also explaining to you why it's so important to me you love me back enough so that everyone has enough of a grasping glint at understanding yourself, that in managing to reason the arithmetic of such a conundrum and confusing calamity, a phone call free of dial tone happens to be surrendered to an independent Christian organization of the state while myself and my wife's two sons, our sons, Thomas and James, have enough free time from complaining to hire an attorney to disclose the arraignment reiterated by both legal council, city council, and the Screenwriters Guild of counsellors struggling from methamphetamine addiction.

Peace Be With You.

Martin Narrod
martin.narrod@gmail.com

Gwerful Mechain - (1460 - 1502)

The female genitals


Every foolish drunken poet,
boorish vanity without ceasing,
(never may I warrant it,
I of great noble stock,)
has always declaimed fruitless praise
in song of the girls of the lands
all day long, certain gift,
most incompletely, by God the Father:
praising the hair, gown of fine love,
and every such living girl,
and lower down praising merrily
the brows above the eyes;
praising also, lovely shape,
the smoothness of the soft *******,
and the beauty's arms, bright drape,
she deserved honour, and the girl's hands.
Then with his finest wizardry
before night he did sing,
he pays homage to God's greatness,
fruitless eulogy with his tongue:
leaving the middle without praise
and the place where children are conceived,
and the warm ****, clear excellence,
tender and fat, bright fervent broken circle,
where I loved, in perfect health,
the **** below the smock.
You are a body of boundless strength,
a faultless court of fat's plumage.
I declare, the **** is fair,
circle of broad-edged lips,
it is a valley longer than a spoon or a hand,
a ditch to hold a ***** two hands long;
**** there by the swelling ****,
song's table with its double in red.
And the bright saints, men of the church,
when they get the chance, perfect gift,
don't fail, highest blessing,
by Beuno, to give it a good feel.
For this reason, thorough rebuke,
all you proud poets,
let songs to the **** circulate
without fail to gain reward.
Sultan of an ode, it is silk,
little seam, curtain on a fine bright ****,
***** in a place of greeting,
the sour grove, it is full of love,
very proud forest, faultless gift,
tender frieze, fur of a fine pair of testicles,
a girl's thick grove, circle of precious greeting,
lovely bush, God save it.

I almost became alien
needing to return home
walked away with everything I went in with...
not happy just prolonged
seas of mystery and unfamiliarity

I fell through a mossy cleft
deep and well traversed
I gave up poisoned
believing that was the worse
what I deserved
nothing never owed only due

I was alien
Long ago
fighting an old hatchet wound

I knew they'd be more sightings, it looks like I was right
The day has arrived once again, where things have come to light
Shinning armour is absent, and there is no gallant knight
Oh Annette, there's only Den, and your chastity's not tight

It seems Miss Tidy has returned, she's covered a long span
**** escapades displayed again, written by a big **** fan
***** heifers filled Cow Pies, diving in like Desperate Dan
I wouldn't mind a go myself, because I am a man

Bus stops and phone boxes, seem to be your mainstream media
Your depicted as a ****, and your appetite gets greedier
Every time that you appear, your antics are more seedier
Be careful of your infamy, you'll end up on Wikipedia

What the hell is going on, you've resurfaced once again
There's no accounting for good taste, with ******* different men
I don't know if it's better ***, than your getting from old Den
Oh Annette if you get judged, it'll be a Ten from ***

Bus shelters are the place, to read about your ***
Showing intimate parts of your life, like the local multiplex
Written words like **** and ****, are nothing to perplex
It's obvious what's going on, its hardly that complex

If **** *** is preferable, if it's not just a passing whim
You can lick my exposed ****, and I'll give yours a rim
A tight *** is just as good, as a nice warm ****
Oh Annette untidy your legs, and we'll go out on a limb

**** *** excites me, but there's just one small detail
Is your *** completely free, or is your **** for sale
If you use lubrication, then it never will get stale
Naked flesh I really like, that's probably cos I'm male

If telephone boxes we're obsolete, if bus stops did not exist
Where would Annette's news be then, from the *** obsessed artist
Would he try a public lavatory, would he have a different twist
Oh Annette If writings ceased, *** stories would be missed

George Formby leaned on lampposts, but I'm not sure I'm a strummer
Unless you count a *******, and you are a heavy ******
I'll wait until you come by, for one hell of a good ******
Outside in the night light, so much better in the summer

Could you be a lovely girl, or are you an ugly *****
**** ***** and ***** *****, are just the local lingo
Oh Annette if you want ***, don't wait too long in limbo
I can do it on all fours, as well as legs akimbo

Softer holes are better wet, **** positions don't much matter
Whether it is *******, or laying a bit flatter
Certain parties can be fun, if your naked on a platter
A very happy unbirthday treat, I'd share with the Mad Hatter

Do you bite as well as ****, be rough and rarely gentle
let passion take control of you, cos I'm not temperamental
You seem to be the kind of girl, to be experimental
It makes no difference if your a ****, it isn't accidental

There's nothing wrong with ***** *****, if they are never shut
Open all hours is quite fun, when you're an **** ****
I hope you have "**** Handles", that are looming round your ****
So Annette relight my fire, I don't want my long wick cut

Come on now be daring, because you seem like an old friend
I hope your ****** preferences, are not just a passing trend
So much is known about you, with all that has been penned
If your into *** ***, then give your **** a lend

Just how many blokes you've had, well I don't have a clue
There's Den of course but now and then, you try someone new
It doesn't really bother me, if you've had quite a few
You could be in fetish films, if your backdoor is blue

Perhaps I have misjudged you, and you are a teachers pet
And everything that has been said, is something you regret
But If the rumours are all true, then I would not forget
To stuff my ***** up your ****, and I'd say oh Annette !

She was stark naked
I could see her ****
And her boyfriend had
Quite the **** on him.
His meat should have
Made him quite proud
And the lady’s ****
For crying out loud
Were perky and prominent
And quite nice to see.
Both of them seemed
To be pointing at me.

And I seemed to be
Eagerly pointing back.
They both very obviously
Aware of that one fact.
She smiled openly
And the guy broadly winked.
I started asking myself
“Do you think? He did wink!”
So, I winked and smiled
And let them see my bone
And hoped this meant I
Would not be alone.

I hoped they’d invite me
To sit on their beach towel
To slather sunscreen on them
Like a human mortar trowel.
There are not many things
There are few better for me
Than hot mixed couples
Into some fun bisexuality.
I have games for both kinds
And genders of human beings
All based on the stimulus
Of what I’m feeling and seeing.

Generally a single man
Is not lucky at this scene
A common concept that I
Always found to be quite mean.
I understand about jealousy,
An emotion foreign to me
So, I usually keep my distance
And behave circumspectly.
But when I get the go-ahead
I never hesitate very long.
How could something this good
Be considered bad or wrong?

these are but sagas for lovers and haters in love
who love to hate but are in hate with love

these poems

of couples who exist to exist
and to redefine Is

these are but stories for the sons of bleary eyed fathers
who tread the same threads across dilated garters

and heroic stoics be proud!
these are but fables of folly
and of transparent whim

of hunters’ beguilement
of huntresses’ ****

of mechanical males who practise old tricks

these are but tales of maidens and heads
of neverending aims nevertheless transfixed

these are but poems
of Envy and Trust

poems that unbe the unfair
for the sake of unlove

and while mechanical feelers probe seas of flesh dealers
and reels of film cast doubts of Enough

these are still
but poems of Trust

Warning: Explicit*

If you've read
Boys With Toys,
It should come
As no surprise,
Girls talk
Just like Guys.

Having drinks,
And having fun,
The girls
Discard the curls
To think of rhymes
For naughty lines:

You make my ****** rumba;
You make my ***** clammy;
You make my **** taut;
You make my ****** latch;
You make my **** spit;
You make my box rock;
You make my canoe coo;
You make my ****** *** sooner;
You make my **** fluff;
You make my slit submit;
You make my cooch smooch;
You make my **** swim;
You make my flower shower;
You make my toe glow.

And when the last drink
Has been drunk,
The shy girl stands
Raises her glass,
To proclaim proudly:
You make my **** grunt.
And they did.

My name is Chris
I avoid obvious rhymes
and give you just the rancid;

'We feel you have not been communicating
effectively as an employee'
poet.

So to you I said 'I'm ill'
'Care to spill?' she hisses.
'Yes' I said

My names the one burning brightly up there in the corner of the room,
'Prince and King Godber'
bearing wooden sign carved by the passion of a Norse god,
a bearded  dwarf on a throne.

She responds;
simple, ******, surreal metaphors notwithstanding I ain't slept...
Small ****? Na ****, but let's not go into it tonight,
naked.

In her dreams he's laid with a woman, wept weeping eyes, distant stare, destroyer of hope, Eastern European,a broken painter cheating,
but he didn't know till it was too late.

The Sun became black
The full moon became blood
the great mountain ran with fire

Pain. Passion, Nighttime.

'Do what thou Wilt' says the bald man and shrugs, setting a bomb off in the 20th century.

I did, I do, I do - boom boom. no one laughs.

She shouts angrily Fool, Coward, Prince
Why don't you just come dance outside
stroke away those cobwebs in your hair

so I did, ripped the cobwebs out
screamed outside, bashed my head
on concrete, tried to **** myself
once, maybe twice,
contemplated more.

Like Virginia my hidden idol. My sister in censured pain.

Knees bashed, half-cut in dead of night screaming **** this
provincial slaughterhouse, this cherryhouse
of the half dead / half ******,
merry go round and round, like Kereouc,
but twice as merry, and that's saying something.

Come and bathe yourself in my immortal ****, she bleats
'look it up in your encyclopedia of shames'
you'll just find a picture of a woman.

It's intoned meaning
It's poems,
lips tell tales,
tell them then. I dare yer to tell em.
Scream them from rooftops.

screaming eyes aglow, burning Blake fire
poet looks down with lizard eyes
you remind me of me Mum naked.
Puke. Puke, ***** on the doormat.

Violence in words,
this language is obscene
and that is why
he said she said
is gonna **** us.

Already has.

**** it, fancy overdosing yourself on abilify tonight poet?
Not a plan. Not a plan. Don't go out drowning
yourself in alcohol or life, not tonight, not tonight.
Just never.

the want for peace is as enduring
as a want for war....
imitation of machine-gun firing
whole magazins into thin air,
and even more thin, fleeting
concepts of echo...
the world, as we make it, in
the given... that hasn't exactlty happened,
and will never happen...
"hypocrite" internet crusaders...
        of that kind and of that demand....
the only undermining of man
is that he should become useless...
am i? am i? look here, a throng!
only satan borne from god asking a question,
only satan borne from god doing ? with i...
figuring it out...
only a satan borne from such: bemused
instance... and the following sentences...
women seem to only wish their men
are content in what they do...
id the men are not doing the thing intended
then they become unhappy...
   i feel i need to state i was privileged...
if i ever had to wait for a huspand
and a bouquette of tulips...
       how i will itemise, how i will check for faults,
how i'll lesion for minor errors...
and call to **** the basis for
   1... or siamese, or why we say
very little for punctuation,
and comprehend much more above the status
of a punctuation mark...
               so i am here, i have a purpose,
satan is man embedded in the world...
what the **** happened?
     it is iota, i turned into ?, rather than !,
as if happens, every time i approach
a cinema or a movie...
            what word could comfort one
when in tears, if not allah?
the jew knows the name of god,
and its comfortably too complex to blah out.
just about the time we first said
our ma-ma our pa-pa...
                   we might have said something
akin to al-lah...
                        and i'll twist and turn,
and "mould"my bodwith repeat
repeat repeat.... repeating
kiedy dzieci w świat wyrószą! -
and i, once listened to a recital,
   a young german boy, of bilingual descent,
reading be a children's book...
on a train... there... what beauty
in lament, and the take to tear....
   ah... that stance for: a man that wept...
what rarity, and what gravity,
and what number they have to argue back...
i've seen more metaphors and
indeed more rivers and waterfalls in
my tears, if i had unravelled
    the said things and walked toward a mirror,
and spoke what they spoke...
and felt the imprint, and have seen
the reflection in such things...
  i am shadow, i am hunch,
       i am exile... what was once,
perhaps said...
                     that i gave up my left hand
for a labrador to knead into pet...
how i then put my right hand into
a fire and retracted it gleeful like
i might be a prometheus...
oh god, once the narratives from antiquity
are so well established, how cheap it all
seems, and looks, how we tire, how we try
to exhaust the cow's ****....
and how we make joke from farting...
or how i am prone to cry,
on a morning palette of having only drank....
and drinking with the morning
the throat is dry-cut sore, dry, sorry...
   lao che's jinn...
              nie chce boga
   (i don't want god), bo szkoda
             (because it's careless)....
             how we mature into wanting so much
more than kettles, knives, and vacuum cleaners...
how we want spirit, ghost, and
then make adamant that there's a need for thought
and a need to disperse it...
   how so much spirit went into crafting thought...
that thing though... it get's me...
that cry for a father... symbiotic with writing
a narrative in western culture...
   odd, how a man capable of being reduced
to tears... can single-handed overcome, every, woman...
meaning he can't lie, meaning he can't believe
in the capacity to faint...
   meaning that he needs no breathing ground
to encapsulate faith...
        the only thing more dangerous than
a man crying when hearing some music
is a woman armed with a *****.
as i take my bow...
                    and duly give applause...
for that is certain... and i am bound in being
kept earnest...
  on the basis: it's really how the whole point
moves forward... i can be the sieve,
or the activity making the sieve... well... sieve...
like akin to filter...
     my native land of birth seems to mythical
counting the next minute to the next to make an
hour, that i almost lost thought to be anything
but.... thingy...
  yeah... every time i travel to poland i''m
most alive when i step into a graveyard...
          tombstones almost has the same sound
when stating the word people...
given the latter move, becomes butchers
and architects... while the latter nothing but
quasi trees, dates of contained yearning,
and sometimes the epitaph...
                oh the swollen grounds of what
is kept, needlessly kept, and what ought to remain...
looking at our own morality,
   i see a history of paupers...
           we are only working from the street up...
poking the case of diogenes...
there i am sown, and there i sow the stubborn
calamity... who would care to manage
competition with the west,
given their sole grammatical competition
was based on the pronoun category?
    i always thought they spoke more shrapnel
than sense...
        big bang theory worth a vascuum...
like i'm yawning... the sound of...
it happens every time i travel back to poland...
i hear, life!
          it's when i'm back in england
and i hear this journalistic dialogue about needing
to export it to remote areas of the world like
Moldovia...
      are journalists that much necessary
if they happen to fake telling a story working from
a per se bias...
   reading the thursday edition of a newspaper
i sorta lost the plot, or a need for a plot...
        i could be offered a circumstance to re-read
that i cowered, that i shrivelled and went away...
     it's only that i spent 3 weeks in Poland
and i really didn't see too much emphasis on journalism...
  or really bother a need to know basis...
   or have to entertain an opinion or to begin with, have one:
like when i didn't have a sparring
partner to create a dialectical outlet / punching bag...
     3 weeks in Poland can cure a man living in the west,
you can automatically stop drinking, read a book
and never even care to write anything...
you come back west and you have this pathos for a need
to write... don't know...
i like how phonos (φoνoς) is so clearly proximate of
pathos (παθoς)...
when wasn't the statment: silence,
   not a concern to say or identify a pathology?
just about when man said too much...
and the otherwise became inverted,
and man said too much,
        and thought very little, and philosophy
came into existence much too late...
if it ever was worth a moral agency,
that thought could ever be inscribed as:
   θ (ought, ought), like some coordinate,
definite... instead of the ******* between
θ (ought) and φ (narration)...
               looks like you're asking for a
locksmith, for ****'s sake.
then they said: poseidon's trident...
let's resurrect symbols, the crucifix and ψ...
now i really lost the tail and injected
an upright spine into undertanding, what the hell
i was supposed to understand!
so yeah ψ (counter-narration)...
    the actual need to overly psychologise
the people stems from, i dare say,
               hyperventilating number of books
in libraries...
it's nice to see so much emphasis on a psyche...
poseidon's signature... ψ... trident?
no?
    don't see it or can't see it?
sounds about the same when you
do it in french with another god name,
zeus, jesus, je suis... je sus... je ßaß
                           mohicans thereafter...
ah, yeah, that night in winter, in warsaw,
i could almost take to the moon, pick at it
and bite into it like i might inton a chocolate
            bit biscuit...
and that's how i made the greek equivalent
of sigma...
  with θ, φ, ψ....
                                 a door... variantion of not
what's to be said, to be said,
but how there's a thought, a morality,
and something that attempts to understand sanity...
i just like to think of it as inserting
a key into a keyhole, and walking through
a door...
meaning the encoding would look like
φ, θ, φ, ψ...
         now i was supposed to walk through a door...
all i have is a ******* acquarium
and a yawn...
      my uncle owned an aquarium once,
lost a leg in a submarine accident...
  huh?
                 me neither... i'm not that audacious
to state there was a big bang and keep
people motivated for the mission: let's get frisky!

the Northern girl who
is not afraid to wade into the shallow
end of the pond with turtles
fishes ***** and ****

who is she this red haired
laureate who writes unafraid
of spiderwebs adorning her head.

Who is she , tell me true,
is she the lichens of my memory
the moss of my fallen side?

Who may she write of,
when the wolves bay at night
and her silvery visions
overcome me.

Okay sugar, you there
with the pretty-eyes,
let's get down to business,
I'm gonna let loose,
kiss me please,
I wanna get
right down in
between
your succulent
juicy-thighs.

You have to realize,
I was rocking in the free world
before Neil wrote the lyrics.
So calm down,
there's no need
to get hysterical,
we can do it right here darling,
let's get frisky
on the ground,
you on all fours.
Ooooh, I need to seed you,
wipe that frown
off your precious face.

I can give you
anything you want,
slow & methodical
or fast-as-lightning,
bang bang rapid-fire,
you inspire me
to go even higher.

I can smack your sweet ***,
chug sassafras
& the way you gyrate
makes me want to
last even longer.

We were built for this,
a match made in Heaven,
I think I love you.
Judt say you wanna grind
& I'll oblige you,
be ever so kind
to fill you to the brim
of your tasty luscious ****.

And what do you think
the straw's for.....after dinner drinks?

I have a street sign for Carnaby Street
Hanging high, upon my wall
Me, and a close friend, used to go there
And to Portebello Road, and all

We'd jump onto the tube, every weekend
Not a ticket did we buy
Dodging the ticket collector, with derring-do
Up destinations fire escapes, we would fly

Our road map of central London
We eventually carried in our head
Having knowledge of the main attractions
Like Highgate Cemetery, where lay the famous dead

We visited museums, and Buck' Pal of course
And Downing Street, and Big Ben
Crossed most bridges over the Thames as well
Battersea Power Station, and the Dogs Home den

Witnessed changing of the guard
Visited the Art Galleries of the day
Listened in at Speakers Corner, Hyde Park
And sneaked in at Regents park zoo, by the way

Went down Baker Street, to see Sherlock
And Madam Taussauds, full of wax, and flair
How we never got caught sneaking in, i'll never know
I think London wanted us there

We also saw the drunks, and homeless
All scattered in disarray
There was something about their life
That i knew i would experience one day

I kind of knew i'd become a squatter
Before i would become a woman
i needed to have more life experience
Before confronting that truth

My friends name, was Irish Bill, he was a wild child like me
He introduced me to his girlfriends mother
I was fifteen, she was thirty six, i was a ******
she plied me with Dutch courage, we then had a bit of the other!
by Jemia

HIT ME WITH YOUR LESBIAN-LOVE WEAPON my blood-thirsting, bull-dyking, Sappho-loving, rubber-tool-*****-wielding, corn-*******, sharp-shooting lesbian marksman so that I may know what weaponized lesbian love is. Hit me with your lesbian love weapon and I'll die in lesbian love. The lesbian sun, like a lesbian comet, careens through the lesbian solar system at 500,000 lesbian miles per hour with 8 lesbian planets and their lesbian satellite moons & lesbian meteors in tow. Anything that can't get out of the lesbian way is lesbian destroyed! Oh merciful Italian lesbian! Walkie-talkie ***** you rotten, lard-*** **** Guinea sapphist as millions of self-empowered, self-important, self righteous, pink-ribbon-wearing, red-*****-piercing, ****-shucking, ****-slurping, muffler-driving, catfish-taco-munching, teeny-tiny-baby-mutilating, Marx-lounging, whitest-maniac-hating, codger-dodging feministas are asking: "Where's my millionaire?"

I see it's April, 700 years from now & church is in full swing. People are singing their praises for Jesus, due to return any moment now. The apocalypse is nighly {that means nearly} here, if prophesy holds firm. The end-times & the signs are undeniable. There shall be strife, rumor of war, blood on the moon, the mark of the beast, rapture. Jesus will reign over Earthly affairs a thousand years {any 21st century faith-shaking momentum has petered out.}
   Once I'm bunched no better than ****** on a ****-house floor
you won't push so ******* me. If I live to 50, heaven forfend,
twenty-five millionths times a hundred fifty-two scraps of a
pound avoirdupois you'll sigh a pitiable one, a nuance of
a touch reminiscent of primer wife.
   My ultra ****, ulterior & backwise, I love you more than Mexicans love pizza, blacks do whites, America & her justice. It's April, it's Brasil y Colombia, it's me & you: ultra ****, cuntier than average, unreadable, unwilling, unsavory. If I could, I'd sell you for salvage or forage, or at a bulk rate.
   My bulbous nays are more lovely since pregnancy took
over upping milk production. Now I'm less sinful than
grateful, ½ drunk w/power & remembrance, less testy,
less cunty, more rambunctious & flavor-ready.
   As I've imbibed an ant's worth of spirits, I **** widely, consuming life-needy oxygen. It's cardiac time and flop-overs are everyplace. It's telepathy gone ****-ways wrong. Washington used to **** constantly—he almost killed himself several times.
   I could find myself writhing @ the wiener factory, as the floor is well-oiled & my knees are smooth & youthless. It would turn my life into a hot-doggish holiday romp thru sausage land. I could become teachish & instruction-weary. People might as well flock my way as had sheep when Jesus was cracking sassy, agitating Romans, destroying the good will of money-changers. Let us camp upon the hillsides, far removed from **** & partake the lushness of scrubless jungle trim.
   As a man I have feminine needs no wiener-factory tour
can address. I've dated plenty with many a heartrending
scene. Come down, bedded with a woman of divergent
stock, I find myself waxing philosophic. I burn daylight
with niceties, I placate & ween fair blessing.
  One man in Italy can't stop the way things Italian are. He could beseech the embassy until his pizza burns for all the good that'd do.
   I've been hard-pressed before. I've conquered my fears,
made peace with feminine needs, broke down, married
women, begat a child, sold items cheaply from the front yard.
   I could make friends with cops, and give up firemen.
{Kiss my ****, I'm just out of the bath.}
   I swoon under candlelight, by the fireside, smacked around with brass knuckles, throttled w/i an inch of precious lifestyle. Caught unawares, smitten by professional drain, I baffle taunters. Ultra ****: querulous ****; wild whomp; mine-mount...
   As a man I've found myself wobbling on skates.
At times, hurried, later because of not acting now.
   Oh U.C. {ultra ****}, can't you hear me: probing, tunneling, examining w/o license, for no better reason? I'm wide-ruled, I'm college-ruled, I'm 70 sheets @ 10½  x 8, I'm your best friend {you're allowed one: best}. Let's go somewhere, let's stay put, let's stick to your story for a change. I like some things illegal but I don't make a big deal about it.
   A girlfriend likes a nip, as when her bra's forgotten. She
gains nothing but trinkets. She owes her life to good-living
& self-assuredness. You can't dredge her backwaters, it's
easier to tuck. After all, what does it all mean anyway?
   It's wrong to covet the neighbor's wife but equally, it's wrong for her to covet my hairy ***. A neighbor may know no shame. Her mammae displayed keenly, its valley, the roundness & summits. She may stoop to pick up car keys or dance to the mail box, the breeze catching her frilly skirt, rain dampening all that's decent.
   One man can condemn her, another be jailer. I love
thy neighbor as thyself. So far I've got nothing
against her, nay nothing on her either.

I smoke cigarettes so my boyfriend will love me
and I know it's alright with Jesus above me

My First *******
Tyrone Washington broke my cherry to
knock me up good on his very first try
even though I told him I'm in love with
some dumb-***, pimple-faced white guy
So here I sit pregnant with a smoked-out
laugh that is hoarse, ragged and tinny
after buying baby clothes at the Salvation
Army to clothe my newborn picaninny

****-Faced No More
The nights are over of me puking drunk by the river, moonlit lunar
now that I gotta ***-feed this tar-black ******* named Tyrone, Junior
which is why I'll never again let an ape use my **** as a **** door

yet, in spite of Clint Howard's banana-stealing bend, Ben loved him
like ****-deficit babe Barbie Roberts loved no-ball-&-**** doll Ken
in his humpless, stumpless, ****-strapless, crapped-out-big-bear den
where he confused suddenness for quickness frequently if not often
as he spun suddenly & quickly & frequently again in his pine coffin
that he had filled with wild kangaroo anuses from Australia to quell
& to soften his pine box bed for the rotten dead ***** he'd be boffin'
& to soften the casket for Botox-swollen hoes whom he'd be boffin'
& to soften his pine bed for crapped-out ****** who wanted boffin'
Judgement day's soon from Koestler's Darkness at Noon pairin' Pat
Boone & junior loon goon, martyr Martin Luther King as that ****
who Niven hadn't hunted in a racoon hunt in The Moon's a Balloon
in which no hog-slop cop bought at a profitable loss a fiery bassoon
played by a musically-deft & sexily-thrilling, heart-donating baboon
that sings old-world chimp songs that Sinatra could warble & croon
to Reeve's Eastern Express, jumpin' badly to 1 magickal faerie tune
After harvesting a crop of bee drops I stop to deposit top money for
fake honey on Lake Sunny as sheep hop over a chop steak of bunny
Once filthy rednecks become your next-door neighbors, through the
course of their daily redneck labors, you will be startled by periodic
explosions, shotgun blasts, back fires, dope raids & Samurai sabers
& blue-hued babies of infantile ages in post-born stages confined to
****** chimpanzee zoo cages like Tibetan sages given to outrageous
whinin' outrages, browner than what a buck-deer-pelt-shade beige is
Don't you remember that when we were in love with pink hog meat
we'd sit on torn seats at Burger King to chew dill pickled pigs' feet?
I don't care about your various burial plots & factor K, your antique
drugs from F.D.A., or why my ******* curl up on a wintry day
I don't care about your various blood clots & factor K, your antique  
stock from T.W.A., the way your ******* curl on a sunless day
I care a lot about these hairy mud smocks & vitamin K, old, ancient
bonds from N.B.A. + why beef **** curtains rarely wilt on Sunday
or promoting P.G.A.'s role in making **** drapes droop on Monday
after Mecca town's Eddie Mekka sought Shirley, sold & bought her
in the eternal holy city of righteous step-daughter ******, slaughter
as it slept beneath Laverne's saucy danglers where Eddie caught her
on the 3rd match that fused **** Cheney's N.A.T.O. cannon fodder
before Reeve took a head-first decapitation off a mudder or a trotter
or a fishnet stocking, a can of Crisco, a purse or a scrumptious otter
that totters where Caylee Anthony should never be allowed to totter
whilst Casey Anthony maintains the rotted, purple corpse is not her
as the toddler died of misadventure, meanin' mother hadn't shot her