why I love certain men


it’s a raining and writing Saturday,
a washout for the beach visitors who chose their
calendar lottery tickets poorly

but hurrah and huzzah for the poet
in the no-sun-today-room with
steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug,
the rest of him cozied neath a
wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket,
from a now naked and shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet

perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent
in the 1319 poems,
in the ‘sorta started to do’ list

****.
new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction
and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless,
serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say

Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!)

I love most men; certain men more than others,
not because they are soft to the touch,
look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe,
lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren,
or write better poetry than me,
because
they make me weep from zealous delight at
their capricious unprecedented constancy of their
honorable actions

they are soft to the core, which is itself
wrapped in a leather soldered steel,
which defines them by their self-questing constant,
asking themselves preface and postface,
doing it well, in between,

what is the honorable thing?

this honor idea of which writ previous
doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger,
like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn
crying out to heavens at the concluding end  
on the holiest judgement day,
a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder,
ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun,
reminding both sinners and saviour each,
to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day,

what is the honorable thing?

some are borrowers and some lenders,
of anything, the substance or the whom matters not,
but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done,
is of a uncharted organic chemical matter unrecognized
but millennium ancient


here I stop

the call to breakfast must be obeyed,
for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested,
this is too an honorable thing to do,
and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes,
can be faced with new courage afterwards
on a perfect raining and writing Summer Saturday
for the next one hopefully and woefully

may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah/Jewish New Year) when acorns fall

certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day,  
when Atonement begins, a ten day process to the final conclusion,
by asking of everything living and of every act human performed,
for the forgiveness requested inherent in the absolute bar setting of

what is the honorable thing?

which by the by,

is why I love certain women too...

and all who are honorable
will read this honorific and remain
clueless as to whom it is addressed...

oh god, I do so love that best!

what could signal honor even more...

Even in her absence
I had a goal.
Changing me didn't
Just happen,
For she had already
Robbed my senses
Then I tamed her .

She supported me
Even when I was wrong
She saw the best in me
And calls me her hope,
Her hardwork ;
Speaks you as a pillar
Behind her brightness

I know am an amateur
In your presence
But my blood is serviced
By courage to have
Make nothing but a
Chain of victory

Parents sent me to see a therapist.
Therapist said you can speak freely and tell me all.
Therapist won my confidence so I opened up and told all.
Felt great having someone to share all and felt cared for.
Mind felt good and school rumors about me meant less.
Parents had a money fight and therapist quit seeing me.
Asked therapist to keep seeing me therapist said no.
Show me the money and I keep seeing you as a patient.
Hurt returned and felt like could talk to no one again.
Therapists are like prostitutes you pay to get a part of your body serviced.
I never will be married in real life.
I will settle for a net ceremony on gaiaonline with a guy I met.
He can't wait to hit it in virtual reality.
Got no real life experience in *** but learning to sext.
Getting better at it and practicing for my online wedding night.
I'm 18, I hate my parents and their ****** up lives.
Mom got home at noon from her overnight date with one of her men.
Men like my mom because she opens her legs for all men she meets on the net.
Dad likes his ****** he chats with on Facebook.
Think he cheating on his evil ***** who got with him for his money.
Dad likes them young like me and she wont be young forever.
She will be like my lonely mom ******* men she meets off personals.
Real life marriage is not in my plan.
Settling for an net marriage with a guy I met off personals.
Am I going to be like my mom?

the narrative does not cling to classicalism of stating whether the pronoun usage is either singular or plural or both to allow an armchair of expression; after all... there's enough for us to bypass the classical philosophical debate about subject and object, simply investigating pronoun usage in relation to singularity or pluralism.*

there’s a theory where poetry came from,
one read: cleopatra wanted to hear sweet-nothings
calibrating a razor with a viper’s kiss...
another read: she báthory?
she báthory? she the one that turned milk into blood?
she can burn in hell.
i thought we were un-dialectical in the realms of concern?
no... you see... poetry came from punctuated-impressionism...
or a fear of it... punctuation of course, not from the impressionism...
poets fear punctuation...
give them a semi-colon
and
they
treat
it
like a sidelined line of verse.
this is poetry in mathematical equations:
i had a pear(,)
it was a spare(.)
i had a care for traffic(-)
so i missed( )
the expressions and started using an obelisk to quarter up the mammoth
into chop suey...
poets simple say: next line! when prose says next paragraph
and the prized execution of the 100m sprint . . . (.)
that’s universal alpha romeo with alfa bravo charlie delta (echo)...
come on in the u-turn... give us a smile......... :),
poets says... i need breathing space
without sentenced timing of silence, for the toad to feed inspiration
and envy!
no wonder you came with the alpha - zulu
alphabet given that you used ɪɡ and zoʊ...
so tell me... where’s this copernican west upside down
(this heliocentric west with east being the big bang)?!
i'd swear the thing stopped orbiting in circles
and a thing that's on it's thought started to become
orbital... a fashion sense of the 60s 70s 80s 90s repeated -
that's right, the whole thing became heliocentric
and we became narcissists instead of solipsists
in the geocentric system of worked-up plagiarism
with adequate excuses.)
it's here it the poets apprehensive of punctuation symbology
and instead writing "sparingly,"
to write, e.g.:
i
hate
        this
love
                affair
claimed
                     to
be
          the
world...
                 i
rather
                         chisel
chequers
                         into
geometry
                     of
x4
              90º.
makes sense poets begot fear of
punctuation and not grammar, they
serviced to explore nothing else,
leaving grammar open long enough to *****
mathematics in... remember...
poets are firstly concerned with punctuation...
secondly with grammar...
philosophy for poets is grammar;
**** i'm um um so drunk i'll need to revise.

i disavow my allegiance to the flag,
& to the Commonwealth of the Bahamas.
for we are not one people,
we are not united,
we do not live in love,
& we are unfortunately serviced.

what does the future hold for my Bahama land?
with our resources not being utilized for the betterment of our people...
but being sold to non-Bahama land.
no profits being aimed to,
or sources being owned by
our Bahama man.

as i lift my head to the rising of the sun in this Bahama land,
i see no hope for the future, no hope in my Bahama land.
no one to speak up,
the youth are out of luck.
the elders show no interest,
we are doomed.
still,
we march on to the glory..
but what bright banners do we have to wave high?
the means of the leaders are of no significance,
& i can no longer bear the pain that i witness.
how will we excel
if we do not love,
& unite?
going forward,
will we stand together
for a common, loftier goal?
as i lift up my head to the rising sun in my Bahama land;
i see anguish,
i see fear &
leaders with no care.
all the things i see are broad.
...but may the road that my people trod
lead us to our God,
that will help us on this march to save our Bahama land.

Selana
She strapped on her warplane and flew away to fight
Russian jets being the enemy to be hit
Her missiles were old like her plane

But it was a good one well built
Serviced by her mechanics to perform
When ordered to do by her

She the tip of the spear just a gal
Reason I love my mistress the pilot

Defending our nation each and every day
She already shot down four or five planes
She told me it’s confusing being in combat

Things happen fast beyond comprehension
It’s comparable to driving a racing bike
I think but I’m a hacker and don’t drive

I get into Russian and Red Chinese systems
Do my art and war that way to defeat them
It focuses me while my gal is up above

Keeping us all safe from enemy actions
I want to tell the world but we cannot
We must remain a secret what we both do

She smelled of wild lavender and deep magicks,
The scent hanging in the air like a golden silence,
I'm trying to hold tightly yet composure is first to dissolve,
Senses fall one by one until no dominoes are left,
Stop staring, act natural and crumble on the inside,
Don't speak, reserve your efforts for a smile,
Blown fuse serviced from the under-wing like vertigo in my veins, and neatly betwixt ******* twirl a cotton drapery,
Framed in silk halo, enshrouding like auras in a Milky Way of phantasmagoria.
Until my thoughts become in summary and each breathe becomes shorter than the last.
The artistry of her elegance like sleek fine line-work on vintage paper and I'm ... feather light.
And in those tresses I'd seen that sheen before, in the ripple of calm ocean waves, and in auburn at sunset.
I'd seen that gloss in her eyes perched upon petals as morning dew and rain upon windows in my quiet times,
Between the silhouetting slopes of her contours as dunes upon the horizon, there's an eclipse in her lips that would not speak in any less than measured prosody nor kiss without dreamscape grandeur.

By Jennifersoter Ezewi

We are united by lip service
Yet claims we are being serviced
When all we get is agony
in a country that is meant
to be united in love.

If we claim to be one,
We are supposed to be duly
serviced by the share of our
oneness.

We can't be warmly expectant
when all we get is negligence;
We can't be claiming oneness
when our supposed lovers
throws our love to the retch.

Let this oneness be redefined
for us to know our stand;
Let the best we can be satiate
our amiable positions to
prove our oneness.

We have soared above
this mess and needs a prove
of our oneness:
Let it be recorded that we are
in love by the way we treat
ourselves;
Let our love be seen and not told.

How amiable we ought
to have grown instead of hate
and bigotry;
How prominent we look
yet plays around like kids
without direction.

We are endowed to be emulated;
We have gone too far to miss
our ways:
Let the love we claim be resurrected
And let our oneness be practiced.

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The irony of a life unshackled -
seemingly an advocate for freedom.

But only to find its beats forlorn,
as it serviced payments for past follies’


ransom.

Cool are the streets before sunrise
I pedal my daily route through downtown Kalamazoo
Past the Art Institute and Civic
And out through Riverfront Park on the Valley Trail

Across the river on M96 I head east toward sunrise
The road is slightly dampened by the dew
And the trees on each side of the highway stand tall
Framing the sun as I make the first curve slightly east-north-east

In symmetry, the sun lies between the trees
Above the road, floating round, brilliant
Just inside the zone of a photographer's eye
The sun, the road, the trees, the mist – all ablaze in orange.

A dangerous time to ride so close to traffic
The lenses of my glasses scatter the light in condensation
I pedal hard to pass through this section
And ride into Galesburg stopping at the lights

Passing through town out Michigan Ave
I cross the Kalamazoo River but stop for a moment in stride
As the cold air nudges swirls of fog to dance on the surface
Lit from behind by the rising sun, golden, quiet, ghostly into the distance

Out onto my last few miles where the road is rough
It climbs out of the river valley up two hundred feet
Into winding country roads away from most traffic
And closer to the farms and woods

The air is now heavy with the dampness of the woods
There is only the breeze I bring with me
I crest a hill after a long climb but I do not coast on the slight reprieve
As there is new and old roadkill serviced by carrion birds in the mist

I am at my destination on another beautiful morning and I think
What wonders have I seen that my peers miss in their race on the highway
What smells of wild garlic, split oak, and musk of raccoon, skunk, and possum, and sweat
What satisfaction I have as I shower off the cold, and insects, and ride from my skin

August 20, 2013
Kalamazoo, MI

i hate technology, its automated typo system, i write one thing and then it starts playing hide & seek with me... i rarely make mistakes, but this a.i. automated typo system makes me look stupid, or neurotic in the least, i hate this automatic typo signification as if i am teaching someone!*

i love that drinking wins over writing sometimes,
like this strange neo-left asking me to top it all off
with my communist grandfather living under stalin
completely in agreement with them girlies weeping
when he stank the dog off the grave in terms of bio-tech
completion; he wouldn't be dear to the left epitaph,
he'd be like voltaire & the priest: given the devil
in the sickbed there was not time to choose enemies...
he'd be branded a ****... worded... the worst kind...
a pseudo pacifist of some sort... couple economy
and atheism and you get a darwinian exclusion
where the ants aren't oblivious to lions but exclude them
for their species so well organised, god can take
the hangover route and make the "self" less sellable;...
(economy of a species and darwinism
demands communism - exclusive economisation;
not inclusive economisation...
that's some sort of theological branch
of personification where man minds spider above
another man, etc.)...
there's no self included, esp. a (")self(") worth selling...
which means exactly that (the opposite of now)...
NO TOURISM INTO THE REALM
OF CELEBRITY LITERATURE...
WHICH IS ONLY BIOGRAPHIES....
GET YER **** OUT GIRLS!
YOU'LL WRITE A BOOK SOMETIME!
god this culture is barren, and to think i dressed up
in uniform for school listening to jethro tull once...
this ain't the same country...
it sold out to the arabs... charles iii
is a ******* traitor!
traitor!
charless the iii is john ii... character assasination
you like you did with diana...
diana's revenge... yeah i believe you
were wearing silk straps of safety and the
driver survived and the parapazzi blinded the driver:
one thing about jealousy... it has dwarf legs.
they pass into the political realm they do....
easier come easier to take on in politics...
economic migrants (we'll see about that,
your philanthrophy just took to faking flight
via an invisible magic carpet flapping its trims)...
i told you once that democracy is like inverse voyeurism...
mark the x on paper, ***** an ****** into jugs for
pale ale... excess carbonation... it turns all fizzy...
the geese marched into winter...
the swans marched right into a royal edict...
the neo carta was never crafted...
but i got the hang of the diacritic marks...
i was walking drinking a belgian cider...
C DER.... in belgian french there's an accent,
stress the c, makes the vowel missing...
cídre - not really acute i, but an acute c...
c         dr. dre, i.e. dre, c dre...
it's the acute stressor of c that makes the vowel
disappear... not that a vowel can actually
become acute... vowels like women wear
mascarra to look pretty, the consonants are
serviced for a complexity... via hebrew original...
c                        dre
not
               si                        ahem...               dre.
in passes on the pompom for expected pomp -
i can't believe it took a bottle of belgian cider
to get that across.
oh sure they can hang me... by the snout...
for i won't be able to march into a field of truffles...
but hey... big snout worthy... never mind
trying to wear leather shoes given the hannibal
treatment for tacky snakeshoe leather.
most say that difficult literature is literature unread...
there's no other difficulty in literature...
difficult literature is simply unread, that's why
it's difficult... simple literature trickles down as easy as water...
and that's why it's easily managed by what
the chinese done already, having no hollywood and
damning india's bollywood... their phoneticism
is lodged in ideograms... pictograms...
european phoneticism is lodged in a skin to number,
B akin to 8, e.g., we get rich owning ovens
televisisions and satellites... but we also own
watiers and cooks who are mechanised...
and have no richness of thought...
who cares if beijing is clouded in smog?
we have 15 more years of carbon emission to wait for
before our idealism is profitable!
ah but the arab girls will migrate to london every year
between may and august... i should be so lucky lucky
australian girl pop lucky with them shopping
in only one hot spot, a grieving egyptian's legoland
of tacky known as harrods!

I imagine walking on a balance beam
I have only just gotten the hang of it
Before this moment I had always fallen off.
I know that I'm going to mess up
I keep telling myself
“its ok to mess up you’re still learning”
Yet I feel an overwhelming need
To be successful, just this once.
To complete my walk.
And I do, I complete the walk.
So, because things have gone well
I walk again, and I find success
I begin to trust my own two feet
I walk again and again and again
Each time I make it to the other end
Each time I become more prideful
This next time I move too quickly
I try to go faster, still making it
I stagger half-way through
But I think nothing of it
So I hasten my step
And I stagger again
But my mind blocks out
The possibility of falling.
I go faster and faster
Until I am at a full on sprint
No longer am I teetering
On this beam below my feet
I believe that I am perfect
No one can touch me
I believe that I am the best
And that no one else can go this fast
I am in competition with the entire world
I am in competition with only myself
Only myself
Myself
Me
Me
I am nothing
I am a fake
I am useless
I am ugly and worthless
And the exact opposite of perfect
I quickly mask these thoughts
Telling myself
“You can push through”
And for a time I do
I have boundless energy
I can run as fast as possible
I make it to the other end of the balance beam
Then suddenly an impulse
My body takes over
And without explanation
I am flying through the air
100 miles a minute
Crashing into a bottomless abyss
I lie still for a moment on the mat below
Looking up towards the beam
Where I once stood so proud
I pick myself up
I decide I am an elite gymnast
And I am an astronaut
I am a long distance runner
And a 5 star chef
And a doctor
And a bird
And a rock climber
And a rock
And a brilliant professor
And an angel
And a world renowned artist
And, and, and, and
I twirl around and dance
I sing to no one
I am an opera singer
I rush to the water fountain
It is Niagara Falls
Splash, “watch out, you’ll get wet”
I say this to an audience of no one
I am an actor on broadway
“Ain’t no one round here as good as me”
Then in my periphery
There are shadows
I cannot stop moving
Never stop moving
If I stop moving the shadows will crawl around me
Creeping in through my nose
My mouth and my ears
Telling me things I never want to hear
So I run
I run so hard and so fast
That I forget everything
I am existing inside each moment only
I don’t know where I am or where I am heading
but I continue to run
Until I am surrounded by trees
And I remember everything again
I remember the balance beam
Why did I leave the balance beam?
It felt natural and simple
to just walk
to just walk and stay balanced
Why am I in the woods?
And then the thoughts come
And the shadows come with them
So I climb a tree
In hopes that the shadows
Will pass quietly underneath
I am painfully quiet
But the thoughts are still here
I cannot hide
I cannot run
I cannot get away
They race in my brain
They course through my veins
They are evil thoughts
They taunt me, saying
“This world is without reason”
“Your life is pointless”
“You are crazy”
“You will never be anything”
“Jump! jump! jump!”
I am high up in this tree
I am safe from the shadows here
But the thoughts never leave
I cannot break free
So I give in
Maybe if I listen to them
I will release the pressure that builds inside me
Suddenly I am compelled
To leap from this tree branch to the next
I fling myself through the air
believing I will fly like a bird
Because the thoughts said I could
I black out as I fall back to the earth
Suddenly I am on the ground
Not even remotely sure
Of how I got here
I lie there for a few moments
And then out of the corner of my eye
I see the shadows
They move through the woods like smoke
Like a black fog
Like death creeping towards me
So I quickly pull myself to my feet
And I am in a full on sprint once more
I don’t know which direction I am headed
Or where I am
Or if I'm even running
And then it hits me
A car
I am on the highway
flying over the hood of a sedan
Crashing into the ground
My skin burns as it moves across the asphalt
I become a mound In the middle of the road
I imagine that I am a pile of dirt
I will not move
I will just do what dirt does
What does dirt do?
My body burns, my skin is on fire
Can dirt catch fire?
The world moves slow
Does dirt move faster than the world around it
Does dirt experience time differently?
Someone is talking to me
Which is absurd
Who talks to dirt?
Sirens crowd the traffic of my cochlear nerve
It is the only thing I can hear
My brain starts to malfunction
Like a computer flooded with a virus
I hear the siren repeat
It loses a note with each repetition
Until all I hear is one note
One note
I close my eyes
I am completely numb
Something in me knows I have to fight
“I've forgotten what I started fighting for”
I believe that if my eyes are closed
No time passes
I allow this break in time to go on
I need to separate myself from time for a moment
Allow myself to think
To reassess
To gather what has occurred
What has occurred?
Feeling a little panicked at the thought of not knowing
I open my eyes
I am in a room
I try to move
But my body won’t listen to my intentions
I look down and see metal rods sticking out of me
Now, I remember
I am a robot getting serviced
That’s all this is
It’s probably why I malfunctioned
No biggie
a robotic technician walks in
she asks me how I feel
I answer
“What an absurd question,
Robots do not feel”
She looks at me with kind eyes
“Ok, thanks for your input”
She leaves the room
Closing the door behind her
The darkness licks at the bottom of the door
It seeps through and envelopes the room
I cannot see
I hold my breath
I do not feel
I give up
The darkness begins to course through my veins
It twists through every corner of my being
Walking through the corridors of my body
Leaving menacing thoughts in its wake
Then, without warning
Everything becomes red
Red feels like pain
It tastes like needles
So I try to occupy my mind with things
Anything to distract me from the pain
I scream audibly
I scream a song
If Im singing I am distracted
“I'm a little teacup short and stout
Here is my handle here is my spout”

I imagine all this
Stuck inside my own mind
Making up foolish stories
But, this is what it's like
This is what it will become
This is what I will become
Bipolar seeps through my brain
Attaching old forgotten pathways
Lighting them all up at once
Then with similar speed
Making them all go dark
In and out, up and down
A never ending merry-go-round
But, somewhere in all this
Is me.

Within our conscious thoughts,
Beneath desires of wandering souls,
Dreams drift across a lake of truth,
Hopes swim in spiralling shoals,
Making it impossible not to smile,
At Invitation Inn, on Tropical Isle.

Opulent rooms with silken sheets,
Serviced twenty-four-hours a day,
Check in and out, whenever you like,
Nobody will ever be turned away,
Put up your feet, stay for a while,
At Invitation Inn, on Tropical Isle.

The waiters are all they should be,
Girls frolic freely around the pool,
Appetising hot food to spice you up,
Tall drinks that will keep you cool,
Magic fantasies are always in style,
At Invitation Inn, on Tropical Isle.

Enjoy pleasures with kindred spirits,
Relaxing, not caring, in the least,
Savouring hopes, dreams and desires,
Sharing love, indulging in the feast,
Devoid of guilt, regret, and denial,
At Invitation Inn, on Tropical Isle.

©Paul Chafer 2014

I’m sorry, Sir,
I know you said
I had to write out
50 times

“I must improve” - but
50 times
a different thought
came to my mind

i must look after myself properly
i must eat more
i must drink less
i must make time for myself
i must get the test
i must organise the divorce
i must sort out my job
i must sort out my head
i must get the car serviced
i must tidy this ******* place up

i must give up the ****
i must phone my friends more often
i must become a better person
i must take control of my life
i must find a therapist
i must hoover
i must grow up
i must calm down
i must sing more
i must accept myself

i must finish that poem
i must challenge ‘must’
i must find a new balance
i must raise my self-esteem
i must put on weight
i must get to bed earlier
i must return those calls
i must take up meditation again
i must get to the bottom of this paperwork
i must ease off the whisky

i must read more classics
i must remember how to feel good about myself
i must print those t-shirts i keep talking about
i must feed the fish
i must organise my finances
i must rearrange the living room
i must look into a mortgage
i must pray to the god of small things
i must hold good people close to me
i must burn out my cynicism

i must stop spending more than i earn
i must stop pushing people away
i must stop feeling icky about her past
i must stop being a drama queen
i must stop beating myself up
i must stop putting it off
i must stop going through the motions
i must stop looking for the answer in others
i must, i must,
i must
stop substituting poetry
for action

Where was I before my Birth
Who brought me? In this life

Some say My Parents
Gave me my Life

I think they only Ate
The Forbidden Apple

They just performed their basic Karma
And received me as a gifted Product

I was shipped without any User Manual
And without any Standard Operating Procedure

My parents worked round the clock
Gone through all the other manuals

At last they applied their mind
And prepared their own Manual

They also defined their own
Standard Operating Procedure

And I was handled and serviced
As per their Manual and SOP

Now I think, I am grown up now
But the question still remains as it was

Are we all only Products?
If Yes, Who Manufactured Us?

Where are the Original User Manuals?
Where are the Technical Manuals?

Where is the Standard Operating Procedure?
Why I was shipped to this mother Earth?

Some of my friends suggested a simple answer
'God made us and You too. But you are *****'

This answer posed other questions to me
Who made God?  God Made God?

Or the Humans made God for their own purpose?
Where are the temples of God made by Insects?

Suppose If God made us? Why he is so greedy?
Like the capitalists of proprietary companies

Why we are a strict proprietary Products?
Even proprietary products are supplied with Manuals

If God can't make us Open Source, At least he should
Supply the Manuals, Supply the Standard Operating Procedure

Or He is also too much selfish like each one of us

Pieces of clothing spewed the room
The chirping of night insects  faded from her ear
As she tensely counted the rhythmic beating of her heart
Silent wishes painted her hungry face
As her eyes roamed every curve and bump of her endowed friend
The skin fragrance  and female smell was mind intoxicating
She bit her lower lip on time
And swallowed all she wanted to tell her
Her **** was throbbing  as she gathered her courage and blankly muttered "am *****"
A moment of silence almost made her faint
Her friend didn't answer but inched closer and brushed her luscious  lips on her neck
The two hungry mouths crushed over each other as they competed to **** breath away
The two female bodies molded in to one
As the last shred of sanity
Drowned in lustful caress

Her soft hands explored the chest twins and massaged them interchangeably while ******* her friends tounge deep
She could feel the sensual touch of female fingers roving near her honey *** searching for the gory hole
The touch on her **** made her spread her legs wide open and writhe in pleasure as a finger penetrated her already wet *****
She rubbed and bit the ******* in return
She couldn't  hold back back but moan audibly and ask for more
Her friend rubbed her juices all over her plump ***** as her tongue drew a line of saliva from her belly button to her bushy mould
She screamed in ecstasy as the ******* and lips serviced her birth canal
She pinched and bit her *******
As her body convulsed and she cummed uncontrollably
At last her friend finger and tongue found the *****
And an alien feeling enveloped her whole flame she felt  like peeing as her eyelashes twitched successively  
Her heartbeat accelerated as she gushed
She looked at her pecked her passionately and heaved a sign as sleep robbed her senses and together they drifted into sleep with pleausure etched in their beautiful faces

‘I would if I could but I can’t,’ he said,
‘Though I know it would be sublime,
I’m spoken for, and it does my head
To think that you could be mine.
I made a vow, and I don’t know how
I could break it, and feel right,
But though I’m true, I’m thinking of you
As I do, each sleepless night.’

He shook his head and he walked away
As she clutched the verandah rail,
She turned her face away when the trace
Of her tears had left a trail.
‘I don’t know what the attraction is,’
She said, as she wiped her eyes,
‘But it must be true what I say to you,
Anything else is lies!’

He walked back into his hotel room
And held his head in his hands,
And as he did the temptation grew
For a taste of contraband.
She’d met him there as she always did
For she serviced all the rooms,
His monthly trip, and her heart would flip
As the day of his coming loomed.

And he would think of her sparkling eyes
The set of her moist, pink lips,
Her flaxen hair and her pointed stare
And the sway of her ****** hips.
Her image was burnt upon his brain
Though he still loved his woman too,
It left him sore and confused, he thought,
What was a man to do?

He fell at last in a deep, deep sleep
And Rhianna entered his room,
She saw him peacefully lying there
Quite unaware in the gloom,
She lay down quiet beside him, just
To see how it felt to lie
Next to the one that her love was on,
He woke, his hand on her thigh.

The silken feel of Rhianna’s thigh
Had put him into a trance,
He thought that a dream had come to life
Til he opened his eyes, by chance,
Her lips were hovering over his brow
Her flaxen hair in his face,
Her strange perfume permeated the room,
He rolled off the bed in haste.

‘I would if I could but I can’t,’ he said,
‘I need you to understand,
If I were free, with just you and me
But I’m not, and this wasn’t planned.’
He left, drove home in the early dawn
To arrive unexpectedly,
And saw the light in the bedroom on,
His woman had company.

She wept as the man had gathered his clothes,
And made poste haste for the door,
While he just stood as if turned to wood,
His feet fast glued to the floor,
‘Well, you’re always off on your travels, John,
You must consider my plight!’
‘That may be so,’ as he turned to go,
‘But I know where I’ll sleep tonight!’

David Lewis Paget

I can taste the lies you left in the corner of my mouth
I cut my teeth on words that once danced on my tongue
Tastebuds tingled as the sentiment made sense
Tongues tied as eyes widened with the beliefs
I choke on the aftertaste of lips you serviced

During finals week, I’d spent days on various reports and papers, scribbling in the margins of notes and books, checking facts, revising flashcards and prepping with friends.
I’ve an unshakable faith in plodding persistence.
We were tested and sent packing.

Today, I’m in Geneva, with Peter (my bf). He works for CERN. I’m on vacation - but he has to work sigh. Peter apartments with a roommate, so, oh-****, we had to make alternate arrangements.
We’re ensconced at the fabulous Hotel de la Paix. It’s my treat, I’ve been dorm-roomed for months, and Vive la différence!

The hallways are hushed here, as if moss-covered - noises fade quickly after use. The purposeful quiet feels physical, like a cotton covered fairytale hug after noisy dorm life - where doors slam and people yell at 3am.

Freshly cut flowers accent with color, and infuse the suite with scents that calm and relax like subconscious aromatherapy. This is the land of chocolate, and little treats are stashed everywhere to surprise and delight.

I’m a cryophile - from the Greek "kryos" (cold) and "philos" (lover) - I like my environment cold. In the dead of New Haven winter, when it’s 20°f, I sleep with my dorm room windows open and I seldom use more than a sheet for cover. When Peter would sleepover, he’d try and close the windows, “GEE-zus,” he’d say.
“Don’t be a big baby,” I’d suggested, generously cracking them back open again, “I’ll keep you warm.”

That being said, have you ever slept under freshly starch-pressed egyptian-cotton sheets?’
The cotton is orchid petal light and soft - the starch-pressing means the top sheet stands-off your skin, only barely resting on you, as needed - like an angel's kiss.
At college, I handle the menial chores of daily existence, like laundry service, and there are no freshly pressed sheets.

Hmm.. ok, something poetic-ish

Our experiences are stacked,
laid and layered like bricks.
We’re making something
but the form isn’t clear.
Is it solid and cohesive
- will it last - who knows?

I’d been Facetimimg with Lisa (she’ll join us next Friday), while Peter looked through some work papers. Since he isn’t on vacation, he wants to finish something before we leave for Paris tomorrow, where we’ll meet my parents for mothers-day.

As I came into the bedroom, Peter, propped up on the bed, said, “You ladies were talking for a while.” And still not looking up from his papers, he added, “How’s Lisa?”

I thought I’d made a firm decision - but now I was afraid.  
Still, after a moment - I just blurted it out, saying, “I told her I love you.”
I’d said it in a rush - my pounding heart sounded like thunder.

He looked up. “You did?” He asked, radiating an irritating amount of pleasure.
As I’d said it, I felt a relief that turned into a wave of anxiety verging on nausea.
He still had an open mouthed expression of success and pure joy, so I said, “Shut up.”

“Say it again,” he asked, laying down his papers and taking off his reading glasses, “what you said to her.”
For some reason, I felt a sudden hopelessness. “Not now,” I said, turning away.

“Why,” he asked, I could hear the smile in his voice of insistence.
“Because.. reasons.” I explained, then I went into the bathroom and turned on the water.
“Tell me!” He pleaded from the other room.
I felt flushed, and didn’t want to talk, so I squeezed-out too much toothpaste and started to brush my teeth.
“I can’t heah muuf,” I said, purposefully inaudible through a mouth full of suds.
“Anais,” he called, but I closed the bathroom door and leaned back against it.
I suddenly wanted to go home.. or back in time.

Later, I’d calmed down. Was my declaration really a secret - or common knowledge available to the most casual observer?
We’d had dinner room-serviced (Nordic-fusion cuisine from the Fiskebar) but I still felt a little off and moody. We were settled on an uncomfortable, Ikea-like, off-white couch and we’d queued-up ‘Parks and Rec,’ when I had a terrible thought.

“You must think I’m easy,” I voiced it, looking down, my hair hiding my face from him, “the way school ends and I just flee into our arms.”
“You.. EASY?” He said with a chuckle, “NNNOO,” he added snarkily.

I turned on him sharply, tucking my hair back behind my ears for verbal combat. “I feel like I’m being very vulnerable with you and you’re just laughing,” I pronounced.

“ALL right,” he said softly, as he turned and wrapped his arms gently around me, “don’t get yourself all wound-up - or I won’t get a chance to say ‘I love you,’ back.”
.
.
songs for this:
Good Life by Sammy Rae & The Friends
​​Swingin Party by The Replacements
Redwood Tree by Jamie Drake
All My Girls Like To Fight by Hope Tala

Loneliness , a humid inferno of a day -
without the promise of rain
The hunted hid within tall grass writhing -
in pain
A drop of water prematurely called to the sky
The stranger at the wood-line in the
tempest twilight
The safety of thick , homemade curtains with
the ringing of chimes
Tears 'neath the silken canopy of night
Queer recollections serviced with anxiety
The blanket persecution of unwanted notoriety

The call comes in at six am,
I don't get into the office until eight,
My answering machine blinks red with warning;
I'll get this message too late.
"I haven't serviced my generator
in three years
and it stopped working
after twenty-four hours.
I have no power."
I check their name,
they've done no business with us before.
I cannot send techs to them
when my phone keeps ringing.
I answer it.
"Hello, how can I help?"
"We're current contract customers
and our generator didn't turn on.
I've got an infant and this storm
is too dangerous.
I have no power."
And all I can ask is for their name
and number,
send it off to my boss
who cannot send techs out
in the storm.
I inform them so,
"I understand," they say.
"Send them when you can."
I hang up my phone
only for it to ring again.
"Let me guess," I say
"you have no power?"
"Got it in one," then comes
the nervous laughter.
Our conversation repeats
just like the others.
When I go home tonight
I'll maneuver around branches,
dodging cones and power lines,
yielding for approaching sirens.
I'll go up my driveway
crunching twigs and leaves.
I'll enter my dark and quiet home
and flick a switch
but no lights will turn on.
I'll have no power.

BUT THAT’S...ANOTHER STORY!

Her mother died
giving birth

so from that day to
this

we considered her OURS
one of the family.

Ok, so...she was
a pig

but oh such
a pretty pig

and we kept her
in the caravan

reared her as one
of our own

almost considered her as
human.

Oh the squeals of
children &...pig.

Well, she grew & grew
until the day came for her

to be serviced.

Our maiden pig
a fine Welsh White gilt.

Now, being English
amongst the Welsh

I knew you needed
a license

to move a pig
from area to area

so, I presented my self
to our two man police force.

Well, of course
they had licenses

for the this of that
or the that of this

but alas
no license

for the moving of
a pig.

They had somehow
run out.

The licenses not the pigs.

So, they gave me
a license for a crane

& crossed out the bit
not pertaining to a pig.

I thought they might
ask me

how many wheels
on your pig or

what type of machinery
is your pig?

But when it was done
it was done

a kind of
Frankenstein form

half crane/half pig.

And I was free now
to move my pig

where so ever I wished.

And so I brought her
to the boar.

And then there was the time
there was a pig born

without an *******

( not an uncommon
occurrence they told me ).

And so I set off for the vets
on my motorcycle and sidecar

but
that’s

. . .another story.

I should have volunteered
Been martyred there
Not fat and lazy
Laying here

I should have done more
Served people
Serviced the needy
Instead of being greedy

I should have
But I never did
I was to comfortable
Living in safety
In my home

There is no such as a happy ending
The reason Shakespear failed in writing us our perfect love story is that
The mere notion that things would stop
if they were happy
doesn’t make any sense
The highway of happiness
Allows the car or motorbike or van that is ourselves
With a full tank of petrol
Take the eager passengers of emotion
Depending on the space within
Carry us on a cruise or a splutter
until the end of the asphalt

The end of the road of life,
is the end of life
Anyone who says there’s dignity in death
Obviously hasn’t held the hand of a loved one
As they splutter for breath
Rasping and shallow
Asleep but begging for something you can’t give them
Someone

Death isn’t dignified
It’s a rusty engine collapsing
The car that has driven you
for your whole life
You have oiled, serviced, mot-ed,
loved,
Neglected,
Repaired
failing for one last time

No matter how many *** holes you have hit
Flat tyres, blowing and wiping out days, weeks months of exploring
We still travelled forward
Experiencing every view and every bump along the way
There’s no happiness in the end of the road
It’s only there in how you look back upon the journey

My guns & my bullets belong to me because I paid for them with the money that I earned from selling my labor.
   Class of 1979 aristocratic débutante Pauliniqué de Daphne von Harrisburg's gynecologistical problems, based on anomalous-disruptor-cell displacement readings, were nothing new to gold-mining gynecologists & she knew it. Appointments made were kept by this professional who professionally serviced 15 snake-wrangling plumbers. Someone tonight is digging up evidence, in the Baby Land section of Greene County's most-poorly-lit cemetery, to bolster the allopathically-marketed commandment that intradermally-introduced aluminum, formaldehyde, rabbit blood, pig serum & mercurial Thimerosal are double-plus good for infants whose immune systems are sustained with iron-fortified Similac.

where was is that i heard, 20% of people do 50% of the work,
or perhaps i overheard the ratio incorrectly,
20% of people do 80% of the work...
i left the house at 5:30am...
i don't think i slept a wink...
    got to Liverpool St. at around 6:40am... no trains
to Wembley Park... i.e. no Metropolitan Line from
Aldgate...
the Hammersmith & City line opened at around
ten past seven a.m.
  jumped on it to Baker St.
   then a five minute wait for the metropolitan
line... two stops to Wembley Park...
picked up a coffee at McDonald's, black... five
or six sugars... those sachets are never teaspoon
equivalent...
perhaps late by half an hour... but not really...
a massive queue of stewards at the signing-in...
people coming later than me...
waiting for about 3 hours outside the stadium
until we were finally let it and allocated our
positions...
hardly any briefing...
the national anthem was tested about five times...
as was the pyrotechnics...
sweep of the entire north stand of level 5...
checking for all the seats being in a working
condition... then allocated our spots...
no chance in hell was i going to stick to the plan...
someone approached me gagging for a smoke,
no can do, cameras everywhere,
took my hand, i told him: i'm a smoker too...
i haven't been smoking since 8am...
just imagine what that cigarette will feel like
when you get out... stay strong...
a co-worker was babbling to some customers
about the events at the Euros
when the stadium was stormed by hooligans
without tickets... he remembered that
he was instructed not to speak about it...
for an hour or two i was reassuring him
that he wouldn't get into trouble,
paranoid... the people he was talking to
had their telephone out...
he was on the frontline of the stampede:
he thought he was going to be dox(x)ed...
but you're a wearing a face-mask, aren't you?
and your voice never sounds the same in real
life as it might sound on a recording, no?
don't worry...
telling people in the glass room on level 5
to finish their drinks... kick off in 10 minutes...
two hands extended: ten digits showing...
thank you mate... blah blah...
at half time: 5 minutes to kick off...
one hand extended five digits showing... more thank you mate...
the incident with a first aid...
a man and his two daughter...
i should have asked for his ticket, just in case...
i will next time...
one first aid room closed,
we walked to a second first aid room: also closed...
i left the three in the company of fellow stewards:
keep them entertained, talking...
only a bruised knee, or a cut knee...
his, or one of his girls? i couldn't remember,
talked to a supervisor, both the first aid rooms
are closed, where are the first aiders?
message to control room, hawk-eye on...
they should be at base 503... went to base 503...
they're not there... they apparently were located
in one of the first aid rooms: now open...
escorted them to the man and his two daughters...
but obviously half time was over
and they ****** off to sit down...
clearly the incident wasn't so important...
but i persisted...
walked up and down each base up the stairs
scanning the crowd, hoping to find them...
almost reaching an epileptic fit from scanning
so many faces... until another supervisor approached
me: what are you doing?
looking for them... they might have gone to a lower level,
should i stop? yeah...
then this guy who wanted to go from level 5 to
level 1... but his ticket read: you're supposed
to be on level 5... he tried to wriggle his way out...
but my younger brother is there,
and i have food for him...
the supervisor asked: but your under 18 companion
is in company of an 18+ minder?
if everyone wanted to go down to the lower
levels for a better view...
it wouldn't be fair...
then not-minded children running across the aisles
at the top of the stadium...
one fellow steward asked me to intervene,
a mother herself... happened three or four times...
first two times a supervisor just passively walked around
the "incident" without music influence...
by the time i got there one of the kids was
falling on the chairs... thankfully i scribbled to them
a sentence with a hand facing down:
moving my index and middle fingers slowly
with an imitation of: walk... don't run...
go back to your parents... lucky mummy also picked
up the scent of danger...
problem sorted...
then this solitary kid high up in the stands...
what team do you support, you're enjoying yourself,
you're up here alone? where are you parents /
who are you with? grandfather, father and sister?
you're up here to get a better view...
all the while kneeling beside him...
oh, cool, just remember to return to them
before the end of the match...
at the end of the match he was still up there all alone...
sort of mumbling to himself...
or just excited as any child might be
when sitting on the highest reaches of the Wembley
crater...
i escorted him to his grandfather before the final
whistle... problem sorted in advance:
it might have been a missing child... when the crowds
started to disperse...
then this escalation steward came to one of the bases:
one steward at the door... the other
at the bottom of the rows... at the end of the stairs
for level 5...
so people don't unhinge themselves and sway into
the barrier and possibly fall off...
he noticed one missing to the left...
i walked down to the one where i was at
and looked to the right...
how many missing in your position...
thumb, index, ******* posited with question,
three missing? he affirmed...
and i was off... a fellow steward: no supervisor,
imploring one of each of the three pairs to break up,
one to stand at the door the other to go down
to the bottom of the stairs...
they complied...
the women's Chelsea team beat the women's Arsenal
team 3 nil... Chelsea had only managed to win the FA
cup twice prior to today's win...
the Arsenal team have won it 15 times...
today's stadium capacity reached circa 42K...
not bad for a female football match... i reckon...
the clientele... a mixed bunch...
you'd think there would be more women...
n'ah... hmm... most certainly more children than per usual
football match... children are most certainly gender neutral...
well... gender "neutral"... whatever the hell that means...
it probably means:
i was a boy once too... i'd play video games,
but i'd also play with dolls with girls...
we'd congregate with girls playing hide-and-seek...
tic-tac-toe... no ******* way...
no boys there... or jumping over skipping ropes...
no chance... climbing trees? sure...
such a different clientele to what's expected
to a Fulham match...
£4.80 for a steak & ale pie... burgers at £6.00 not worth
the money... you can never get a bad pie
at a football match...

in summary... i think i was built for this role...
over £10 an hour... but it's not about the money...
i don't want money...
i have an apprehension of money...
firstly: i don't really know what i'd spend it on
if i had too much of it, if there was enough for rent,
for food... i just don't like spending money...
i like drinking whiskey...
i prefer cooking my own food than imploring
others to cook it for me...
i feel silly in a restaurant... almost like a mannequin
with a grimace, or for that matter movement...
all those restaurants in central London...
glass panes... oh look... the mannequins are eating...
window shopping escalated...
they're also advertising clothing!
cooking for yourself though... it reminds me of...
those days in the organic chemistry laboratories
of the Joseph Black building up in Edinburgh...
air filled with whiffs of sulphur and ethanol...
and machinery...

i fear money, as much as i fear god...
what's the point of loving either Mammon or Ha-Shem
when you become ignorant to both,
who might, suddenly... on a whim... change their mind
regarding your fate?
plus... extra money: while you might not be spending it...
someone might latch up onto you and leech your wallet...
why would anyone ever want that?
that's why i don't want to earn beyond
my capacity...
let savings be like a trickle...
in that fabled torture of Loki... Loki's punishment...
with the serpent's venom dripping onto his head
drop by drop... "riddling" a hole in his skull...
but this life is all a credit... best work around the medium
of debit...
i don't remember the last time i worked with
credit... spend less than you earn...
simple, no? never "fake it, until you make it"...
if it has to be summarised as... well... stretching it:
it's not an ascetic reason...
it's a Spartan reason: there are no religious reasons...
there are only... self-imposed reasons...
come to think of it...
once the ascetic reasons are established...
aesthetic reasons come on their own...
it's beautifully! ha ha! simple!

it becomes... luckily one of the supervisors dropped
me off at Newbury Park with two fellow
co-workers... he was heading up to Basildon...
put the heating up... one co-worker was nodding in
approval to the met sleep...
me? i took a power-nap after having some food back home,
from 8:30pm to 9:30pm, before writing my father's invoice,
making him lunch & taking out the garbage...

but he kept on switching the music
and texting while driving...
what?! what is this, short-attention span when it comes to music?

alll i herd was rap, some drum & bass,
something equivalent to pendulum,
before the song was half-way through,
he would change it... start working early in life...
low attention span, how many thought were pulverising
his head when he took it upon himself
a self-assertiveness of an "alpha-male":
sure... Dan is about 2 inches taller than me,
fatty boy, walks about like a falling oak...
has 4 children... yet.. his mind was distracted
by my silence...

i could have said: listen, mate, i'm knackered...
it might be probable that i only dreamt up
sleeping these three hours...
treating women like second class citizenry:
but.... THE WOMEN LOVE IT...
the grumpy male...
they love it!
i'm not your uber driver etc.
well, i'm not having any of it... i just focused
on his restless mind...
if i were driving the car...
you'd be listening to

die eisenfaust am lanzenschaft...
through & through...

die aeisenfaust am lanzenschft
die zügel in der linken,
so sprengt des reiches ritterschaft
und ihre schwerter blinken

hey-ah hey-ah.... hey-ah! hey-ah!
und ihre schwerter blinken.
hey-ah hey-ah.... hey-ah! hey-ah!
und ihre schwerter blinken.

das balkenkreuz, das schwarze fleigt
voran auf weißen grunde,
verloren zwar doch umbesiegt
so klingt uns seine kunde,

hey-ah hey-ah.... hey-ah! hey-ah!
so klingt uns seine kunde.
hey-ah hey-ah.... hey-ah! hey-ah!
so klingt uns seine kunde.

at worst, you'd have me playing Prokofiev's
schlacht auf das eis...
(battle on the ice, some Nevsky)...
if only the Polacks wrote a musical score
for... schlacht bei Tannenberg...
sadly... only  painting...

that's history... what a scatter brain...
we rode all the way from Wembley toward
the straight A12 towards Essex Basildon...
i don't think i heard a whole song in full...
playing the role of "alpha male" leaves most men
scatter brained...
he already has the physical superiority,
but his mind is a mollusk...

my fellow coworker tried to establish something,
i already disclosed to her that i studied
chemistry, that i write... ahem... poo-etry...
my name, my ******* name...
i break it down to her:

M'ah-T'eh...   ΩŠ...
the it's written as mateusz...
but the slavic S+Z is equivalent to the English S+H...
which is equivalent to hiding either Z or H
within the S as a caron: Š...
ma-te (again, hide the H's of the vowel catcher
tetragrammaton)...
the upsilon is prolonged, therefore becomes
a doubled omicron, like in pOOl...
ergo... an omega... omega being sort of a "double-u"...
W... V... a double V... when is softened from vent...
wet is the softened version of vet...

it's not a double "U"... is it... that's an omega...
it's a double V... that W = 2xV, no?

come to think of it, telepathy?
if you read enough Julian Jaynes, about the phenomenon
of the bicemeral mind...
prior to to the event: as if the 8 winds spoke one
word simultaneously, was someone calling me?
i heard the word: MA-TE-USZ...
as clearly as i felt the cold,
heard the rain, saw the sun...

if my name could be elevated....
from merely: geschenk von gott
to: das licht von zorn...
   (gift of god that becomes:
the light of wrath)...
i'd hear about it, prior to seeing anything...
that the day begun with a hallucination,
and ended with someone asking
me for the syllables corrected...

clearly this is a job for me, i'm very fond on
ensuring crowds are safe, secured, serviced...
i like this simple mantra:
keep them contained within a crowd status....
keep them herderded...
i might wish for sheep, people is the closest i'll ever come
to being someone herding sheep not uprooted
from his roots in Iran, being turned into
an Just-Eat driver on a ******* moped...

i'm loving these little snippets of authority,
it can't allow me to turn into a megalomaniac,
i feel... a genuine concern for people,
esp. children....
i don't need my own... the children of strangers are
plenty...

but it's so bewildering, a guy pretends to be this alpha...
rude to females... mein gott: how women love
being slapped metaphorically!
mein hertz, ist nicht im des recht platz...
singen freude! singen frei!
lassen alles einfach: singen!

i lapse into etymological English, i.e. German
whenever something is... odd... curious...
a hmm proposition...

plenty... jetzt kommt, der große: schlaf(en).