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Zywa May 2023
You cannot sleep?
It will come
It's the clock genes

Just come over here
and lie down with me
Close to each other
You are so sweet

It tied knots in me
that are not quite undone yet
I was a saviour, an angel

not yet used
to her body, a child
who does know heaven
but not yet earth

It recurred
Anger grew inside me
Powerless aversion

It recurred
And with others
I lost my wings
A worthless angel
Clock genes: 24-hour rhythm / circadian rhythm (circa-dies = approximately a day)

For Maria Godschalk

Collection "Bruises"
The ******'s Lesson

They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.

Then the Butcher contrived an ingenious plan
For making a separate sally;
And fixed on a spot unfrequented by man,
A dismal and desolate valley.

But the very same plan to the ****** occurred:
It had chosen the very same place:
Yet neither betrayed, by a sign or a word,
The disgust that appeared in his face.

Each thought he was thinking of nothing but "Snark"
And the glorious work of the day;
And each tried to pretend that he did not remark
That the other was going that way.

But the valley grew narrow and narrower still,
And the evening got darker and colder,
Till (merely from nervousness, not from goodwill)
They marched along shoulder to shoulder.

Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky,
And they knew that some danger was near:
The ****** turned pale to the tip of its tail,
And even the Butcher felt queer.

He thought of his childhood, left far far behind--
That blissful and innocent state--
The sound so exactly recalled to his mind
A pencil that squeaks on a slate!

"'Tis the voice of the Jubjub!" he suddenly cried.
(This man, that they used to call "Dunce.")
"As the Bellman would tell you," he added with pride,
"I have uttered that sentiment once.

"'Tis the note of the Jubjub! Keep count, I entreat;
You will find I have told it you twice.
'Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete,
If only I've stated it thrice."

The ****** had counted with scrupulous care,
Attending to every word:
But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair,
When the third repetition occurred.

It felt that, in spite of all possible pains,
It had somehow contrived to lose count,
And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains
By reckoning up the amount.

"Two added to one--if that could but be done,"
It said, "with one's fingers and thumbs!"
Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years,
It had taken no pains with its sums.

"The thing can be done," said the Butcher, "I think.
The thing must be done, I am sure.
The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink,
The best there is time to procure."

The ****** brought paper,portfolio, pens,
And ink in unfailing supplies:
While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens,
And watched them with wondering eyes.

So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not,
As he wrote with a pen in each hand,
And explained all the while in a popular style
Which the ****** could well understand.

"Taking Three as the subject to reason about--
A convenient number to state--
We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply out
By One Thousand diminished by Eight.

"The result we proceed to divide, as you see,
By Nine Hundred and Ninety Two:
Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be
Exactly and perfectly true.

"The method employed I would gladly explain,
While I have it so clear in my head,
If I had but the time and you had but the brain--
But much yet remains to be said.

"In one moment I've seen what has hitherto been
Enveloped in absolute mystery,
And without extra charge I will give you at large
A Lesson in Natural History."

In his genial way he proceeded to say
(Forgetting all laws of propriety,
And that giving instruction, without introduction,
Would have caused quite a thrill in Society),

"As to temper the Jubjub's a desperate bird,
Since it lives in perpetual passion:
Its taste in costume is entirely absurd--
It is ages ahead of the fashion:

"But it knows any friend it has met once before:
It never will look at a bride:
And in charity-meetings it stands at the door,
And collects--though it does not subscribe.

" Its flavor when cooked is more exquisite far
Than mutton, or oysters, or eggs:
(Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar,
And some, in mahogany kegs)

"You boil it in sawdust: you salt it in glue:
You condense it with locusts and tape:
Still keeping one principal object in view--
To preserve its symmetrical shape."

The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day,
But he felt that the lesson must end,
And he wept with delight in attempting to say
He considered the ****** his friend.

While the ****** confessed, with affectionate looks
More eloquent even than tears,
It had learned in ten minutes far more than all books
Would have taught it in seventy years.

They returned hand-in-hand, and the Bellman, unmanned
(For a moment) with noble emotion,
Said "This amply repays all the wearisome days
We have spent on the billowy ocean!"

Such friends, as the ****** and Butcher became,
Have seldom if ever been known;
In winter or summer, 'twas always the same--
You could never meet either alone.

And when quarrels arose--as one frequently finds
Quarrels will, spite of every endeavor--
The song of the Jubjub recurred to their minds,
And cemented their friendship for ever!
SassyJ Jan 2016
The snow set in the barn,
Where the horses once laid
On a cold night, ice spiraled
We tossed,turned, all packed

The troops tamed to acquiesce
Rifles silenced, bullets sacked 
Stocks in deficit, awaiting ambush
Sores overturned and edged in holes

Our nerves dead in the silent night
Risking an aching machine, a body
Pushing to extremities, thrill seeking
My mind numb, body ignited in dumb

Left, right… series audibly recurred
Halting to reflect the extreme valour
A salute to quench and honor a reality
For I once sacrificed my "liberties" for "others"
A reminisce ...........
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
[page 1] I already regret writing this to you. I already regret sharing this with you. I've already told you, before, but I'm bursting---I'm skidding, like my brakes are busted--- bottling-it-all, inside. And, a wise man once told me, "If it's eating you up, you should ink it, all-out." I just wish I could remember whose words those were.

Sometimes, when I'm searching the Rolodex, for the right-scene, you've been around, to remind me. [Almost-like, you'd read along.] You tell me, you assume "I'm always awake," and, I would only elaborate: with-fear, my dear, for falling asleep would draw you back, to my dreams.

See, and I've said this (to much poorer souls than yours), [page 2] before I allow my ambitions the axiom, certainty must surround the word "love" like an aura. My so-flawed system of authentication, of authority, in my own-hearted matters, starts and ends with my dreaming. Only three romances have recurred. Randomness is much more regular. Rarely do my dreams speak with structure, or in-a-story. That real random. [The reason I'm a poet?] Flying symbols, from "seven hells," heavens, or highways. If you left the top-down, or had a bad-day.

[Relax, Flagstaff]

sighs

[Ready, again?]

Ready.

...
Essay #4 is even longer than #3 by a little bit and I'm posting it in parts. With parts missing. Because I'm keeping some of it personal. Or at least for one person.
The Noose Nov 2013
You sat on your throne built from the fear you instilled in us
Proclaimed yourself sovereigner of our minds
Shackled us to the hem of your blood stained trousers
Created a prison built on futile wrath

The multiple personalities you own swapped roles
The good, the bad and the ugly
When the good revealed  itself all of our hate melted away and we saw this beautiful side to you
You would then play the victim
Appealed to our emotions prompting us to abandon all reason

The vicious cycle recurred, like they always do
It's as though you fed us ****
Fed us full
And yet we still came back begging for more
Such fools we were to believe your redemption could be found

We burned in our rage
Broke the mental chains
The ******* king with a murderous game had been overthrown

Now you lie on your death bed made of thorns
The crows are cawing in the distance waiting to feast upon your remains
Not a ounce of guilt over  my utterance of the fact that you got what you deserve and more

It's not hard watching you shrivel.
Daan May 2014
Today was a good day,
tomorrow is always a disaster,
tell her today.

Better off, her smell returned,
her cuteness left me concerned,
but her laugh and word,
escape the recurred.

I can barely even tell the truth,
unknown why I can not say,
dissapointed do I sleuth.

Enjoying the last bits of youth.
Addendum to title:
Boyhood Digs in Collegeville, Pennsylvania 19426

Oft times forced exposure therapy spelled rustling quiet
Pyrrhic punitive onslaughts noisome moody linkedin kicks
jarring inxs harbored grievances foo fighting essence
denoting cannibalized august boy aghast to confront reality
returning home meant compromising autonomy
acceptable collateral casting leftist strides rite
constituting timid steps circumscribing childhoods’ end,
comprising reluctant trudge treading toward adolescence
where wold wide webbed magic ride
rode ruff shod o’er carped hooked
synthetic threads re: fibrous veld
whence extolled impressive footprints
measured triangular wedges rung duff feet
expediently dragged churlish badinage afoot
stretching across Scottish tartan
Harris Tweed unwelcome matt despite frustrated parents
whose vitriol unleashed tough-love,
smacked regularly quasi planned
threatened ultimatums venomous viz witches
yawping against my brand
falling out of good graces,
though hatching escape merely fanned
actions hightail me to bedroom, a secure space,
not exceptionally grand
yet despite rapacious and relentless rage
against the sole son, who hand
did lee managed inciting wrath
of me papa and late mama,
this parcel of land, now entombs nostalgia
namely 324 level road, Collegeville,
Penna, 19426 make believe pal Joey and this creator
passively succumbed to withstand
invisible jetblue lobbing onslaught of slingshot barbs,
wharf fear to rely on self way past primetime,
which solo endeavor didst demand
absent belief, confidence and faith in innate survival skills,
hence countless admonitions recurred
razed quest qua pursed lips
those who begat their only male heir,
provoking predictable panned
da moan he hum in tandem
with concomitant wickedness akin to eland
caught in cross hairs getting pistol-whipped
with many barking explicit derogatory gerund formed
expletives, that did not dislodge this immobile body electric
defying logic, now in retrospect clueless why I suffered to withstand
incessant verbal, venal, and n’er vampire weakened blows
inexplicable, how this soulful, ruminating,
and tortured walking wounded blithely weathered turpitude  
though devoid of sense and sensibility, how no man iz an island
though at times incontinent, where jocund this bard for’er opened
Pandora’s box, but hindsight softened cleft pride and prejudice
whereat bulldozed site of once grand “Glen Elm” tears me up inside
fading memories refreshed, via priceless gift
from beloved younger sister
unwittingly mitigated hammer blows of pain to confront the void,
whence away from obliterated complex edifice grief felt ******!
you make your vision plain in every word
the pulse of nature moving in full heat
and yet we strain for sight of the right bird

nothing is clear all eyesight is quite blurred
the trip is over none will come to greet
you make your vision plain in every word

since on your tongue all truth has been conferred
but this hard fact we're made of bone and meat
and yet we strain for sight of the right bird

proclaiming season's changes have recurred
but time is motion every year more fleet
you make your vision plain in every word

including those that we have not yet heard
break out of silence still our peace is sweet
and yet we strain for sight of the right bird

to wake the morning and to cry absurd
notes of redemption for each empty street
you make your vision plain in every word
and yet we strain for sight of the right bird
Third Eye Candy Sep 2016
As the sky is removed from my feet
Be Good. And notice how the world remains unoccupied
however you manifest your Destiny... at best you get
Colonized by a Hoard of pure nonsense, with your own petard
hoisting the very Circus Tent of your Memoirs
and the footnotes we are actually
Plus the stars crossed and lost teeth...
a brute force merigold in a plucked grief
chiseled from the Bedrock of god's blunders
as we torment the perpetual Enigma
How we insist upon the faculty
without Divine consent ! we plunder the lumbering atoms
of our daily bread... salting the rim of sleep
couched in the misery of our very little Joys
while cursing Angels that fall on swordplay
and The Play is the very thing
your Father warned you
about
an uttering to con you from your bliss -
to best entangle the witchcraft of your sundered Love
and the shriveled thing your heart craved
when it was Good Night.
But nothing left
to **** a mocking  
bird.

the martial art of winding up somewhere
you mastered long before you noticed
and you were

There

just before you arrived to get the shivers
thinking this had just ( recurred )

Just Now.
Anon C Dec 2012
I waited, watching the leaves change into red, brown and orange hues
I waited, while the snow blanketed the ground, kissing the Earth cold as ice
I waited, until blades of grass poked their heads out of the soil, shy yet coy      
I waited, in scorching sun, blinding me, searing my skin golden brown
I waited, while this cycle recurred year after year
I became old
You never came
Surya Kurniawan Jul 2018
Falling down
Head first,
Beneath the ground.
Dust and dirt
Bring me around
Warmth stinged my bones
Laid my body down
Tired and rusted
Once broken, a new one grows
Disposed, and another shows
Destroyed one will be cured
Meaningless one will assured
Things recurred someday'll quit
One falling down, will rose
The ones who grow
A little while ago
Cried and tired a bit.
Pricers Jul 2019
The ones I can't seem to remember are the ones that are so clear in trance that it can convince you that the mare was a vision of a past that it conceded to be an afterthought not the preceding so to no fancy did it seem impossible only an illusion that did not die when casted to the bottomless thought that recurred on an everlasting image that it wasn't a dream more by fantasy that I couldn't help but to cancel the metal pictures that made the movie of a cunning defeat to be outdone by treasonous treasure obliging to the dismay of her that would awaken my spawn to HeavenSent that the more was not far from conclusion
Inexplicable blessing luckily
avoiding potentially grim fate
finds yours truly coming to grips,
how afterlife did not accommodate

the missus, and/or myself unwittingly
loved ones would never acclimate
reality of our permanent absence,
thus existence all the more I appreciate
and attempt poetically articulate.

Herewith the scenario that defies
conventional atheistic wisdom
finding me unable to square
involving 2009 Hyundai Sonata automobile

driven by spouse or her scribe, who dare
not allude to guardian angel,
yet conundrum inexplicable, when
touted as luck, regarding the rear
wheel bearing (passenger side of car)

that went kaput, blessedly ignorance
attributed absented scare,
yet in retrospect taking stock
i.e. how existence imperilled,
now more grateful than ever

toward life, liberty and
pursuit of happiness,
this in essence potential miracle
of sorts presenting possibility
cosmic creative force continually near.

CJ'S TIRE & AUTOMOTIVE,
(1405 South Township Line Road,
Royersford, Pennsylvania 19468)
intuition doth agree

expert knowledgeable SERVICE
familiar personnel employee
since patronizing said facility
(actually franchise sites
scattered across United States), we

regularly return taking car repeatedly
to team of mainly younger,
but wiser technicians than me,
who realizes scant knowledge, née
absolute zero mechanical ability,

especially regarding
twenty first century vehicles
heavily accoutered
with sophisticated technology.

Now yours truly loops
back to (house at Pooh corner -
think Loggins and Messina)
i.e. core theme
Impossible explanation within
the infinite universe scheme
to explain convincingly fluke

protection against meme
evoking death, demise, destruction,
et cetera regarding as ye gleam
teetotaler who avoids Jim Beam
plus alcohol in general, cuz
prescription medication harmful
unless feeling suicidal to thee extreme.

Thus one garden variety, generic guy
NON GMO android (ha)
he doth not fear
the grim reaper at rapier
or gunpoint, nor mortality do I despair
hoop fully made somewhat crystal clear,
a quandary (one among many

that recurred), whereby air
ring professed nihilistically
skeptical minus impulse to destroy
comprises whether doubting Thomas
(English Muffins) stance
on wing and prayer
inadequate, obsolete, untenable...
Sibifus parable of the Light: “in a dark box was Sibufus, under a vile phoneme of resistance as the Hellenic soldiers prepared to attack and redouble the efforts of a final counterattack. Sibufus was enraptured by a maiden named Artemis in whom he took refuge, she molded with her hands the lanterns of the night with the lamps of lychnos that pierced the soul of Sibifus and her gaze when Artemis was exasperated listening to her exclaim in the thickest darkness, in a hiss in the form of words, images and strict shadows, which he romanticized in all those who wandered with Lychnos at night, concealing his offspring and finding hemispheres of day and night in a plane of darkness. Artemis not being sleepy at night, became angry with the goddess Nix, snatching a dream with mead from her and depositing him in the palace at night, but in darkness, confusing the dream with creative and fantasy death with Sibifus, of which he is locked in a box near the visions that hit Artemis's window. In the hinges that glistened when he tried to open them, shades of gloom shared in the native darkness making little chance of being close to each other, Sibifus was always condemned to a romanticism presided over by the imprisonment of his voice, but if he could whistle, Artemis enjoyed his freedom when he went out to observe him through the window of every spring. Sometimes the Thuellai would stop flowing, she being able to bring her eardrums closer to the tones, when he whistled with splendor, magnifying himself many times to reach his court, when he often told him to feel sad because the world was aging him, remaining within his whistles cast on a young night. When Artemis listened to him, believing that she felt him ..., sometimes she answered him with the sighs of an infant running through the Aristotelian teachings, of which they were always late, but with great courage from his high spirit that awaited him from his rose window, knowing very well little that awaited him, although the darkness of the night was hidden behind the messages of his phonemes and whistles, frequently in his poor heart that was encouraged in locution for something better, to see the new face and voice of Sibifus, but nowhere Capitol fire that made him understand his words crossed with uncrossed whistles. Until from the underworld the voice of Sibifus emerged making everything reality together with his real voice, whistling and singing as many times as necessary, so that his seduced could hear him and no evil would extend a lost whistle, less to a voice exonerated from crying by the darkness of the night. Something of littleness in his neuroanatomy automated him from a loving language through the streets of discernment that he learned with melodic frequency between monodies of hemispheres cut by the edge of his voice, but not from a hiss, denouncing in him capacities of cortical dysplasia that diagnosed him of maleficent gray substance of his cortex, leaving him at the mercy of an epilepsy, which always and in all the will of the ceremonial in Sibifus recurred. In dualities they bathed in the ceremonial of ablution and holy water, known as loutra, always prowling all the skies and lavender fields of Patmos, with Minoans whistling in the distance of Darkness and in a night of devotion, in a Lutrophor that from a vessel that circulated from hand to hand and that brought them water for their nuptial bath, Sibufus making a mistake, taking it through the orbit of the funerals and the regional area, instead of going for their nuptial trousseau, being imprisoned one of the other in his celibacy, which later was transferred into the Loutra with his hands, and Sibufus as well, but fertilizing himself in the sounds of a whistle beyond the light and the first layer of the earth, not being able to hear them in a low voice, or in full darkness that from afar seems to call them "

(Prócoro, takes their hands one with another and begins to return to his cell, letting the monosyllables of the night be silenced and carry him beyond the darkness, losing himself in the sounds that were moving away from him. The night is silent, but emits whistles that speak of love that nothing and no one understands, and less remotely from where the light will come)
Sibifus parable of the Light:
Cuz buzzards circle o'er me
eyeing these lovely bones prithee
id est Roy L. T. Canard, Si
hence impossible mission
to be lovey dove vee.

Vague remembrances of dream  
which recurred with frequency
transfixed by Sir Real majesty
shows me and the misssus evicted.

Hum habitually hiccuping
in tandem feeling woozy
virtually celebrating monarchism
with British Royal Family,
and about eager and ready
to take a snoozy
so please pardon this poet
exhibiting being a lil oozy,
nevertheless yours truly
birthed the following verse
a reasonable rhyme and doozy
considering yours truly tipsy and *****.

Now this raggedy man
whilst deep in sleep
this past night
what felt like galactic body
fell upon ma slumbering heap
affecting immediate fear
lest worst nightmare
viz management boot us
into emotional inferno

felt steel tipped kickstarter,
would crush with might
but lo… heavy weighted body
just zee spouse
plunked herself into zzz land
immediately within unconsciousness deep
that's the husband unable
to recaptcha pleasant dreams
well nigh past midnight.

Unable to shake away drunken stupor
nor defeat insomnia
reliving sinister tête-à-tête
so...rather than emit shrieks
like some angry bird
idea arose to resume completing poem
expressing discombobulated state,
whereby sixty shades
of grey matter feels
similar to thick whey curds
palliative sans restorative power
per rest hopefully clear muddled pate

plagued with grogginess
and marauding herds
of mailer daemons worse
than unsuitable mate
or a world wide web filled with nerds,
thus lethargy purged
via catharsis forming swords
follow rhyming pattern
to convey drowsy tipsy mood,
a synonym for my words.

Noah respite despite eliminating kinks
courtesy arched back from cat nap
as ginned tonic, nor lion here
feline groovy getting high temporarily
spells relief and serve as balm
with pillowed temptress ever near
beckons softly inviting calm
before this human
goes awry and berserk on manic tear
being revisited from haunts
inside head of this wordsmith
caught by men in white coats
coming to take me away
**-**, hee-hee, ha-ha,

to the funny farm
straitjacketing this maniac
wrought with weariness
dark ringed circles around eyes  
showing Adonis long since didst veer
Judas Priest or  
if you prefer heavens to murgatroyd
can't stomach bulge
spills o'er tattered underwear,
whose ***** by the way
once upon a time
about the size of average palm pilot,
yet taut for witnessing
three score plus three mortal year.

This ole goat intoxicated,
plus forcibly locked within
fas paux blinding darkness,
the pitch black common
all purpose room
in disarray after Skyping English fete
at fictional Knock Less Apartments aye
daily encounter, one bewitchingly

hair raising dreaded locked
rooted tension doth amplify
fiendishly horrible, jeeringly loopy,
nippy nap noopy,
pugnaciously ravenous, talon
viciously wizened, xenophobic yeti, zapping
zeroing zillion zippers,
zoned alley bye

barred doors fate helplessly jury-rigged
sealed with plaintive cry;
no escape known to this man caught
in a deadly voodoo clutch,
thus doomed to die
ugly cannibalistic, frightful,
heathen rumors myopic eyes espy
alarmed at feeling trapped

akin to a wingless fly
tapping reserves of scapegoat
coping techniques ingenuity,
which earned me moniker "fall guy,"
where accursed cruel fate destined exit
from getting husked, issued
jagged lance like mandibles "hi
there unknown weekly reader,” I

pray for super leftist
write hand man/woman to extricate
(via whipping up literary poetic fabrication),
then joining me to sing jai
(let victory prevail against killer odds)
perhaps summoning division
of British shiver rights phalanx,
hood reply with Hackneyed "oh kai"

springing surprise rescue,
sans swooping inside
mine hermetically faux invisible prison,
where this troubadour doth reside,
yet realistic to accept my
demise without putting up
a good fight well nigh
against inevitable mortality

(out maws of death)
gleefully depriving grim reaper
death his domain and
eventual unavoidable claim,
but if such kind unaccustomed soul
can cushion the blow of penury...
vis a vis philanthropic treatment
manifested as deliverance  

courtesy anonymous altruistic benefactor
plucking one bard
off downward slippery
precipice of homelessness,
ye will be rewarded with apple pie
ala mode enjoying a Quai,
yet moment with
Holden Caulfield doppelganger
made famous qua Catcher in the Rye.
Asked to rewrite your verses and curves, I would start with the obvious and end on your nerves.
Freeze, tease, please

These are the thoughts and still the heart glitches, type passion aggressive resowing the stitches.
More, core, sore

Bore me with pages all sullen in ink,
Not another retelling what words would you think.
Less, dress, mess

Guess the next line win a dubious prize, fling fate a falter then resummarize.
Green, seen, keen

Mean as a measure penned for more kindling, recurred, reimbursed, remet in the dwindling.
Mend, lend, end

Fend for the hapless reposing the story, I've edged on the ledges your figure for glory.
Aghast, Tasked, masked
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
i only can't stop thinking about
Michael Hutchence,
without simultaneously listening
to, one, specific track...
    dead can dance's...
epic... fortunate the man with none...
which ends up me thinking
of stray dogs, a barrel,
                         and a man in rags
visited by the fashionable women
of ancient Athens...
  Diogenes of Sinope
and if we're going to go down this
root, of borrowing from the classical
world...
   way beyond considering
myself left, right,
liberal, libertarian,
or whatever the Enlightenment
provides on the focus of
sophistry in politics...
  what am i?
cynic, skeptic,
  well...
  i guess a mixture of a stoic...
and a Epicurean...
why? food? not so much...
but when it comes to drinking?
i'm a full blown Epicurean...
i like my alcohol...
but, come the next day?
i am stoic...
    in that i also, more than endure
the pains of re-hydrating my
body...
i enjoy the symptoms
of puking, coughing,
   having a hard time taking
a ****...
  needing to drink some more
alcohol for the food
to say inside of me...
        i can't be neither,
but have to revise myself as being,
both...
               and the pain is real
sometimes...
   but do i learn anything from it
i.e. not to do it again?
nope... i repeat it...
because i found a variant of
stoicism that came much later
with the advent of masochism
and sadism...
i became...
no longer:
a person who can endure pain or
hardship without showing their
           feelings or complaining,
but, rather,
a person who can find, pleasure
from pain...
     which is... come to think of it...
the highest tier of the Epicurean
school of thought...
masochists and sadists,
actually are Epicureans...
but of a fringe variant...
how else explain my pleasure...
from the pain inflicted
by me putting out cigarettes
on my clenched fist
on the knuckles?
why can pain become pleasurable...
because it's acute...
to enjoy either food or drink,
you require great quantities...
well... pain is the great quantity,
but it can be of great quantity
made compact within whatever
the confines it is expressed...
some would call this
pseudo-Epicurean...
in the ancient world they would
have...
              but such are my
inclinations...
             perhaps i learned
to enjoy pain in the Epicurean sense
of food and drink,
unlike a stoic...
                    given all
   the pain giving unto me as
a toddler no more than 1 year old...
and let me tell you...
an inflammation of the ear?
i thought it recurred when my wisdom
teeth were rotting from within...
oddly enough...
i still have a remaining two
on one side of my jaw-line...
but the pain is quiet similar...
yes... you could say i follow the dictum
of a post-Stoic pseudo-Epicurean
demand...
esp. when you know that...
the pleasure from *******?
has nothing to do with the act
of *******...
  but is a vague muscular tingling?
as if electricity was passing
through the acute muscles...
that other muscles only experience
a lactic acid build up?
  well... if like me,
you started ******* aged 7 / 8...
i actually derive more pleasure
from a trinity of unengaged
genitals...
my ***** are tickled by
the same sensation upon *******
derived from the phallus...
the same electric tickling then
orientates itself around the ****...
and the coccyx...
            ******* for me is
passé... and if i sit in a certain way
(hunched before a keyboard)...
the sensation can last for a decent
amount of minutes...
depending how long it takes me
to type something....
so... "technically"... in a transgender
sense... i have a ******...
but my "*******...
consists of the testicles,
the **** and the coccyx.

— The End —