Everyone is just another flower at heart....
After all, being another flower from everyone else, gives you the most pleasurable specifics in the right place...when you only feel tolerated enough to advance your very cause into the next adventure (that is truly within the smell of the pollen that perfumes the petal like a fragrance that isn't tolerated in it's own self properly). Even when truthfully...it's all about the smell that directs that very such advancing cause forward into the next district of measurable causes (when and only when), you have become finally advanced enough to truly (now and forevermore) surpass the very self (that you once were, only just a few seconds ago, depending on a flowers perception of time itself). Then forecasts it's own weighing measures into even (the next distract of measurable causes) that combines together an even more stronger fragrance that balances correctly, (when and only when) things truly become one with one another.
In any case, those very pleasurable specifics become the very documentary of a flower becoming just... "Another flower."
But is such terms or pleasant metaphors enough for this very emotional written appeals the very abstract piece one is even wanting to read, or even take the time to truly focus on (by concentration, alone)?
Flowers at the end of the day, don't mask their own intentions (when their own petals start falling, because of aging regrets).
It's more of the very already (possible) defining examples that don't let the petals (with emotional appealing problems) that just don't know how to show themselves, properly. After all, when petals fall from a flower, it's probably because they have yet to show their own hidden beauty.
In essence, when you shed the petals, it isn't of the very cause for when seasons change and flowers go to sleep, or end their own lifecycle with the changing of seasonal tides, or even potentially becoming plucked clean by an enforcer at large who see's flowers ugly (because they see themselves as nothing but useless opportunities at large)!
Regardless, when another flower does this, it's because the very first impression comes off as the obvious spectacle of someone hiding their own shame away, for the oncoming tide of self-insecurities that don't give them the very such "open-minded" source needed for the very availability of shooting forward and simply coming out for being who you want too be....
And that is not of just being another flower... But more the result of a flower changing her own ins and outs for being the very tolerant of their own attitude and behavioral willpower at large.
Whatever happens, nothing can prepare (for what just another flower truly is), is for them to be in the very safe regarding hands of their own potentially past self-ridiculing of oneself.
When and only when, those very petals that you have spread your own fragrance (in the form of beautiful pheromones).
Those very same petals will begin again.
Reattaching itself, accordingly.
And then reversing time (as if looking back at a film roll of many sequence of events) that may help you into reversing your own perspective (with time, that is).
In the end, what you really thought was a big deal (once...) Became the very maneuvering ability where you are now ready to begin re-growing those fragile, (yet strong willed) petals at heart.

i. the 1st week is the rapid hemostasis. the fabric of your body clutching itself together, rushing to staunch the bleeding. you breathe and oxygen settles in your chest like needles. you are so tired. you, in your continent of pain, will never be enough of anything for anyone. you burn softly as your cells scuttle to repair the damage. you burn in silence.

ii. the 2nd week is the inflammation. the itching and swelling of flesh. the fingers you move over your own body, holding your hips quiet. your **** is no longer a ****, but a rumpled and puffy city, a strange piece of art, a crime scene after the police have left where everyone is sweeping up shattered glass. someone’s murmuring a poem of soul and death over the radio. it might be you. everyone is shouting and the radio is getting louder and the crime scene is turning into an emergency room and the doctors are flying around in their yellow haste and there is no oasis, no peace, no open window, until the automatic hospital doors part with a groan and she is there, and you realize you are about to be saved.

iii. the 3rd week is the proliferation and migration. she tells you to remove the gravel from your body before you grow a new skin. so you do, you pull it out with black tweezers and it makes you scream until you are raw and humble. you watch as you mend yourself, sped up, like a tiger lily caught on long-form camera, bursting to life. someone says the words love and breaking and heal. someone says i will take you and i will carry you. is it you or her? does it matter? your skin is rearranging itself. you are pangea, splitting and reattaching to new places. it should be violent, but it isn’t. she’s calling you in from the cold and you go to her, scabbed up and scabbed over, unable to close your eyes. she takes up your whole field of vision. her lips, her nose. her irises, where you find god and every angel. the only sin here is the distance between the two of you. which you are closing. by the minute. by the second. by the breath.

iv. the 4th week is the angiogenesis. the development of new veins and ligaments. the deeply complicated process of creating new paths for blood to flow. the beating of your heart when she rests her hand on your knee and leaves it there. your tectonic feelings. the way you look for her in a crowd. the sudden daylight.

v. the 5th week is the  reepithelialization. a big, funny word that sends heat all through you. it asks questions. like: when you broke, did you know you would stop bleeding? when you lay prone in a pool of your own carnage, did you know that Good And Beautiful still belonged to you? that even in that crushing agony, she would come to you, and, with her seamstress hands and surgeon heart, put you back together? did you know that the light was never out of reach? that the walls around you were cardboard, not cement? that she would destroy them gently, then draw you from the wreckage? and still see you whole, even with all your throbbing fissures, the parts of you that just can’t add up? did you?

vi. the 6th week is the synthesis. your wound has gone. it’s a tuesday and you are watching her walk to class. it’s dizzying, the way she moves, the way she walks. she doesn’t know you’re there and you would like to keep it that way, because you are a naturalist observing something rare and exquisite, and you do not want to scare her away. she’s the white-hot sphere of the sun in the sky, and with your woundless self, you take her in. you can feel it, when you look at her—the spin of the earth / clouds sliding into other hemispheres / the swarm of your blood cells and pathogens / the aging of trees / airplane turbulence / earthquakes in places you will never see / lava cooling in the ocean / the rings we grow on our hearts—you can feel all of it. she’s turning the corner now, hair ignited. you are in love with her and you don’t want her to be late. she is so beautiful, even though you can’t see her anymore. she’s the last of her kind.

Love is like a flower
We pick the most exquisite ones
The ones that look most delicate,
And blow the lightest in the wind.
Once picked,
we take care of it
We feed it
and place it in light
Trying our best to make it last.
Until the pedals start to fall
We try reattaching them,
Shaking the flower
More fell off
And we are left
With nothing but roots

Cut my heart strings free from yours.
I can't keep being dragged around by you
while you are reattaching to someone new.

He brought out the worst in me
Cruel actions and words his weapons
Ones he kept well oiled for use
Every syllable spoken in perfection
Hitting the bullseye of my patience
Bursting out a fury I long kept hidden
With a marksmen’s skills he teased out
Anger overcrowding my being like rain clouds
Bringing heavy showers of unrealistic vows
A wild gust of cruel decisions sweeping sanity away
He welcomed this flood with manic laughter

He brought out the worst in me
But
I still loved his soul
Though how cruel and selfish it truly was
Blinded by ancient kind actions
I skipped over the puddles of each storm
Hopping towards our reconciliation island
Hoping always for the sun to break out
Foolishly falling for the momentary calm
Putting the rest the rage and reality
Losing my fingers in the cords of us
Reattaching the damaged strings of trust
Dreaming of an ideality…..Us
But the truth broke in easily

In the finality of us
All that remained was nothing
An infinite of emptiness to run away from
Before it’s long tentacles pulled me in
Grief slithering into my heart
Taking full control of a shattered soul
A breathing living body
Now turned into a shell of nothingness
With sharp fingers I cut out the dead
Letting the ****** mess taint me
Until I let go with a sigh

Dusting away my disappointment
I got up
And walked away

How were they introduced to themselves within a flash of light? Enormous shots of humanness flying across the universe- only still inside the shapes of two blue eyes staring back at this vessel. Just molecules of flesh colliding into one another in a heap of colors and sounds we’d sometimes prefer to force ourselves not to hear. How do you keep yourself from exploding? Into a masterpiece of delightfulness pushed forward into the mouth, and sometimes only to be a breath, or a story dressed as a pink pillowcase on a childhood bedroom.

Sometimes it’s just as if there was never ending cold and never ending warmth, and between each other there we were with our noses pressed up against the glass.

People are only sometimes not shaped like beasts, are sometimes only chiseled into neatly marble statuesque ephemeral deities, and then into the tombs the book keepers go, into the ruins the shapes and sounds and colors disappear. Shattered into the vast expanse of vitrifying light, bouncing against your head my head, landing on the bedside table, the corner of your knee, into the knapsack with the broken zipper, far off into the jungle, or into the pantry next to the agave syrup, adjacent the espresso maker.

There I am loving you more and more, quietly raking my hooves against the dirt, reigning midnight shining orders of dusty moonlight plashed on the time of winter lake, courtiers in your centrifuge of melancholy, balancing the toes just inches below the surface of the water, where the skin shuffled into the brief sentimentality of being thrusted into the infinite transdimensionality of the human escape-

hands feet legs being ****** and pressed upon the glass. Infinite planes of man hurdling with fastidious dreamscape prejudice into the quakes and trembling, the  indivisible and unquantifiable desires of yore crushed as the envelopes bars break against the seams, then come the staples and the body’s tries at reattaching itself to this the trying table of familiar names, this the tepid jocular playing field. While the undulates are thrown into the academies. While the infrastructures topple over, and the sunlight froths upon the celestial satellites nearing and nearing to us, folded over until we wake up from our necks and into our heads and inside of our brains, until we pull the thread from our gems and count back through the catalog pages trying to find letters of words in other languages piecing together the wanton madness of yearning for you and sharing the sounds of a voice that’s forgotten its own triumph of revealing or speaking its name.

There is the room with the panels and the drawers. These are the wildernesses humming with the poison and quaffing the spit and drugs at the heady realm of human-like lightness, pals or even matter gives pause to answering you with what no understanding beeps or carries on forward, but rather bleeds, tormented, reaches forcefully, it has been nearly a quarter-millennia. Here is the start, the finish, here are the minutes, the hours, here are the streets, the beach, the bench, and all of life is ours, from the dawn to the crepuscular night. Here in a stone room where in black and white photographs spin their *** drives like mercurial thermoses bouncing of each other, dancing into the next world, or just fishing for alphabet soup with a wooden spoon.

Here it is. The short-sheeted bedroom linen collection, folded comforter in the closet. The bath water is still and hot. The sky is clouding up soon, but not quite yet. In a ball of light rounding bloom, comes the silent fans that’ve carried you. While of a breath the trembles sway, and take us far away from here.

My tongue wriggles in my mouth
Useless tool it is
Unable to articulate my feeling
Into words and phrases for human consumption
So I cut it off
Reattaching taste buds to fingertips
Until those forget how to speak too

title: scandal tilt
body: porous: per & marie 2019:
simultaneously: preserved...

wow!

on my way back from a shift at Craven Cottage... walked through the park with great haste, sweat like a pig prior to slaughter when sitting down on the District Line from Putney Bridge to Victoria... still wearing my jacket... upon disembarking the train, took the jacket off... breathed... allowed my sweaty back to breathe, took off my clip-on tie, undid about three button from the collar down... well... i've been told before that i'm as hairy as a monkey... hairy face, hairy chest, hairy stomach... a Turkish ******* would never mind... we only travelled two stops from Victoria through to Oxford Circus... i have to write the following word in katakana... what... a *******... スカ - SUKA... *****... a female-dog... what's the ideogram of that katakana? no... it's not that simple... SUKA... thank god i was wearing my sunglasses... the Thames bore these two holes for my eyes with the glimmer of the sun being reflected come sunset... i asked my co-worker: Putney Bridge is not the last bridge of... the first bridge of London? he mentioned: isn't there one at Hammersmith? isn't there one at Richmond: i replied? favourite bridge? oh... you that film: from the 1990s... Sliding Doors... the Battersea Bridge? no no... not the Battersea Bridge... that white one, with all those Christmas Lights... it's the Albert Bridge... sure... we know the last Bridge of London is the Tower Bridge... but what bridges are there after Putney?! oh... we're not going into Oxfordshire or... Kingston-upon-Thames... **** that... London, proper... **** me... the map on google reads like some Arabic text: right to left... weird... what comes after Putney... see... when i was living in Edinburgh... at least i knew my bearings... there it was... the shining emblem of the compass... the Firth of Forth... down in London? it's a ******* Bermuda triangle! the ****** just spins and spins... people come from all other i'm like: yeah... "that"... that's not supposed to be there but... "there"...  clueless... sure as ****... after Putney Bridge you get the Hammersmith Bridge... then the Chiswick Bridge... then the Kew Bridge... then the Twickenham Bridge... that's the last proper bridge on the map... London will forever be too disorientating... at least Edinburgh is facing north... London isn't facing any direction on the compass... it just... spins out of control... so i got on the Victoria line at Victoria... two *******... one looking somewhat tame... the other... ooh... what a treat... we were only going as far as Oxford Circus... red hair... some of her's some fake... tattoos on her hands and fingers... she looked like she had piercing in her cheeks in the past... just my type: crazy... unhinged... daddy issues: whatever... and i''m standing there, tired... dead-beat... i just want to get home and drink some whiskey and scribble... about my triumph while helping a few boys sell cookies and brownies for charity by changing around their stall arrangement... because i wasn't put into the stadium to shove a lot of lard around... i'm peering through my sunglasses... oh... wait... she's digging me... oh right... she's one of those girls into the Scandinavian look? oh god, one of these ones... only hours prior i was talking to this Finnish grandfather about sports in general... i'm giving off these whiffs of Viking "beauty"... **** me: and i know what i'm goign to say next: that sort of physiognomy always attracts the happy-tattooed-hands and fingers red hair types of *******... right? where they **** is my ******* Mohawk then?! where the **** are my tattoos... i mean... i've seen dogs with eyes like these... eagerly brown and blooming with joy... any other scenario... we got off at Oxford Circus... i waited a little... she just about ****** off down the North Bakerloo route... i spotted her... obviously... she tried to give a shy glance back: would i follow her... ask her for her number... she had the most amazing: inquisitive eyes... i know... she wanted me to approach her... one of those... magical movie scenes... two strangers on the tube... blah blah... if work didn't **** me off... if i didn't have to make up for it on my own crowds from something within like: self-initiative... just my-******-up-type... no... i went down the Central Line route... travelled to Stratford... got the train to Goodmayes... bought a bottle of 200cl of brandy... some pepsi... some cigarettes... and walked past Chadwell Heath... thinking... about absolutely nothing... well... the "one that god away"... sure... it's not even whether i have the patience... i obviously have the charm... but i know how the conversation would have started and ended... so... you still don't live alone? you don't have a place for me to crash... bring all my belongings to? guess... what... what she said with her eyes... perfect! what she would later say with her tongue? no, i don't want to hear it... beccause i'd be her stereotypical loser... so... why... ******* bother? with those eyes of hers i also received: twice-more with the eyes of the boys i helped to collect more money from selling charity cookies in the park... oh **** me: more! because it was selfless! there was no ******-friction involved!  sure, i could try to rekindle my self (in the reflective, not the reflexive: myself... sense... no... that's long gone... i've aged, i've learned some pretty good lessons of reserve) with a teenage boy i used to be, who would fall asleep listening to Roxette... fading like a flower, watercolours in the rain, blah blah... but this... what's that film? Happiness of a Spotless Mind? Jim Carrey... crazy free spirited girl with red or purple or blue hair... sure... and if, myself, didn't go mad aged 21... entering a church... hearing a choir and then hear a great wind disperse the singing... sure... right now... aged 35... i'd be a proper career-boy... not caring about the lesser people in me... status-orientated... i would easily pick-up these wacko girls left right and centre... and give them a month's worth of... living out the Pretty Woman fantasy... no.. instead i have a personal library in my ivory tower of a bedroom in my parent's house filled with Heidegger's black notebooks... oh man... but this one... she had prettier eyes than an Alsatian's... she gave off whiffs of surprise... could she love me, like i am? torn? perhaps... i forgot to make a reality-check-cheque in my head... better this fleeting interaction... she... infatuated: me indifferent... at least in the moment... obviously now i think about it... sure... some, "alternative" universe... where... we might live an affordable living in... the ******* Shetland Islands caretaking a lighthouse! but my life hasn't been all that predictable to find more unpredictability all of a sudden... some exercise in a vitality for / of life... i just need little pockets of being acknowledged by the other as being recipient of existence... that usually comes along with children and handicapped people... or animals... these three categories always spot me... if i were ******* rising in the hierarchy of the truly insane-sane folk... i'd have to be as mad as a poodle-or-a-toddler's-worth-of-Mozart! ****'s sake... no no no... i'm not buying that trip! **** that... i'm going my own way... to a place where the moon is a skull in the coldness of the night, and come April... there is a whiff of a Magnolia scent in the air! i call it trans-temporal pairing to some cue to a clue to this puzzle... but this one... my god... eyes like a properly bred Alsatian... so endearingly brown... she looked like a teenage girl for a second's worth of flash of time... she just looked so ****** up... like a puzzle box... and with all that make-up she slapped up... Madam Tussauds' replicas saw less... what's the retrospect? i? i'm scared of reality? last time i heard: i've been the one most detached from it... why would i be afraid of reattaching myself to it? the only reality i find comforting is... when i'm surrounded by children, retards or animals... i consider plants as inanimate objects, so no... other thoughts... mother's arthritis... a father coming to the conclusion of this career... nearing retirement... their mortality... my mortality... cinema movie love stories are sort of gone... reality doubles-down... no one was truly with me when i needed help... ergo? i helped myself the best i could... and... i don't need loved-up pretend hitch-hickers... how authentic it might seem... at least when i visit a brothel... no ******* is going to say: oh... another loser... how are losers treated in those Japanese love-hotels because of over-crowding, no-house-building "claustrophobia"?

on my way back from a shift at Craven Cottage...
tired... left the house at quarter to 9am...
came back.. at 8:30pm...
and did what? only a 6 hour shift... got paid...
hmm... good idea... i don't even know...
capitalism... whoever defends it ought to know
that there are rogue companies out there...
the current company i'm working for...
i'm supposedly an employee...
   but... they have... since November of last year...
yet to issue me with a statement to clarify
how many hours i've worked and what i'm to be paid...
they just... transfer money into my bank account:
without any: black on white clarification...
i've already heard stories about the owner and co-owner...
how they profited from the pandemic...
little pawn me... a year... i just need a year...
to get those references... even today i started talking
to this guy about joining another company...
at least that company has an online rubric in place:
where you can book in electronically
rather than rely on some bogus whatsapp messaging...
******* cowboys... meat-heads... the whole lot
of them... no logistical sensibility...
but i've done it since November... i'll wait...
i'm patience... i'll play nice... but today...
oh today was coming... they're behaving like it's
a ******* schoolyard... i'm being punished for having
mentioned already having a university education:
oh god! and a degree in chemistry!
some are studying pretend-law... or whatever *******...
or they have known each other for a bit longer...
or that i'm not talkative: professional... while they
stab each other in the back... or...
i fancy this one girl who started work...
rumours spread that a supervisor is ******* her...
but i approach her with flowers on Valentine's day...
she gets fired... i get sidelined...
          oh i know my place... it's a place that's
called the waiting game...
         but today i was *******... less capable people
were put into positions within the stadium...
me? again: to the ******* park with you...
some might say: oh... he's ben given the easy shift...
yeah... the ****** shift...
   i made due counters... i had to...
by the end of the game a ginger colt that was
ejected during the game... drunk... had nothing better
to do than to sleep in the park... i tended to him...
woke him up... waited with him for his friends to rejoin
him... so half-asleep... i comforted him with:
you team (Coventry) beat Fulham 3 - 1... happy?
he replied... why do all the best games happen when
i'm asleep? well... this must have been the first
in a park in London... you're lucky it was a gorgeous day...
but my pinnacle came when i helped these boys
who were selling homemade bakes for charity...
NSPCC... £1 a pop... but they weren't selling them...
because they position their stall right behind a tree...
so i walked up to them... listen...
you're not going to sell them... you're hiding behind
a tree... here... let's move this stall of yours...
away from the tree... and closer to the route of leaving
fans... and let's also twist the table a little so...
your BAKED-GOODS for CHARITY is facing
the people walking out of the stadium...
    i finished my shift... would you know it...
             from about 30 unsold pieces of dough...
the boys had only 2 left...
           and how they thanked me...
   fine... FINE... if this steward contra SIA hierarchy
is in place... ******* wanks...
i'll do a better job elsewhere... pacifying people...
after all... all those with those SIA badges... licenses...
oh... they know **** all of judo...
they just rush overpower: art of ****...
   first comes the art of reason...
much much later comes any physical interference...
but i'm working with half-wits...
  just because some are bulging... have a voiced-prowess...
gorilla-mating-call-warfare i call it...
they think they have a license to: attend to doors
they build up this superiority-complex...
which is great... i might therefore ask:
not that i have a PhD... but... if you're going to belittle me...
do you have a degree in chemistry?
just today... i picked up a high-viz. orange...
later it was changed to black... i picked up one with
the word: supervisor on it... because it fitted me:
2XL... oh no no... one of the other pawns inquired...
you can't wear that... but it's black...
i was told to change from orange to black...
but this one has the word: SUPERVISOR written on
it... my god... how people have learned to overvalue
themselves... or rather: how have become become
undervalued that they have to have these little battles...
the war is already lost...
whatever ******* Einstein figured this one out...
so at the end of the shift we're about to stand down...
me and my "mate" are park 3... we're looking for park 2...
right... and we're all wearing black vests... black trousers...
black coats... the crowd that's leaving?
well... you know how the English dress...
hardly in the United Colours of Benetton...
or the old way that GAP used to attire people: colourfully...
so... i'm looking for a black moth
among a cloud of dark grey moths... great!
******* genius! like i said:
i'm working with ******* meat-heads...
i'd like to say retards but they are too bulky and too angry
and too ready to stance themselves as BIG
rather than arm themselves with cunning...
o.k. o.k. work... but i got the upper hand...
i helped those boys sell those cookies... cakes... whatever...
out of their stash... we just moved the table away
from the tree... shifted it so the sign was more apparent
and... hey presto! NSPCC got its fair share...
and... my reward? the sweetest thank you any man
can receive... the outstanding look on a young boys face
that a stranger is capable of helping (him)...
that's ******* priceless... i'm writing about all those
petty squabble prior... but... that thank you:
that look of longing for hope in the future...
that's mine... i own that... or that tenderness of
the drunk boy who was sleeping in the park
waiting for the game to finish... while i gentle touched
his leg to wake him up... that too...
i don't need physical confrontation when i can:
appease... comfort... all those adrenaline junkies...
those... amphetamine-anabolic-steroid: former prison
guard types... whatever...
i know one decent move that could floor anyone...
you make a cross with your thumbs... while pretending
to pray... with these hands... you grip someone
by the knuckles... pressing the thumbs into the hand...
and twist... i forgot martial art i learned that from...
i left the classes after i was kicked in the *****...
and curled into a foetal position: after i refused to:
shout HA-YA! when pretending to punch and throwing
kicks while marching forward...
****** lessons in martial arts... getting kicked in the *****...
but... i write this... like...
like i will never go to the gym and pump weights...
just give me 2 hours on a bicycle...
doing some press-ups...
and once the shift it gone... having being paired
with this "mate" of mine:
he'll reply: it was nice working with you...
and you sort of know it's almost...
when he tries to sell you an alternative
job to the current you're working at...
because... it's "CAPITALISM":
   i too heard... didn't you hear?
if you have the right sort of a microphone...
and you put it up to a dog's *******
when the dog's running...
you can... hear... ******* the tune of:
jingle-bells!
didn't you know?!
   esp. that version from Lethal Weapon...
      one ****, count one two...
two's a ****'s worth... three and four and by five:
grr... what's not to love about
life and all the arguments for the status quo
of all those people that always go ahead
and gear up the tide of: away away we go:
leaving the rest of the idiots behind...
           tear-jerking psychologists with an audience
of soft-cookie:
those types that ought to be hard-on
digestives... instead... they get dunked into tea...
i burp... what... a cushion my crap and crab
on the inside out...
rather than harden it with the exoskeleton
of the outside in...
            little ******* London adventure of... perhaps
Romance... but... most probably:
probably not.

i mean: you know how the joke goes?
when you diagnose someone as having lost touch
with reality?
and then... too many people have lost touch with reality?
the supposed loss of reality of the individual...
transpires like a phantom: clout...
why were people supposing that, "i" became detached
from reality?! huh?! why are these people
wearing pseudo-niqab nappies on their faces
when almost pretending to be: trainspotting?!
huh?!
           i'm schizophrenic... what about all these...
covert... hidden... undiagnosed hyperchondriacs?
i thought i was just a bilingual...
oh... right... the mono-lingual normies of England...
sure... "we" can follow-up with that...
"you" try to destroy "me"...
"we'll" come after "you":
gender neutral? one's a ROYAL:
one and we...
                anything to: bypass the ******* rap!
investment from years... years ago...
always invest in children...
you never know when they'll come around to
protect you against the elders
or... more importantly...
your contemporaries...
                always invest in children...
         their presence is a future forward:
kinder:
      immer invertieren im kinder...
   ihr(e) gegenwart ist ein zukunft: ein fließen!
i'm guessing...
unlike in Deutsche...
a(n) apple... savvy?

           i truly wish... i truly... want to believe
beyond the told ties of the heart to:
all the discomforts of reality checks...
that i could possibly come to the splendours of
illusion on a whim:
and keep such whims within the confines
of illusion... without having to have to reality
check them back with...
items of "reciprocated" gratitude...
for the "good life"... oh what a sweet little whisper...
and... if i were a painter...
what a Francis Bacon horror i would possibly
conjure with the aid of cubism...
such trivial times are beyond us...
dog have eyes and the levelled certainty as such...
women just have the spontaneity...
there's no Bonaparte behind them...
no suicide quest for Moscow... no... chains and harship...
believe whatever psychologists you want...
pop, piquant... whatever... piquant: i.e. niche...
whatever... no one helped me through my 20s...
now in my mid 30s...
i've finally reached a pinnacle of being attractive...
during transit... but i know it's all a veneer...
behind my visage there ought to be some
******* miraculous story where...
i'd probably invite her back to my flat...
where i live alone... blah blah...
                i own too many books...
   i prefer the safety net of prostitutes...
at least they love me for the way i **** them...
with the intensity of the moment...
i posit: carpe diem... and make an hour last
a certainty... i don't need this *******'s worth
of timid courtship... no thank you...
i waited long enough... i waited too long...
no more...
              i'm done... i'm going to brush my "Greek" nose
up a little more... with arrogance and say...
when i needed you? you weren't there...
now... that you might, perhaps want me?
no... i don't need you...
           you know what i really need?
strangers! i need to interact with as many people
as possible! i can't be bothered with living a life
for some... exclusive relationship!
i need... the most inclusive: selfless relationship!
a... motto akin to:
liebe für das volk!
               if not in Deutsche... then in Latin?

AMOR ENIM POPULUS!

who else? who else can one love?
if one has been denied the excusive rights to love a woman
in one's youth?
as one ages... being denied such a right?
one can only grow to abound in loving:
the people! how else is one to survive?
   what? the same old: "missing"... "mythological":
"exclusive": female?
learn from Adolf ******! LIEBE DAS VOLK!
                  you haven't been given exclusive rights
to counterpart individual...
and... to be honest... inclusivity is stressed by both
status of wife / bus-driver in terms of how
universality is to be expressed on the ground:
all are to be treated equally...
alles ar zu sein behandelt gleichermaßen,
id est: gott! mit! uns!

             i have no one to love... i truly do, not,
so why... keep myself deluded in some...
waiting game of exclusivity?!
   why not freely pass into a medium of selfless
inclusivity?! why... not love: as freely...
and as painfully... as a sparrow might...
the dawn of spring... and the midnight or some:
forgotten hour(s): to come...
    i'm too old to find exclusive love...
to pair-bond... i'm too old... i know the frosty bite
of reality... but at least i can love inclusively...
like a Jesus Christ... like an Adolf ******...
what?! they're... that ******* far apart?! i don't...
*******... ****-ing... think so...
       i'm more comfortable with inclusive love-affairs
where i can be forever pillar... cold...
less-spoken that could be expected...
    my 20s... i never had them...
                    my 30s just about returned...
and now i'm interacting with people in their 40s
and 50s... and all i have in my mind is...
a cat... in musketeer type of boots...
kicking a rat into a sewer... why?
because... that's seems... just about... GERECHT!

reattaching to the beauties of life
is when you chop the onions with a sharp knife
to bake your grandma's homemade shepherd's pie
the recipe that you will teach your kids before you die

fully feeling things and awakening the senses
is possible through the tasty smell of the fresh herbs behind the fences
when you take out all the raspberries painted fancy plates
open a bottle of red, full-bodied Chianti and set elegant dinner tables

everything is like it used to be  
under the willow tree
we all there were free
then died he