It took me years to realize it wasn’t just me, and that the labels for women are created by men’s "standards". I wasn’t a ****. But what does that even mean? Men use “equality” to manipulate women with their standard: its fun to experiment at the time, but the girl will always be remembered as "the girl who did that," in hometown suburbia. Who’s going to end up with a woman they did nasty things to? In traditional marriages, no one wants that kind of wife. In today’s corrupt society, no one wants to know their wife was raunchy and experimental.

But what about the girls who are like that? Can’t you imagine moving away? Moving away from mistakes and stigmas and just start over? The hypocrisy and judgment against experimental women and gay men is still happening today with the "man’s" standards—the holy, good-natured man’s standards. Why are there gender roles? Why are women a minority, the curious exploring people we are? Why deny humanity for power? But humans do it to animals too! So it’s not just among gender, it’s among species! On this earth we should live with animals, but we **** and eat them for power. They **** and eat each other too, but as the knowledgeable species we are, we should respect them for there is a reason we share this earth.

But the hostility with having power is what it is to be a man. That’s how it’s been all along. And in the world men aren’t the majority, so why are they STILL treated like one? THEY are the actual minority, but they still have power! Because of religion! Straight men—who wrote the religious texts— dismissed everyone else! Slavery has been around forever! Also think monarchy and royalty—among humans we’re equal, but the power of civilization and class status and material and monetary value goes against nature. Because religious texts prove how religion started the world. These religious ideas created by certain men of misogynistic, violent, racist, homophobic creatures manipulated! Why aren’t women respected in the holy books? BECAUSE MEN WROTE THEM! And that’s why *** is reserved for marriage in religion, because inadequacies and insecurities branch off of ****** experience and the uncertain nature of what comes with exploring various lovers. It’s complicated for everybody, but men like control because they are the ultimate pessimists.

And religion has its perks by providing the one answer throughout history: "why do we exist," but it’s completely sexist! And within the misogyny formed by the different cultures of various religious men, of an evolving species, they realized manipulation could cause them power. And feminism takes away from the religion! Women are optimists, but they’re impressionable by burdens! Civil rights and democracy and spreading-the-wealth for all humankind help! But money creates problems—including environmental—on and for our earth! But why is it sexist? Because throughout the world these particular different societies created by ignorant men are still letting this happen!

And with this power, they still control women! Equality for humankind starts with feminist movements! And when it comes to sexuality, whether gay or straight, what’s the big deal? Society! Because why are so many homosexuals punished, and why are so many cultures sub missing women? Why does **** and molestation still happen? There is no greater form of disrespect towards another person! But making a consequential decision to have ***, with anyone excluding a “good man,” as according to that society, most-likely founded by a group of men its wrong? Profits don’t exist, because no single person can understand what it is that created the universe.

And hetero-****** *** isn’t supposed to be nice, because it’s aggression towards the other gender and the determination of who won the battle: the gender of child. And that could be why psychology suggests that there is an under-lying ****** nature for fathers and daughters and mothers and sons. And there is: gender aggression. But the gender that actually creates the child is the woman, and knowing this, men have made us submissive because although they’re bigger in size and aggressive, women would be the dominant side. The curiosity of the female reproduction has been a subject of fear throughout the millennia.

Bisexuals who don’t pro-create, however, usually resent straight men unless their having attractions toward them. The philosophical possibilities of experimenting with everyone to know everything is frowned upon by on all governments founded by white men. Wars have been created and people have been slaughtered! There can be peace on earth! But everyone needs to unite and eliminate prejudices and stigmas and live as people naturally, and sexually. There is balance in this universe and "living organisms" are true examples.

Women and men reproduce, to create another part of a balance. The universe, however, is impossible to ever completely understand, and the possibility of understanding it is an idealistic facade. We don’t know why women and men balance out the way they do (with an occasional mutation among humankind), but it balances with the universe. But sexuality is the purpose and the weapon, the heaven and the hell, the good and the bad and the euphoria of possibility. It’s denied in society with a civilization where one certain type of group can be the best and create power. And this balance is the key to all knowledge achieved by biology to "attract to reproduce"/"win wars". That kind of war is not in our power as humankind.

Men are a species and women are a species. To be human is to be an element of the evolving universe. Homosexuality usually isn’t a threat because it provides understanding, but in this world ruled by men, it isn’t! To compare humankind to a basic principle of the universe, the atom, a woman is a proton and a man is an electron. "Mutations" are neutrons. The man has the negative, aggressive nature and women are usually kind-minded and nurturing. But in a society where sexuality defines women, women are up against each other.

People are an element in the universe, and we reproduce due to gender aggression, or realistically, physics. We’re recycled stardust, after all. The point of this hypothesis is to provide an ideal for Utopia, where everyone is bisexual, but men and women are forever reproducing. Everyone is "wild" but wise and having *** to pro-create and understand our kind. We are evolutionary atoms. And love is two very powerful charges reacting strongly in a sequence. That’s what the universe does, it expands and creates.

The products of Earth—topography, geology, history, anatomy, biology, philosophy, physics, chemistry, oceanography, zoology and psychology–expand and create as well. Maybe there is a Great Creator, but it’s not comparable to the negativity created in the religions dominating societies.  It’s essentially what created the entire universe, not just what’s on earth, and not just humans. Humans, animals, plants, weather, planets and stars are all recyclables. We on earth are equally products of the universe, and after we die we’ll become something else. But religion, humanity and science aside, something made this universe. Something made our life and ability to think with secrets and balance, and whatever it is, it’s a ******* creative.

Welcome to Manila.

Feel free to fill your lungs with the nocturnal breeze

Signed by the nation's capital as it flows its life on the roads that lie under the moon's lunar glow.

The scents of Sampaguitas, rugby, human excrement, and the smell of burning gasoline

Constituting the sources of a rising problem that pollutes the air of a land

A land where people ignore the screams of health issues

For the latest news about events in the envied personal lives

Of hypocritical second-rate and overpaid actors who have become the annoying faces

Of household television screens in the Philippines.


To the left you'll see a wooden cart filled with discarded recyclables that serve as a livelihood by day,

And a bed by night as it stands on the road lined with the gutters

The gutters that serve as stomachs of the city, the only stomachs of the city that aren't suffering

From starvation and Ulcers as they are filled to the brim with the population's toxic waste,

Reeking into the air with a stench that only compliments

The smells of poverty and corruption, as the taxes that are meant to pay for progress

Are redirected to the politician's own pockets to be spent on his prostitutes and casino gambling.


Hear the music of manila; the harmonious sounds of infants that weep

As they are trapped in a living nightmare as they toss and turn and try to sleep along the roads

Buzzing with the sounds of beeping horns through the late rush hour traffic

Mixed with the sounds of the occasional clink of the falling silver peso coin into beggars' cups,

And other  homeless people  under the delusional impression

That pedestrians actually care for their well being and listen to their creaking voices

As they beg for spare change, while deep down they beg and pray

For a total change in the states of their starving lives.


The dark reveals the most candid face of the nation

like an ironic twist in nature as in the shadows, more is seen than under the burning  light of the
pretentious day.

The street lights are like the eyes that witness  ice picks piercing innocent  flesh
and purses being taken from passers-by

While in the shadows of alleys nobody sees the slow and painfully traumatic scenes
of young teen-aged girls being *****

And motorcycle gangs that rain semi-automatic ammunition into skulls of lawyers just stopping by at Shell for gasoline.

Seldom heard in the air are the faint whispers in heads that hold the scattered thoughts and memories
of depressed drug addicts walking along Chinatown near the railroad tracks

Inhabited by people who blame their neighbors, their families, and the government,

And never blame themselves for their lives that have brutally fallen beneath the vicious line of everlasting poverty.

We're the dirt inside your trash bins
The lonely, awkward has-beens
Dead for the night
Could you turn on the light?

Capturing scenes from fashion shows in the past, Glamourizing Ladies And Men modeling hosted their annual spring fashion show.

The event was a runway-style fashion show, with looks recreated from GLAM’s past. The show also featured talents ranging from poetry and singing to painting.

Patrick Davis, a senior general studies major, and Christina Brown, a freshman biological sciences major, hosted the show.

The introduction of the show was called “Once Upon a Time.” The scene was from a 2012 show and centered on a little girl’s favorite fairytales taking a twisted turn in her dreams.

It opened with the little girl getting told bedtime stories from her father.

After getting the stories read to her, the rest of the GLAM models emerged from under her bed and began to torment the little girl.

The ladies of GLAM then emerged for a scene named “Pop Art.”

“Pop Art” was created in 2012 and incorporated the use of recyclables such as newspaper, duct tape, water bottles, cups and more in the model’s outfits.

The models were dressed in outfits that they created.

The first model wore a dress made out of a plastic bag and yellow caution tape.

The next model wore a dress that was fitted and made of plastic bags and duct tape.

There was a flare skirt made out of newspapers, and another skirt was made using old magazines.

There was also a fitted skirt made only of caution tape and a flare skirt made of white foam cups.

The final outfit of the scene was a dress made of black plastic bags and caution tape. The caution tape was also made into a necklace.

The following scene was titled “Lust/Burlesque.”

Burlesque was created in 2013 for GLAM’s Halloween show “The Seven Deadly Sins.” It incorporated tasteful dancing and runway style walking.

This scene opened up with three models dressed in all black attire, performing a dance routine.

The models hit the stage in several costumes, many of which were handmade by the models themselves.

One model wore black shorts, a black cropped shirt and blue high heels with blue and white wings.

Another outfit used a cheetah print swimsuit, with pink coverings and a back piece made of twigs and feathers.

Alexis Scott, a junior pre-nursing major, performed her poetry piece titled “Honest Truth.”

In her poem, she spoke about a broken relationship with her father. She also spoke about hiding all of her feelings and often putting on a fake smile to the world.

“Yesterday I tripped on my self-esteem and landed on my pride,” Scott said.

The next scene of the show was titled “Concrete Jungle.”

This scene was adopted from a 2014 show and featured business attire with a fashionable twist.

Outfits from this scene included a pleated black dress with white stripes at the bottom, a gray handbag, and black heels.

Another outfit included a purple blazer, a crème and yellow floral printed top, black dress pants and black high-heeled shoes.

A model wore a blue fitted miniskirt, a black and white cheetah print satin shirt and black heels.

The scene after this was titled “Criminology” and was taken from a 2011 show titled “FAME University.”

This scene gave a glimpse into the mind of a woman when she has snapped.

The scene opened up with red flashing lights with four models doing a dance routine to Beyoncé’s “Ring the Alarm” and a monologue.

The monologue told the story about how each woman killed their husbands. The models wore outfits such as black shorts, black leather shirts, black boots and black high heels.

In a talent section, while Keyana Latimer, a sophomore sociology major sang, she was accompanied by Taleiya Baker, a junior music education major.

While they were singing, D’Ajah Douglas, a freshman studio art major, and Yasmine Washington, a freshman studio art major, painted pictures while Latimer also performed a tap dancing piece.

The show concluded with a final walk from all of the GLAM models wearing black and purple shirts with GLAM Modeling written on them, blue jeans and high heels.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

The City lights blinked out forever--literally overnight--with a sudden finality that caught even the most nuclear-winter-prepared/Guns N Ammo reading/Campbell's canned soup and distilled-water stocked/backyard-fallout-shelter-owning-survivalists completely off guard. Armageddon had always been there, sleeping just beyond the horizon line of our periphery, but it awoke fully clothed and ready to go to work that day.
It was an ordinary Thursday, just like any other. The MUNI lines were choked as always with angry elderly women clutching plastic shopping bags full of pungent vegetables, poultry, and recyclables as if their lives depended upon the contents of those bags (maybe they did) and the usual gaggle of gibberish-mumbling crazies talking to themselves with cellphones plugged into their brains, some without. 
That day, baristas were 5 minutes, 23 seconds late for work on a city-wide average. Bartenders were making their rent in tips as rowdy soccer fans converged in their local Sunset, Richmond, Mission and SOMA district faux-Irish pubs to watch the latest big championship match between Ireland and...some other country.
By Saturday, less than two days later, the desperate siren-blare of emergency vehicles, the insect hum of DPT tri-bikes carrying cutthroat ninja-sneaky meter maids ready to make their weekly quotas by slipping bogus $55 parking tickets under the windshield-wiper of your best friend's beat-up, barely-working mid-90s Mazda you were borrowing just for the night, and the cloud-cutting rotary-whine of channel 5 news traffic-report helicopters chopping through the sky had been silenced forever.  
As if sensing the absence of gardeners, street sweepers and garbage men, weeds grew out of the cracks of the streets and sidewalks with the newfound urgency of a wildfire. Leaves swirled through glass and concrete skyscraper canyons, settled, and slowly began forming mounds as if attempting to fill the spaces that angry elderly women with plastic shopping bags, cellphone schizophrenics, and drunken soccer fanatics had once occupied.
Speculation about how the End of the World would actually occur had always been a theological reference point for religious zealots hell-bent on giving the Book of Revelations some validity, but had taken on a tone of comical absurdity in the hands of post-Y2K pop culture and disaster movies. A horde of zombies rising from their graves and feeding on the flesh of small bands of living human survivors was one of the more popular, albeit fantastic, apocalyptic theories. Some predicted that robots would enslave us, some thought aliens would invade us, while still others--baring signs reading "THE END DRAWTH NIGH," arms stretched meaninglessly up towards the hollow heavens in the sky above--believed biological or nuclear warfare to be the most likely form of humanity's demise.
But by the following Thursday, speculation had become a moot point; none of it had mattered at all in the end as the power-grid of the City, and then human civilization altogether, had been suddenly switched off for the last time by an alcoholic rent-a-god, leaving the face of the globe devoid of any trace of the spiderweb-night-glow of terrestrial city-lights. 
Only the birds in the sky and the fish in the sea were spared to fill the blank pages of history that were to follow human(kind's) fading footprints.

*

Aeons later...
When those birds learned to read, they would see cryptic symbols inside a crooked heart jaggedly carved into a tree trunk surrounded by a mote of fallen leaves and ragged newspaper pages blowing through the streets like tumbleweeds.
Aeons later...
Those tree-scratched symbols would form the sacred commandments of a secret new religion built upon the ashen, worm-eaten remains of two skeletons holding hands and a ****** trail of broken hearts trailing from their ribcages into the worm-mouths of babes.

My wife always nags me.
This seems to be a problem with most women I marry.
Or most women in general.
They all nag me.
I'm laid back.
Or as my past wives say,
"lazy".
Sure, you could say that,
but I prefer the term,
laid back.
Anyway,
so my wife is always nagging me.
"Do the dishes" she says.
"Do the laundry" she says.
"Vacuum the house" she says.
Eventually, I would do it.
But the nagging got worse.
"Fix the squeaky front door" she says.
"Clean out the gutters" she says.
"Sort the trash from the recyclables" she says.
Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore.
I had enough.
So I took my wife,
and threw her in a vat of acid.
I watched as her skin slowly melted off her body,
like ice cream melting on an ice cream cone,
minus the stickiness.
I watched her hair dry up,
and disintegrate into nothing.
Her fingernails slowly fell off,
and her eyes began to slip out of her head,
as she let out a final scream.
She looked just as beautiful as she did the first day I met her.
My eyes feasted on the greatness before them,
although it does get kind of boring after the fourth time.
Nonetheless, I still enjoyed it.
There's nothing like throwing your half asleep wife in a vat of acid on a cold Sunday morning.

after seeing a dutch boy spit in a polish girl's face because of a friendly conversation, i don't need some Irish telling me what to say apart from I.R.A. in the skip of the other recyclables.*

as books go, we can speak all we want on the
colour of defeat -
you can make a Lenin-firecracker from any man,
any man a killer -
the revival of the Holy Roman Empire simply
moved slightly to the east - it already looks like that -
if the French far right think the exit of Britain
was a favourable scenario, well, it doesn't have
the Algerian philosopher Camus to care -
former colonial nations undermined the European
project - too much suntan from India and the
Caribbean - Germany wasn't a colonial nation,
Italy was a joke in Ethiopia - a joke that morphed
into reggae - it was never going to be stable,
times changed, the Hungarians forgot the Austrians,
if they thought a British exit was the broker piece
they found the economic stronghold
in Frankfurt a week later - past colonialists
an equilateral respect for each European neighbour -
apart from the English channel the English chose -
i admire Voltaire's theism, but not his liking
for the sausage and oily stigma -
accept post-colonial subjects, discriminate against
fellow Europeans - join the "shoot a ******" saga
of America - former colonial nations destroyed
the European Union dreams, they found no *******
in the Baltic region, to their grievance...
what a loss! no gold! only flint and salt mines!
and the question still hangs about:
who will pick the strawberries in July in England?
the benefit billionaires? the wet shave heiresses?
what about the Brazilian bikini wax?
get more Irish in? will Ms. Burqa of Sudan
take out an umbrella and roll up her sleeves to pick 'um?
is Hajj tourism adequate to see a stampede outside
of Pamplona? i mean, it's a revision of the
British "go home" Empire... you wonder how many
times the pumpernickel fairy heard that one -
and there was the gingerbread man breaking a leg
to claim benefits as a dyslexic diabetic saying: i can't go on...
i can't go on... make this slice of cake a discus throw
into itemising a respectable calorie intake, 'cos i think
i sat on a guitar that was debited into a loan -
a man ended up paying for a broken guitar without
a Bon Jovi singalong - oi oi uncle Ben's quinoa salmon
healthy food in the hood and McHappy bottom's-up -
colonial nations and identifiers as such made the European
project a one of bereavement - unnaturally racist,
unnaturally with white v. white and the incubator of
their former whips turned into whipping of tongues -
the Jews have left Poland, they have left Europe -
time for the old alliances to be constructed -
and i wonder, what internal alliance will be made
from former colonial masters and former colonial slaves -
if the "placebo" to be ingested is current America... well,
not much to go around.

Mechanic
Photographer
Writer
Poet
Boy genius
Slacker
Son ?
Dad ?
Dad
What else do I see in the mirror
Why does the thought of me being you scare me in the most exciting way
We fight
You speak better with your fist than you ever have with words
And what if one day my words are jumbled in the cracking of knuckles
Don't cry son
Big boys don't cry
Choke it back
Be strict in a lenient way and
One day it will be you hated
One day it will be you who fight with the mother of your children
And stop fighting with the mother of mine
Why do you do this
Why is she crying again

Oh my god I am just like you
We are two of the only men that can bring her to tears
Say you'll leave
Say you'll leave and make her fall
She keeps grasping you In a picture


The Funeral :
which one of us will die first
With your old age
And my stupid addictions
If it were me would you cry
If it were you would I
No matter what would happen.
I gave an arm for you
And I would proudly give more

I look back to days of fishing in a creek
Getting our feet wet but still walking with shoes on because broken glass isn't forgiving in the slightest way

Where was your alcoholic rage that should have been passed down from generations above you
Where was that Irish man temper with a Portuguese flare
Where were you when the police picked me up and I was no longer your son
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
But somethings need to be burned
That trash cans with recyclables called to my eco friendly egotistical pyromaniac self

The words echo like that slap in the face At our kitchen table
You are dead to me
You were born first.
But on that day, I would die last.  

As time flies
Your health isn't standing
I'm slowly being force to migrate as the head of this house
This broken family with my brother moving up the street
Somehow still by your side
Out of one side of his mouth saying I love but out of the other side cursing your lies

Two daughters, that will be nothing like us
Two daughters that will be brought up in a broken generation  
Two daughters that put hammer to the nail finalizing the responsibilities that follow the title of
I an uncle
He a father
And you an elder

With these children around I've made the full discovery of something that has always been there

Through the hard times you've stuck by our side.
I love you dad

so,

i saw a piece of you
the other day.
i found you out in the yard.

and. i used to find you
                everyday,
but,

we are the inside of a silverware drawer when the lights go out.
We are an old can of soda
we are the underside of a frying pan.the hinges of medicine cabinet mirror.the back of a fake hand gun

a pocketfull of chemical hand warmers

The washing label on shrunken, favorite, sweatshirt-
storeboughtstarmarketpumpkinpie.
Brooding at the breakfast table.
a telephone that rings when you don’t want it to.
we are nylon down vest- reversible-  tucked inbetween
arm and
oilskin hat.
We are dead houseplants.

homemade radiator covers,
feet under the covers
we are  waking up
we are slacking off in class.hating other people.wading into bathtubwater. I. hurt her daughter

polished like a powderhorn.hurting like a can of vegetarian baked beans.
like an old pocketknife.

we are
pantsless in the hallway. we are backyard garden. we are tripping over the recyclables on a sunday.    
we are good radio song.
we wanted garlic.butter we got hotdogs instead.
That’s supermarket poetry. It hit us.
golden and radiant-
as the smiles in the   cereal aisle.
And it was cold outside.

the milk froze in the car

Much has been lost
Has been wasted
In vain
Have I granted
More former
Engagements
A claim
Have I harbored
More harbingers
Of my demise
Was I born
Have I worn
This whole time
A disguise
Was I really there
With her
Do I awake
Days
Have unnervingly
Quickened
Their pace  
I’m afraid
That it goes
All for not
But our scars
And tattoos
As our bones
Feed the earth
And the life it renews

bah bah black sheep... ok... the black sheep knuckled you to sleep
and now you’re asking for directions using a map and not a satellite navigation
across europe, esp. tremendous in germany near dortmund
and the rhine cities getting confused... but that’s no reason
to drive with ease from new jersey to florida with a glum pickers' pride
en route... i can play the ‘i spy with my little’ game into midnight passing me and spare myself inventive optics -
like shadow like hallucination in consistency, both flimsy,
i can recognise the real filth from packaged recyclables
from the orient.
well there’s that and there’s old russell the schizoid affective
outside tesco drinking a bottle of old speckled hen
and talking about snowfalls... 3 / 4 years ago last time i spotted
saint clause... i slipped and imagined myself breaking a knee...
didn’t happen... what happened was was a clearer truth:
why this fake image stimulant... i cant’ watch the stars
but have to subconsciously watch candy crush?
it’s ****! i want the days within the insignia of war,
i don’t want my subconscious patented with candy crush,
i want the stars to remain... better an autocrat than a technocrat...
at least a human face... adolf touchy-feely,
here we go...
i imagine all those rivers of heraclitus concerning a coordinate
known as a waterfall... and post-humous exactness expressing peace...
then i spot picasso on the roof outside my bedroom window...
i support his elevation through evangelicalism from halo to angels wings...
you know what the three wise babylonians said...
you scared them to egypt you idiot announcing reign of the ditto,
you scared them them with myrrh, melchior you’re already close to malachi,
that will do... look at it... it’s babylonian already...
it’s a babylon of orthodox christianity (greek / russian), catholicism,
protestantism, baptists, pantheists and other offshoots
like being mormon!
well you can never make an omelette by the dozen involved
without asking the thirteenth egg: chicken or egg first? crucifix?! oh.

I know the quietest way
to crack an egg.
The softest way to close
a door. How to pour
the water into a tilted
glass so it doesn't splash
back. A bird chirps at
just under sixty decibels.
A light bulb sings at
fifteen. I dream
of polymer chains snapping
clean, recyclables humming
to each other at night
while they biodegrade
at a rate negligible
to the human timescale.
Twenty decibels: the chiral
calcite spiral of the snail
when it falls to the sand,
when it dies,
when a girl apologizes
for asking a question.

The rain drops drizzling
On the aluminum awning
Reminds me of the way your hands
Would gracefully tease piano keys
And make the most beautiful sound.
A man so kind he makes heartbreak
Taste like honey and settle the same way
On your tongue,
A sweetness savored,
from a sour savior.
I sort stale feelings like recyclables,
But can’t bring myself to throw anything away.
The way your floor is littered with pens and pennies,
Makes me think of how when you arrive home,
You empty the day and your pockets onto the ground
In a most imperfect fashion
When you are alone.
A crack in the mask
And a chasm in façade.
I deserve you,
Whether that is as a consequence
Or reward,
I will never know
For so bittersweet it has been to know you.

this guys venom, that guy is carnage, some other dude is playing the role of oh to hell with these supposed "guardian angels" / demons of want of conscience... if i'm spotted in public talking... can you please see that I'm talking to my ******* shadow?! wer wachen mich?! engel, dämon, that third breed of creatures... genius?! nein nein nein! mein schatten... i talk to my shadow, obviously i try to do so outside the realm of where people congregate... not football stadiums... a forest, a graveyard at night... this here is RIOT... me? i am MAYHEM... i was born in May... when the Chernobyl spectacular happened... ergo? i'm mayhem... oh i've seen this done... 6ft5 guys talking about being all hard... i'm only 6ft2... the girls have this funny argument when dealing with football fans: but you wouldn't talk to your mother, your sister your daughter like that... it's a football match... great line of defence... me... 10 shifts down... i don't think i've had any beef doing this steward business... i just look the part... i don't get any trouble... i do get compliments: oh... looking smart ol' chap... first line of defence? look presentable... look authoritative... to hell with being built like a brick-*******... give them some time... wait a while... chances are i too might... roll my eyes back... hide my irises and my pupils and only peacock the sclera of my eyes... but by then i'll be all berzerker mode... i'm ******* gagging for a physical altercation... like, i was watching this mini-series on the BBC about the 4 killings... 4 lives? yeah, about those killings in Barking circa 2019... 4 killings might qualify you as a serial killer... but what a ******* ******... he collected toys... he killed by injecting the poor sods with a drug that alleviated their homosexual inhibitions, perhaps gave them a hard-on... whatever... people killed by pseudo-autistic... o.k. they were killed by a ****** and not some Ted Bundy... not some Jack the Ripper: the mythological son of Cain... who... will never get caught... police at work... great Scotland Yard... a ****** just killed four gay boys and you're bound to ******* paperwork as the "real" police work... no wonder, eh? the killer was a ******* ******! then again, i also blame the victims... some people are just outright painfully - obviously... dodgy... why associate yourself, or even live... with people with absolutely no charisma?! no bravado? if you're going to get killed... at least make sure they kiss you before they stab you... what?! if i were to **** someone i'd shave my beard, shave my hair... i'd make sure it happened in a forest, at night, with a full-moon... and i'd kiss them while stabbing them at a crux point; i am "Judas": i am "Cain"... if someone is going to **** you... you want some ******* dimensions, at least 3: 3 will do nicely... but this killer... run-of-the-mill average Joe... great policing: clap clap... where's the nearest party? no. 10, Downing St.? on it! no one wants to be killed by a ******* socially awkward ******... a tornado, a tsunami... anything but this sort of *******! i grind my teeth... i have to grind my teeth... i feel like resurrecting Robespierre!

giddy like a ******* school girl, i seriously thought that
this part of me was dead, long gone, bye-bye...

i could have admired Bukowski in my 20s... and 20 year old
might... but i had a little think about it:
sure, i'm not surprised he could brag
about all the women he slept with,
why the FBI might have been interested in him...
but, then again, he was writing at a time
when... what?
                          erm... world war II happened...

most of the men who went off to war didn't come
back... plenty of ***-starved: bereaved women...
sounds like paradise...
hell... a postman: that also writes poetry on
the side...
                and i will never forgive the publishers
for this... Kafka explicitly implored for his books
to be printed in large print...
guess what most of Kafka is printed as...
in the small print...
                           almost subscript lettering...
and i'm not exaggerating...

but fire-**** Bukowski even though he wrote
sparingly (considering the oeuvre of other writers):
MASSIVE ******* PRINT...
CAN SEE IT FOR MILES...
COULD BE USED AS STREET SIGNS...
fair?
            
            it always happens... as you get older...
first you admire someone, then you... not exactly despise
them but... admire them less: you have your own
**** to deal with and when it comes to a democracy...
well... we're not going to admire the Quran
by the likes of things, are we? we might be a
bibliophile civilisation but that's hardly going
to make us become chained to just one book...

who wrote? didn't a woman write the Quran...
the older, business minded first wife of Muhammad...
Khadira? Khadija? ****... it's the latter...
write the first and you're going into Godzilla
territory (phonetically)... did she write the first surahs...
or what... magic pen, magic paper,
magic hand of an illiterate person wrote it?
after all... wasn't ol' Mo rejected by the Mecca crowd
and had to ******* to Medina?

then again... how did he come across the teachings
of the Docetics - a Gnostic cult that... is currently sitting
pretty at the zenith of Islamic orthodoxy?
anyway... meditate on this, meditate on that...
i'm currently meditating on Gemma...

oh, but i was fuming throughout the day...
i worked maybe too shifts with this **** of a silly girl
who's studying for a law degree...
wants to become a barrister... talk in court...
but can hardly conjure herself up to steward shifts
at events...
she came up with this crap about how:
there are too many old white men
in the practice of jurisprudence...
she isn't Pakistani... she's Sikh or Hindu or...
never mind: i tell her... as long
as a meritocracy is place...
      what... too many whiteys in India?!
too many whites in Kenya?
so... what's the ******* reasoning?!

i'm too polite... i just wait... i wait until people
buckle under their own argumentation,
mind you: i write, i breathe...
but then i focus on something... something...
much more... precious...
Gemma...
what the **** is wrong with me?
why have i turned into this teenage boy?
am i going back to high-school?
am i going to ask her for a photograph
so i can sketch a picture of her face?

red flags everywhere...
she was impregnated by an abusive alcoholic...
who battered both her and her son...
but if whiskey could be used to mould:
she literally is ms. amber: fräulein bernstein...
i'm getting butterflies in my stomach...
having met her on a shift on Saturday
i stopped jerking off...

    come off it: i ******* like i take a **** or take a ****
or take a shower... it's my:
no. 1, 2, 3 & 4 rule... no... no scented candles...
it's like exercise... i want to keep *** out of my head...
like i want to keep germs out of my head...
Gemma... what the **** is wrong with you
that's right with me...
3 days without jerking off?
wow! that's almost coming to the stamina
i achieve when i used to visit my grandparents
and could go absentee ******* shuffle
for over a month - when my grandfather was still
alive...

prior to: 35... still always want to ****...
if not thinking about *******...
waiting to **** a ******* and jerking off
just after squeezing out a loaf on the throne of thrones...
the ergonomics of manhood...
well... she's not a ******... she's not... "available":
just watch the movie: as good as it gets
to get the picture... single mum...
my prospects? on the pile of recyclables...
if she went for a "***** donor" that later became
an abusive alcoholic...
what is... an artistic alcoholic like myself to do
about her poor decisions?!

the **** am i? Claudius Maximus X...
  that ancient Rome fetish for fostering children...
uncles becoming fathers etc.?!
oh yeah, that's still in me...
but what has Gemma done?
put a having iron maiden ****** on my phallus...
prior to... **** anything that moves...
literally... Thai surprise... a Turkish *******...
ooh... oh oh: **?
now i'm only thinking about her...
Gemma Gemma Gemma...
ginger English rose...
                                   *****!

she fixated herself in my mind...
i think of her my testicles suddenly swarm like...
parasite infested wounds... my ******* are tingling
and i feel like circumcision is on the horizon:
like **** it is... ******* with your Hebrew / Arab
practices...

     Gemma, girl... you know how to drive a man...
crazy... i've been with a few prostitutes...
but this, darling... is something best associate
with the "upper shelf"...
i'm going nuts & bolts &           peanuts?!

it best happen to you:
you meet a girl & you stop thinking about jerking off
or going to a brothel...
sure... she's like a Pablo Picasso 'weeping woman'...
but no... you're looking for
  
   o.k. **** that cubist approach... Pythagoras somehow...
no, he wasn't... the woke brigade broke rank
and motivated me...

it's either Picasso's ******* or it's... i'm not even
going claim the Mona Lisa to be the pinnacle...
PERRONNEAU's
   Madame de Sorquainville...
   meint gott: das lächeln? fast, alles!

ich wollen: chaos!
               unbelebt dinge erscheinen mehr...
   unbelebt, dinge-veranlangt?!

oh Gemma Gemma...
what have you woken?!
        i imagine myself fathering someone else's child...
why? i can keep a distance akin to:
pet a cat, or a dog, recently?
same... father someone else's child = pet a cat...
like i don't come with a ******* exoskeleton...
like i'm... not capable of...
serial ******... i sniff fear...

                              ich abwarten;
ich hegen: die ältere sprache...
                                                    die wurzel!

              obviously if i will not get any *** from Gemma...
enough time passes... what?! cower in some
variations of the middle-class sensbility,
watch the ******* t.v.?
i''ll be scouting for some ***... i'm not even 40 yet...
of course i'll be... i somehow try to forget chewing on
my tongues... feeding into her inhibitions
of chewing on her tongues...
oh Gemma, Gemma... you are such a lovely lass!

i wish... i could have married you...
time, that ******* thief!
oh well... but i could be the supposed father that's your
son's uncle... "uncle"... then again...
so few women allow access to even these...
if fathers are not allowed access...
why should "uncles" be given access?
great! send in the psychiatric nurses!

i would sooner send in... death!
none of this supposed prescription of life...
is worth living... not under the feminine
mantra of the western world;
perhaps in Africa... but no here...
not, *******, now!

Hustle and bustle of underground merry plaza showcase, the underbelly, the underlife, the true essence of the show going on at 8, men speaking rhythmically, eating quickly, with waste boxes, recyclables, the news is digestible, a man forages for answers in his phone, digging with his thumbs, and another reaches through the speaker to try to hear the close, the head anchored up, the scarf hanging at the direction towards the sun, oh the glamorous walls and the anxious souls, oh the marble staircase and the jansport backpack, more cleaning services than surfaces, less times more money, more money, less time, time is like money, it freezes and then it flows, what was the expression again?  Only the smell of coffee is lucrative, only the stench of ***** diapers, babies, in a place like this, where murmers are murmurs and eat isn't required but fufilled then joked about over digestion, a proper coffee break, he is of an ash tray the men gossip, not directly, but imply, stick to facts but hierarchies fill in like water into a ravine, never obscene, silent struggles to an invisible top held by Rockefeller who is no longer in this world, his spirit keeps some sort of hope driving noses into the pizza lunches, and the limitless contemplaions, the tough desicions, men around coffee are women amidst vultures, who has a higher grasp, whose the one getting cursed, overdone, overpowered, the cards turning in silence, literally in glances, a polite face turns to a disappointed hatred in seconds, perfect, like a diamond

if i thought that prostitutes coming in at £2 per minute was bad... that's £120 per hour... the "engineers" at my local bicycle wholesaler come in at... £10 for 5 minutes work... changing the tube of a deflated tire... to hell with that... i'm going to invest in some tools... do it myself... walking past the shops in the mall while it rained... work... loitering... work... loitering... why is retail so... undermining the body? oh... i imagine escape with the mind is no good either... work as loitering... flick of the switch... it's hardly construction site antics of roofing... i'd sooner hang myself... but it's not like i can **** myself off... it's great that both she and me can boast about keeping personal hygiene to a zenith... complete shock when she performed ******* with rubber... pleasant shock... about five storms brewed in the sky over London while i hit a flat tyre near Rainham... well... what to do? walk the **** back... 4 miles...  but a thought arose...

i've heard this complaint... several times...
it's worded in many variations...
but the gist of it has the following words
arranged, thus:
i don't want to "merely" exist... i want to live!
Frankenstein had the same bother...
perhaps Frankenstein's angst makes sense
since it was conjured up by a woman...
while Frankenstein is burdened with existence:
per se...
he still pursues "life"...
ex-instance: out of, every - every(!) instance...
i was taking out the garbage:
massive freak for recycling...
i usually put out a ratio of 4 to 1...
orange recycling bags to one... slim... black...
bin-bag of recyclables...
i'm currently someone else's *****...
Pimm's... i'm pretty sure some ancient
Greek philosopher had a saying about
drinking someone else's alcohol...
oh... it's ease now...
but i know what i'm looking for...
it's only that much easier:
Diogenes the Cynic...
oddly enough it makes sense...
i feel like an English girl teasing her virginity:
long... long ago lost...
teasing with white lies...
talking nonsense during ***...
i **** like an animal: mute...
well.. if she let's me ******* inside of her...
oh... it happens once every half a decade...
do "they" have to speak during
*******: last words most poignant
where: in her bedroom...
'what would my father think
while i'm ******* you off...'
do i look like Oedipus... dearest Electra?
talk is beyond cheap during *******...
how about you show me your tongue...
as almost forever:
my eyes turn into two mouths...
my mouth turns into a socket
whereby my tongue becomes an eye...
while my head is sliced open
and a grand ear is lodged into the space
once occupied by fast-phlegm-of-brain:
freeze: i can remotely remember a 10 year old
moi leveraging the following statement:
i can't hear silence...
those words: exact...
i can't hear silence...
god i love to drink... what lot of life...
i love drinking more than:
perhaps if i loved ******* more i'd have
all the grazed knees and greased elbows
to go forth: into the world... with a pledge
of Darwinian beauty to: stare down
the stereotypical male archetype of:
spreading my d.n.a.
that one Thai surprise i picked up on a park
bench... enough strong beer
and enough jazz and she was... sloppy ***...
she even gave me a totem to remember
her while i dressed her in my shirt she
disappeared into while walking her home...
i ******* into my hand: rather than into her...
last time i checked Darwinism has no
place in the Freudo-Jungian schematic of
the atomised man...
consciousness is a flimsy affair...
given any focus for thought: ought-i? ought-i-not?
but still the angst of Frankenstein...
such burdens from mere existence...
such burdens that have to be translated
into... the pursuit of life...
me? i'm at the opposite end of the spectrum...
whatever happened when
Jason v. Michael took place...
well... what happened when
Frankenstein's (monster) took up a challenge
with Sisyphus...

it's the same old complaint:
by people who... come to think of it...
will not squeeze that much out of life
should they arrive at: "living" and not merely
"existing"...
however...
like today... with a flat tyre...
watching the sky for the direction
of the opera in the sky:
there was the thunder...
like a grunting... grumbling...
an empty... fasting stomach in the sky...
no lightning... i walked wishing to be struck dead
by a stroke of hey-zeus...

i remember that i exist:
more than i project the fact...
i remember that i exist...
more than i project that i do...

it has to be a mantra akin to: memento mori(a)...
by then it's impossible to love
or assert a posit for life
within the grounds of: well... it's not like
this will ever end...
watching the gymnastics: women... mostly...
no sorry ****** would attempt to undertake
the beam...
oh look... no need for only-fans:
but if all you're selling is...
selling bodygood-me-body-good-you...
that's fine...
what these girl gymnasts do...
what female tennis players get up to...
do girls really need to box?
**** it... let's see...
i'm asking for a compost of...
plum cherry and a prune...
i'm not going to paint those archaic
faces... dissolved under a niqab... just on a whim...
if they want a cat fight without nails all
manly: fists clenched:
let them... have... it!

i still don't understand the "underbelly" of
an argument that says:
existence is less than "life":
life's ****...
a flat tire and walking 4 miles while i
could have cycled 10 miles more
reduced me to a silence of the mind that re(a)d:
don't even bother thinking...
don't even try turning this inot
a cognitive narrative...
where's your pen? where's your paper?

all the greatest poignancies of essence
of life are encapsulated within the posit "bloopers"
of existence: per se...
life is ****... life is trivial...
i exist without pardon:
i recoil at seeing a maggot or a snail
or a spider...
my beginnings are hardly...
******* anaemic tadpole...

      to merely grasp the fact of existence...
will Frankenstein's monster argue:
subsequently: a life is necessary...
the life... well we all know what
the upper echelons of society prescribe:

let's be mean: "us": the poet gets... **** all...
the restaurant critic gets...
an umbrella for the rain...
paid load: newspapers...
toilet-paper should cost more than...
what weekend newspapers have to offer:
lazily bypassing dialectics...

i exist... a fact i remember from time to time...
i exist: it's not something i project forward...
life's... life is... pretty much **** in between...
but how people complain:
the mere fact of... midnight air...
while cycling to the brothel...
no... breathing itself: taking a ****...
that's not enough...
even eating... not enough...
the joys from the spices...
the cinnamon... not enough:
people, just... want... "life"...
by life... that implies invoking other people
to share your: "presence":
by that time... the people of want...
are... wanton... i don't want to be surrounded
by people who...

reminding oneself of being the recipient
of existence...
is... well... life fulfilling: in-itself...
i might not fly a F16 fighter jet...
or... make a cosmic trip to the moon...
but... i can provide a rhythm to
the pulse of a roundabout when i engage
with it on a ******* bicycle!
i like using much larger objects to my advantage...
a bus will sloth out from the starting
grid much slower...
what do i do?
i linger behind... i can match up its momentum...
fun fun fun...

within the categorization of "life" counter
"existence": by life i probably have to imply:
"essence"... and all that debacle:
does essence come before existence
or does existence come before essence?

i don't care much for "life": life is complicated:
life is drama... life is soap opera engagement...
life is disappointment...
existence... on the other hand...
reminiscence... spontaneity...
the full acquisition of the faculty of memory:
it's not that i must remember that i'm:
worm-food... i must know it...
knowledge of death must be burning at
my ******* groin...
it's not good merely focusing on memorising
that fabric of future events:
to remember death implies:
reincarnation... i'm not a big fan of reincarnation...
reincarnation implies:
zombies and only a fixed number
of worthy people jumping from body to body...
it implies:
the soul as being parasitical...
all of animation being parasitical...
this animation will never transcend
beside mere body toward a collective pursuit...

sure... call it something else...
if not soul then sigma or anima...
if you've ever seen a dead body in the morgue...
you'd know: this façade...

eh... i love to drink... i love to drink because:
even though i've love to **** a little bit more...
drinking never leaves me disappointed...
perhaps somehow... melancholic...
at the introspections i find...
to **** like the prowess of a game stallion...
that would require... doing the bidding of
other people... including myself:
i like to drink in order to undermine myself...
so drinking comes first...
******* comes second...
ambition is... long gone by the time i sieve
through all the music i want to listen to...
the books i want to read... sometimes i do:
read the books i want to... read...

hmm.. ****... humpf..
she has like a Lamborghini... a stomach like
a Genie...
what could existence possibly afford me?
the scent of cinnamon...
the taste of pint of Guinness...
a well constructed curry sauce...
life... on the other hand... "life":
a persistence of disappointment...
that i might have to share all these pleasures...
halve them...

why did it arrive in the mind of the most
atomised man that: essence comes prior
to existence?
there's nothing essential about existence...
there's only the existential existence...
scrap heap of: go toward the fabric of:
the in-between...
lately i stopped minding inter-racial
breeding antics...
given 2nd or 3rd "half-caste" inter-breeding:
depends on a woman's disgruntled taste...
wash up on the shores
of the sandpaper cliffs...
still not pickling ******* symbols in the juices
of ****...

you come across sandpaper skin...
these mulattos will fizzle out...
but i get it... if i were strapped to a whitey
beached whale... i'd want to be black...
otherwise all this... little bit of me...
cycling losing weight makes...
absolutely no... sense...
how did the black guys phrase it back
in high-school: more cushion for the pushing...
no wonder... if i were acquisitive of a 12"
phallus... i'd want... enough ***
to penetrate for her thrill: met...

hence my ***** envy disappears...
i'm left with beard envy...
oh god... chest and the whole worth of torso
a pirate's envy of kidding with pepper...

'i want to live! i don't want to merely exist!'
can one, merely...exist?
oh sure... one can live:
without ever once reaching for
clarifying what's essential to be alive...
to exist? i'm pretty sure that's missing on most people...
i like to rub my fingers on bricks...
tarmac... before i enter a brothel
and touch a *******'s body...
i like to impress myself with the sensation
of imitation: blind... when i read her body...

such that it makes sense...
the verve: lucky man...
a sing-along sort of a song...

let it flow: allow the walking abortions: oh wait...
too late: already conceived...
but thank god for the Olympics...
the male swimmers have the sexiest bodies...
not the sprinters... the swimmers...
much ado about the torso...
but it's so gladdening watching the Olympics...
all body: shapes and sizes
are... sized up...

the body build-up to swim
is not the same sort of a body
associated with lifting weights...
or performing judo...
or sprinting... or undertaking the high-jump...
if one British athlete decides to "take the ******* knee":
Olympics is ruled by a spirit of: all-inclusivity...
you testify racism at the Olympics...
you testify that... Jesse Owens didn't make
****** uncomfortable at the 1933 Olympics...

you bring your politics to the Olympics:
you best cancel Olympics...
sure... take the knee...
take two... i'll gladly kneecap you while
you're at it... just to make sure you forget
both running at a sprint... or walking...
black racists  will not undermine
a healthy atmosphere of:
some of us are born lesser...
some of us are born superior...
all of us aim at managing what we're best at...

me, drinking... no... i hardly think anyone
can match up to me...
i persist to drink yet retain a pedantic attitude
in relation to spelling, punctuation...
i say: ******* from posit A...
rekindle... eastern Africans... Kenyans...
are much darker than western Africans...
Nigerians... no wonder that among
the macaques i was admiring...
ivory beauties...
i forgot their skin colour:
coconut oil in the moonlight...
i was reminded of their teeth and the sclera
of their eyes...

itchy... ******* itchy... i'm so itchy...
itch after itch... i'm itching... itchy...
     itchy... i'm galvanized by some ulterior motif
of a reflex i won't be able to control..
i'll plead: not-guilty....
not because i am...
                  but to conjure enough
dissonant-custard of...
readily accessed pie-bypass that: i will not:
readily give... itchy... itchy... always with this
*******: itch!

honest to god or no god... this was supposed to be merely about a comparison of two bicycles... a road-bike viking... bought for £125 years ago... the chain was all rusty... the wheels were deflated... and a trek marlin 5... bought for £495... which... comes to think of it... only just now... seems like a waste of money... tired rubber... 3 punctures of the wheels... and it only took me 3 months of testing it... for the tyres to be: worth jack-****... double-sure on the condoms should the Irish come knocking

perhaps w. h. auden was right when saying that:
all the Hitlers of the world write at night...
i like writing at night... i like the fascination
with being up while in the vicinity everyone's
is off to the land of Nod...
perhaps w. h. auden was right:
perhaps all the dejected pederasts write
while basking in the sun... cowering into
shadows... i know a little about w. h. auden...
it only took me the time to read
harold norse's memoir: " of a ******* angel...
a dejected old queen...
oh... but between w. h. auden... pretty rhymes...
i still don't know what's keeping
walt whitman afloat...
well... since so few women write books
worth reading: perhaps they write the most
honest poems...
it's not out of some misogyny that i don't read
literature by women...
i'm a massive fan of Pashtun poetry:
Afghan women and their landays:
their little horror debacle...
but no woman is going to write herself into:
naked... revealing... child-like...
she has too much mystique to sacrifice:
to give up...
she's not going to write from anywhere
other than the posit of the ideal:
whether it's the ideal of who she thinks she is:
or the ideal she's looking for...
two made it... Bukowski made the money...
i know... he wasn't a woman...
and Sylvia Plath... perhaps that Sexton Lady...
it's not even cute: it's exasperating...
it's a drowning man searching for a razor blade's
edge to save himself from drowning...
even i: given enough time...
am... bothersome... meeting up with...
the Titans translated into:
pillars or... hardly salt... just the pedagogic
blockade... it would be easier to revise
perspectives with a Copernican:
he moved the earth while stopping the sun...
that would be easier... than to shift: Shake-a-Pear
into a heap of recyclables..
- i hate myself when i start borrowing
either katakana or Hangul...
how i admire these writing systems...
vowels disappear... integrated into consonants
that have no leg to stand on... beside the N...
how two consonants: lost in phonetics...
but necessarily distinguished in writing
are so hard to find...
B'AH C'AH... vowel catcher hatch: indicator for:
B'AH: not Bay...
              self-evident truth from where i'm
originally from... no! b'ah!
irksome throughout the day:
a second time i'm quitting smoking...
i'm not going to quit it...
a cigarette at the end of the day...
some wine...
i wish i could still play video-games...
no... wait... i don't...
the solitary bat flying around my eucalyptus tree
chasing moths and other lesser creatures...
me strapped to the moment
watching the win caress the eucalyptus tree:
it's almost as if someone let me off my leash
from a monastery...
like acid poured into my ears:
flaky high-follower count debates...
i don't think the sort of people clued into reading
a book... detached from a comment section:
sure... well-read... well-read people...
eclectic minds... regurgitating journalistic endeavours...
since journalists are paid
and poets aren't: you don't rhyme... ******!
don't expect payment when not boxed: with rhyme...
last time i heard... Horace didn't bother either:
authentically: if i'm not going to have a conversation...
poetic soliloquy...

my soliloquy... someone else's voyeurism...
dad rock... budka suflera - noc...
robert plant - morning dew... darkness darkness....

well of course i will read ****-****** literature:
i'm not a big fan of nuns...
women and their curtain dressing...
i want to love them as much as i don't
want to understand... keep me as target of my
own demise in a man orientated world...

- the beauty of a machine that works well...
i'm still flabbergasted... i just saw a gingerbread
cookie of a man run into a cave,
shout... and leave no traces of an echo...
ooh! the sort of face most associated
with Kenyan macaques...
who... project a ****** expression of fear
onto that, which... gives them fear...

Kenya... i was there for the ivory beauties...
the adventure of finding shade...
the cheap brandy... and feeding the macaque
monkeys some sugar sachets...
while entertaining myself on the balcony
with: inanimate things...
twitchy eye: tree! i saw you move!

it's a bicycle it's not a road-taxed mechanisation:
i very much like things i can use
to their full potential: whereby i invest in
creating my own momentum...
slim: slimmer... slimmest...
now that i have a clenched chest
of pirate rage having done some press-ups
in awkward positions: more yoga
than... not as many stomach crunches...
i like the idea of a tender stomach...
all the limbs can be orchestrated to:
well oiled... best of the best juiced...
but the stomach... area...
i like it tender...
to imitate the whole of woman... sketched
in braille...
cat grooming... which originally prompted me
when she stuck up her *** into my face
and i started whizz-kid searching
for an outlet...
i promised myself i'd be back
on scout's honour: prompt...
looks like i haven't been so honest
with either her or myself...
my moustache has grown to the point
where my lips are hiding... tender: slim...
my neck has disappeared...
i've started to drink and become pensive
and therefore: started to imitated playing
a violin while fiddling with a beard...

but i did trim my ***** so they might appear...
like a laurel bush...
or a lemon tree...
maybe i'll get my libido spontaneity back
when i have to tend to grooming the cats...
it's the closest prospect of "translation"
i'll arrive at... since: with cats...
no muzzle... not leash... no kink...
no latex... come to "think" of it...
thank god i don't get enough of "it"...
give me a spectacle of one: done proper...
every half-a-decade...
i couldn't stomach it everyday...
it's enough that i have everyday for
the joys of... taking a ****... drinking some milk...
debating corn....

it's not corn is: or was... ever to be debated...
seriously... perhaps corn-meal:
not corn-flour that's readily available for
a thickening "enzyme"...
that **** the h'americans eat...
yellow-bread... Hans and Saucer...

strict regulations of language formality...
debatable speak...
wait... from began with Horace
and ends with giuseppe belli sonnets:

a le madre, se sa, li strilli e 'r piaggne
je pareno ronno dde tordinone.
le madre ar monno so ttutte compaggne...

       to mum, the gruntings of this ***-mad ******
surpass the sweet songs of a west end name...
the mothers of this world are all the same.

it's a dialectical approach concerning two bicycles...
one... a cheap road bicycle viking: vibrant green...
sturdy frame: no need for...
lost the word... rephrasing...
what's the word... not punctures...
giddy-giddy...up... down?
RESORY...

unlike a wide-girth of the mountain bike's
handlebars...
the road-cycle narrows around me exfoliating my
back muscles...
sure... the front brakes are a bit squeaky...
but... unlike the £495 pristine: sold for a....
the wider trim of wheels....
i have never ridden a better bicycle worth
only £125... this viking contra the trek marlin 5...

get used to the idea of THONG...
of the wheel...
the frame is much smaller... "slim"...
but i still encourage myself as riding faster...
bicycles and prostitutes...
i don't care much for...
paying too much...
last time i heard: there's not "cheaper"
as there's no "dearest"... when it comes to coughing up
for ***...
the supposedly cheapest will showcase
her tongue... she's motivate you...
provided you're sober...
giddy-up showcase girl...

after having skimmed some Rousseau...
i thought Kierkegaard was good:
indolent i...
there's no cat sleeping in my bed:
thank god... i'm not feeling having a bed-fellow...
to suckle me into: oyster-mush...
floral patterns...

also... thank god for the olympics:
the plethora of bodies...
the swimmers have the sexiest bodies...
not the sprinters...
lacerated lungs...
not the heavyweight lifters:
******* Turkish dwarfs from the nether kingdom
of the Caucasian: procrastinating
crustaceans....

        look at them!
see any ***-side-aside... keep up with
the Springboks? Aqua-****-with:
mensch... oh the "cardinal" is real...
the Isrealis should know..
not much room for intellect
when the body is concerned...
FAIL... double... FAIL: thrice...
there's not THRICE when filing is mentioned...

a £125 worth of a VIKING road-bike...
is worth more than a £495 Trek marlin 5 mountain bike...
how? the product wasn't made
at a time where... NOT MADE IN CHINA
was a thing...
perhaps the Chinese teamed up with project:
SLACK...

but there's this "debate":
i'd rather.... not listen to music...
hence... listen... to the bicycle not giving me grief...
streaking a palette of irksome sounds...
glitches... chasers...
creases in the otherwise well-oiled-up...
rubric of cogs and: generalised machinery...
i "forgot" to become a self-made d.j.
riding this glorious machinery...
why? it's so silent....
it works so well...
so much for advertising hell:

when a machine works so... pristinely...
that... you: can sacrifice listening to music...
as a way to digest the mundane...
passing of traffic...
so well oiled... of sure... the front breaks
squeak a little...
but you can refrain from auxiliary help
of the time: occupied by cycling:
because there's a solid frame....
and the classic handlebars allow your
hands the sort of "yoga" not associated
with the timidity of mountain-bike heirs: HIRSCH...

when you want to appreciate a well-crafted bicycle...
you want to listen to the traffic...
you can't hear your bicycle...
you're dying to **** a Turkish *******...

when journalism dies...
oh i'm pretty sure... no man alone...
the Phoenicians invented what the Canaanites
suggested: the humble patriarch Abraham...
Carmenta...
              St. Cyril...
SEJONG...
it wasn't sr. isaac pitman...
last time i heard it was... Marcus Tiro:
of the Cicero household...

*** & bicycles... it's one thing...
altogether another...
alpha + beta orbiters...
journalists get paid for being...
restaurant critics...
poets get paid for... load of *******:
and half the expected rhyme...
i like what i'm supposed to pay for...
Turkish prostitutes...
like Turkish barbers...
i get the best trim of ***** refocusing on my face...
i get the best blowback...

the English girls: all nuns!
all nuns! just prior to...
Pakistani paedophiles making them...
"available": no... rotten fruit at this point...
my life's complicated enough...
aim small: miss small...
heart's a pebble...

in the guise of: walking abortion:
walking around with a scrutiny of:
the eunuchs of king solomon's harem:
daddy: issues...
all those maxims... all those maxims::
but no foreseeable light of a
king david's psalms...

any man can claim wisdom:
when he has all the world is to arrive at....
no wonder that...
Solomon felt this sort of "grief"...
from David unto Solomon:
this tender prayer...

there's no need to avert the freedom
granted unto women:
i must allow myself
to love what i better not understand....
grow a beard: fiddle with it
pretending it to be a violin...
crease the concerns for traffic...
if it's not a horse: treat it as a bicycle...

i have a heart: enough of a heart:
to... drown a stone...
if not a stone then i'll suffocate
a mountain... however peacocking worded:
i'll drown a ******* mountain
in a puddle! then... i'll call it...
a lob-sided phenomenon of...
"ugly" tarmac!

I pushed away my cup of hot tea and warm scones,
My throat constricted,
Tears flowed in torrents,
Refusing to subside.
I visioned the Dump Site I visited a few days ago.
The depth of poverty we do not know about,
Garbage Pickers abandoned by the world,
Everything about them permeated by the ghastly trash smell,
Discriminated by society.
Furhaha and her twelve children
Sat huddled under a plastic sheet,
Large puddles of  raw sewage scattered around them,
Emitting foul smell.
None of the children knows who their real father is
Furhaha and her two daughters time and again face ****** abuse and often ****.
What to do, where to go,
Too poor for health care or support.
The Dump Children walk, climb,
dig and ****,
Collecting recyclables,
Plastics, glass and metal,
For a meagre one dollar or much less for the survival of the family,
In return for cuts and bruises
from broken bottles, nails and syringes,
With sometimes risks of being buried under fresh garbage.
Please HELP!
They need love and care,
They need to be in school.

at Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School

As a Halloween costume,
one year during early grade school,
my father got the brilliant idea
for his sole son to be dressed
with one of a kind getup.

Missus Shaner
(the talon clawed, shriveled
relic of a dinosaur,
who taught fifth grade)
gave me first prize,
and subsequently felt so convinced
about authenticity of this kid
being “privileged white trash”,
she notified another kid
dressed as a janitor
to dispense with me
in the school dumpster.

The sanitation disposal company
drove me (and subsequently
dumped yours truly
among the real *******
in the dumpster)
to nearest landfill
loaded with all kinds of junk
such as food scraps, recyclables,
and soiled diapers.

Over a short span of time,
the detritus commingled
into one noxious brew
of a despicable fly haven,
whereby jiggling lifelike maggots,
jumpstarted, lunched, and nursed putrescence
re: reeking and teeming vibrantly
with yum zuck for a swamp thing,
I seemed to be metamorphosed
into sewer rat as if by some cruel hoax.

Nothing prepared, neither sickened
nor violated senses
of smell, sight, taste, and touch
to the maximum factor
intolerant of odoriferous odious stench.

Each pestilential assault
issued an appalling refrain
courtesy Fiona Apple's:
The Idler Wheel Is Wiser
than the Driver of the *****
and Whipping Cords Will Serve You
More than Ropes Will Ever Do.

Before mine myopic bespectacled eyes
(smarting from constant comet drubbing irritants
(which glasses – rather bifocals –
caked with smudge good as naught),
stayed wide shut from inundation
of said corrosive gaseous shaped
oxbow lake comprising wreath like wisps.

Liberty vis a vis in sight
envisioned visibly threatened offshoots
of tendril spikes; snaking sneakily,
sordidly slithering silently,
yet straightaway as a scene
from some spooky sideshow
or “haunted house”.

This ugly slop
splashed upon mine formerly
pristine academic uniform
appeared near identical
to the grub hub (the lunch lady served)
splattered sundry speckles
sans sundry detritus,
which found me writhing with nausea.

Thee nasty muck and mire
found this formerly introverted boy
transformed into a sponge bobbing
squarely panting creature
from the black lagoon,
whose skinny sea legs  
sought semi-solid surface
to stand upright position amidst
variegated flotsam and jetsam.

Dishabille appearance acquired
a fresh splattered coat of rancid slimy
green eggs and ham with bacon
covered gangly arms
(among other bit pieces of moldy clothes,
food and iconic library oddment)
ricocheted unpredictably as trash truck
violently shook up and down
all night long en route on this highway to hell
found me thunderstruck
(before being buried alive in Moyer’s Dump),
which toxic brew would be declared
a Super Fund Site
and shuttered in the near future.

Once Robert Hall wardrobe
affixed with a capitalone fancyfeast
of grateful dead road ****,
kickstarter from some automotive contraption,
and plenti of fish heads
(with thine square pants
trimmed with lovely bones),
I felt indistinguishable
from regular riffraff riding shotgun.

When random trucker parked and stopped,
the awful bin laden made ready
to empty contents within the mountain
of olfactory noxious material.

A thought occurred,
that now might be the golden
(or rather **** steeped) opportunity
to extricate myself
from morass of mish mashed,
spud nicked linkedin kindled juggernaut,
icky first class bric a brac.

at Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School
interestingly enough landed me a grubhub grab bag.

I rooted thru poetry anthology of mine,
and came across an unpublished poem
by one obscure poet (me), whose trademark
wit and wisdom hallmark
cardinal characteristics
of posthumous fame and fortune
largesse most likely
tabby bestowed upon grand kittens -
appended courtesy Facebook
since none of my two (both
twenty something aged) darling daughters
opted to be fruitful and multiply.

Courtesy brainchild of dear old dad
(actually when alive
and in his prime, he happened to be spunky
as an overgrown lad),
unanimous assent between him and mother
(she also when young, his junior by a tad)
both agreed their quiet natured son
(yours truly plus younger sister)
best be outfitted as *******.

Anyway, as a Halloween costume,
one year during early grade school,
my father got the brilliant idea
for his sole son to be dressed
with one of a kind getup.

Missus Shaner – long since gone to dust
(the talon clawed, shriveled
relic of a dinosaur,
who taught fifth grade)
gave me first prize,
and subsequently felt so convinced
about authenticity of this kid
being “privileged white trash”,
she notified another kid
dressed as a janitor
to dispense with me
in the school dumpster.

The sanitation disposal company
drove me (and subsequently
dumped yours truly
among the real *******
in the dumpster)
to nearest landfill
loaded with all kinds of junk
such as food scraps, recyclables,
and soiled diapers.

Over a short span of time,
the detritus commingled
into one noxious brew
of a despicable fly haven,
whereby jiggling lifelike maggots,
jumpstarted, lunched, and nursed putrescence
re: reeking and teeming vibrantly
with yum zuck for a swamp thing,
I seemed to be metamorphosed
into sewer rat as if by some cruel hoax.
Nothing prepared, neither sickened
nor violated senses
of smell, sight, taste, and touch
to the maximum factor
intolerant of odoriferous odious stench.

Each pestilential assault
issued an appalling refrain
courtesy Fiona Apple's:
The Idler Wheel Is Wiser
than the Driver of the *****
and Whipping Cords Will Serve You
More than Ropes Will Ever Do.

Before mine myopic bespectacled eyes
(smarting from constant comet drubbing irritants
(which glasses – rather bifocals –
caked with smudge good as naught),
stayed wide shut from inundation
of said corrosive gaseous shaped
oxbow lake comprising wreath like wisps.

Liberty vis a vis in sight
envisioned visibly threatened offshoots
of tendril spikes; snaking sneakily,
sordidly slithering silently,
yet straightaway as a scene
from some spooky sideshow
or “haunted house”.

This ugly slop
splashed upon mine formerly
pristine academic uniform
appeared near identical
to the grub hub (the lunch lady served)
splattered sundry speckles
sans sundry detritus,
which found me writhing with nausea.

Thee nasty muck and mire
found this formerly introverted boy
transformed into a sponge bobbing
squarely panting creature
from the black lagoon,
whose skinny sea legs
sought semi-solid surface
to stand upright position amidst
variegated flotsam and jetsam.

Dishabille appearance acquired
a fresh splattered coat of rancid slimy
green eggs and ham with bacon
covered gangly arms
(among other bit pieces of moldy clothes,
food and iconic library oddment)
ricocheted unpredictably as trash truck
violently shook up and down
all night long en route on this highway to hell
found me thunderstruck
(before being buried alive in Moyer’s Dump),
which toxic brew would be declared
a SuperFund Site
and shuttered in the near future.

Once Robert Hall wardrobe
affixed with a capital one fancy feast
of grateful dead roadkill,
kickstarter from some automotive contraption,
and plenti of fish heads
(with thine spongy bobbing square pants
trimmed with lovely bones),
I felt indistinguishable
from regular riffraff riding shotgun.

When random trucker parked and stopped,
the awful bin laden made ready
to empty contents within the mountain
of olfactory noxious material.

A thought occurred,
that now might be the golden
(or rather **** steeped) opportunity
to extricate myself
from morass of mish mashed,
spud nicked mine
linkedin kindled juggernaut,
icky first class bric a brac.

Common Cents 
past tense 
seems gone 
lost 
the cost 
more sins 
less gifts 
no presents 
just ask yourself 
WHY CANT WE ALL 
JUST GET ALONG
makes sense 
to much 
quite obvious 
without difference 
we all 
would be the same 
lame 
tame 
these pro-democritical
THOUGHTS 
lay them to rest
cots 
laser printed 
remarks 
robots 
marked dots 
melted down
recyclables in pots 
dumped in molds 
hault 
stop 
wait
what? 
one thing 
that cant be 
mass-produced 
to fill those plots
IS A GOD GIVEN HEART 
the cost 
for admission 
besides 
complete 
submission 
can be bought 
with 
common-cents 
from common-wealth 
knowledge 
is what im referencing 
not monetary values 
faith is free to adopt 
but itll literally be 
A GUARANTEED RETURN

one helluva comparative
humdinger savvy shopper,
who can rattle off the best buy
for most any given item,
at the drop of a hat
analogous to baseball fanatic
(unlike myself who knows and cares
nothing about the game)
spewing forth Batting average (BA),
on-base percentage (OBP),
and slugging percentage (SLG)  
often referred to together
as a player's "slash line".

A fourth batting stat
known as on-base plus slugging (OPS),
which is a combination of OBP and SLG.

Other batting stats include runs batted in (RBI),
where a batter is credited with an RBI
when they score a run
as a result of their plate appearance.

Meanwhile back to the wife,
who would willingly truck
(courtesy driving our 2020 Sonata Elantra)
from one store or another
to purchase sought after item(s)
despite schlepping the extra miles,
and often scoops up goods
from clearance section,
and adheres to the postman's credo
"Neither snow nor rain nor heat
nor gloom of night stays these couriers
from the swift completion
of their appointed rounds"
often considered the motto
and inscribed in gray granite
above the entrance
to the New York City Post Office.

The phrase comes from
The Persian Wars by Herodotus,
written around 500 B.C.
during the wars between
the Greeks and Persians.

Herodotus referring to the Persian
mounted postal couriers,
who he observed with great admiration
and said were undeterred
by the elements
from completing their rounds.

The phrase was modified and approved
by the Post Office Department in 1914
by William Mitchell Kendall,
an architect at McKim, Mead & White,
the firm that designed
the New York General Post Office.

Kendall (the son of a classics scholar)
enjoyed reading Greek.

Every now and again, I accompany her,
after she tries in vain
to coax and wheedle yours truly
(with threats she won't
buy me any favorite drinks -
such as Kombucha),
nevertheless but frequently remain
holed up in our one bedroom apartment
disinclined to subject myself,

(a socially anxious aging baby boomer,
and lapsed long hair pencil neck geek to boot)
to the cruel embarrassment and harassment
linkedin with Samson syndrome
characterized courtesy lovely long golden locks,
(and rivaling the storied Rapunzel)
despite the small investment in shampoo
bully me prime target for mean people
who offer their unsolicited feedback

Matter of fact, she went out
earlier this saturday morning
(enjoying spate of cool temperature
for August seventeenth
and accompanied by light rain
courtesy hurricane ernesto
to unload bags of recyclables
jammed into the trunk
giving the television show
characters Sanford and Son
(a 1972 break out hit),
a run for their money.