i write about these things,
because in all honesty?
they don't matter to me.

you can call it assimilation, then you'll call it
   i'm making a worded salad, so it doesn't really matter
whether i speak the language or not,
being native you'll tell me i have to be a diacritically
riddled over-laden version of you  nativeness...
you'll basically tell me i have to speak a worse-off
native than you didn't bother to grasp...
after that? i turn Sioux and scalp you.
  because that's what you deserve.
i could have come up against you
in the thick of night and turned you into a kebab,
and do you think anyone would have
cared? is it one thing to assimilate,
and another to assimilate into a skin-head culturalism
implosive that's brimming to the full with your patriotic
hopes as being acted upon? i can speak the perfect
English and still be more welcome in Scotland
than in Kent... but that will not not do,
not until i shave my hair off,
grow a beard, and runsack my skin
with quasi-Hindu ******* tilts...
           and when this foreign legion
of Swedish journalists bemoan why
their **** ain't where their heart is?
have you seen the *sienkiewicz"
trilogy of *potop? you want history?
how about: in the beginning
there was an invading horde of Swedes
that tried to topple the proto-commonwealth
of Poland and Lithuania...
  even how much i cared to learn the tongue:
i'd be left belittled by ugly accenting
stereotypes...
                          i'd be Islam of drunk,
while the engineers would be left saying:
and unto us amphetamines,
and Mamelukes were never Egyptian...
because Egypt was what Egypt desired...
a quasi thingy... then i turned my ear
to Macbeth, and earned 70 years
and a Spartacus' worth of ears to my nearing 31...
                   i turned to Macbeth the theatricals
silences, and let, the music... play.
i can learn the language, but i am expected
to push the natives from a career of criminality,
i am expected to become the criminal,
i've learned the language beyond the natives,
what else?
   to learn the debasement of the natives akin to
every other culture? am i to become the
criminal statistic of the ruling political elite?
so they can "know" but that they merely quote?
   i owe my ode to Macbeth,
for Hamlet can become tiresome aligned with
Sisyphus in hell...
              we'll have builders by the end of
the debate...
     how much more do i have to learn?
is language not enough? then velkommen Syriac!
               is it not enough that i know the tongue?
must i be jeopardised by using it,
and say that universality is to be excluded,
simply because it does not abide by an utopian
ideal of pure English sprechen pure English?
         there are scapegoats to be festering upon
the spike that's readied to be fried...
but come on... is this deutschesprechen?
              it can't be! if i pretend to be Malcolm...
you pretend to be Duncan,
but nonetheless the speech makes us both truant
ghouls and guises receding
   into the demands of operatic - kindred to
Lady Macbeth (a protestant, or should she be
known catholic: McBeth) -
      as Glasgow religion of the coliseum of the times
testifies... celt and ranger... green & white vs. blue and
   black...
     lady mc.: what beast was 't thou,
        that make you break this enterprise with me?
(no matter if you killed a man, of whatever
stature he be worth, what beast are you to suddenly
cage my heart, when having agreed to make my heart
and feeling thus: storm the heights of Ben Nevis,
and descend as angrily as a woman might please,
  and with her whim, descend from the mountain
as if a mountain descends into desert?! what
courage, ye! to throw a woman into such woe
and leave a man's promise, the very least
a man can bestow upon this earth: but a woman
yet to come to correct!) so thus the elvish Anglican
was spoken, and thus continued:
- when you durst do it, then you were a man;
   and, to be more than what you were, you would
be so much more the man. nor time, nor place,
did then adhere, and yet you would make both...
  from his boneless gums...
nor have i understood Hamlet as the model student,
the puppet if not the mere mascot...
for the Freudian couch... then again i navigated
past Kant with Macbeth,
having yet to complete reading the critique...
       i took to maturity, and said
what others wished upon: there is true
adult agony in a well versed poetry...
       more so than adolescence in what's deemed
a maturation process...
             perhaps i should have served the concern
for Hamlet and laid bare upon the psychoanalytic
couch... but Macbeth: of said
sepia as copper, so said of woad as in aquamarine
surrender... led me to cite...
          for i was never bound to own the tongue
i would acquire... i was told:
   well, hello there, dishonourable squire...
ah... the queen's majestic airs...
    will make any Irishman desist from the republic's
gaze...
             and sloth in a respectably believed state
of consolidatory affairs under the kites of Yates...
   but never you mind the Silesian consumed
by former guardian of the coalmine...
or what L'vov wouldn't say in Ukrainian...
mind you Nevada and Lasso Vegan...
mind you that...  for that speaks biblical studies!
i will never assimilate, in that i will never be
allowed to own this tongue...
            and if i am allowed to own it...
i am but a furry-faced-bloat of faked pleasantries
   and closet nationalism...
        i wish i could own this language as if i
might own a typewriter... but i'm apparently
not welcome, by the pseudo-irish who
mediate the English assertion of the understanding
of the dover sieve...
                 ******* leprechaun mafia...
  paddy paddy oo too the butch-faced freckled girl...
   it's as if the Italians have Manhattan,
    and the Corke conglomerate prescribed
everyone a pint of Guinness rather than iron-pill
supplements...
                 well: and so the Titanic bellows
out an oceanic morse code of tantrums on
the accordions.
                      which sorta soothed the mermaids
digest contemplation for the vegan accomplishment
of shrimp... and over seafoods...
being digested.
         now i'm apparently not speaking English,
or i'm speaking English and i don't understand it,
or i'm understanding how i'm speaking English,
and how i'm supervising all things uranium
                               bound hallucinogenic...
or how, even though urbanity took off and
the countryside disappeared, you think you'll never
meet peasants in smirk attire to condescend you
gravity toward theatre or opera...
     but peasants are reall... you can recognise a peasant
the minute they don't recognise you insulting them;
it's a bit like telling a very witty joke...
         i don't get witty jokes because i tend to treat them
like a siegl heigl salutation...
   and i respect the memory of Octavian...
                                 it's the wittiness that comes into
contact with actually not telling a joke: and people
end up laughing... that's when you spot the peasants.
    so you see... i speak the ****** language,
but i'm sorta denied the access for drinking a cosmopolitan
at a Shoreditch pub...
                        which makes all arguments
for learning the language obsolete in terms of gaining
a "fair" advantage... and this is European to
European lingo...
        didn't i ask that Swedish journalist
ingrid carlqvist to watch the trilogy, including
potop about the war between Sweden and
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth, and ask her
about what's to be culturally inherited?
**** me... maybe i'm sleepwalking...
                     dodo zombified or something...
                                     oh wait...
                                         if ever there was a regressive
reparation policy in a country:
i'd hear: guilt from western countries taking the bribes
of the Marshall Plan...
      and overt pride from countries post-world-war ii
being prescribed communism, as a way to rebuild
their nations: for fear of having to commit to
hara kiri... or *******...
                                         as said: becoming
the easily bribed convenience...
                              the concept of assimilation
within the construct of selective migration has transcended
the mere acquisition of language...
  acquiring a language isn't enough...
         the reverse policy of colonialism is hushed-down
ethnic cleansing...
          which goes beyond language per se,
since it goes beyond dialect ex lingua...
              it is a necessitation of also acquiring
national stereotypes of unengaged in dialectics...
it is one thing to rhetorically assert a need to debate,
and another to understand that dialectics ≠ debate;
but rather a service to prompt and engage thinking,
rather than debating... dialectics is an art-form,
     it's intended to encourage thinking,
rather than the continuum of polarised / schizoid
debating: debates never accomplish a convergence...
whereas dialectics is intended to establish
a convergent pinpoint... as Socrates said unto the young,
so i find myself talking to old men and being
in accordance to have shared a park bench,
one sunny afternoon at the nadir of summer.
                why is it that acquiring language is not
enough these days?
       or why is it that a poor acquisition of a language,
or acquiring a language without correcting
accentuated stresses particular to a tongue
are given a freer access to labour, then
acquiring a language to a standardisation of
mimic localisation, and fence: a faking of
a faking (ad infinitum) or locality?
i.e. overly-successful assimilation?
             overly-successful assimilation is punished!
   it is punished by speaking as a fluent native
might... but having no discriminatory biases
that could enable one to be completely native...
and this is punishable!
             by a stance that it's a robotics project,
that one is nothing more than an a.i. enterprise...
even those dearest to me acknowledge me
as a robot... an a.i.,
           but they can't seem to understand that
artificial intelligence, and authentic intelligence
cannot be superficial intelligence of
natives... for the natives have a placebo
to what is otherwise a Pompeii resurrection
to the volcano-dynamic of analysing-ergo-synthesising
           ana ergo syn           which
constructs the opposite of thesis and antithesis,
given that the equation combines two adequate prefixes,
ana- and syn-...
                      "against" therefore "with".
isn't that how we cling to social pressures
or prejudices and still accumulate 8 billion examples
of a comparative e.g. that's a John Smith?
     i have yet to come across a contemporary that
might become as if fatherly...
   i just see opportunist buckling down the M25 of
encircling nothing more than a venture into
gaining a quick buck... and it could, it could
almost be sad... but it's not...
              it took me almost 13 years of synthesising
the English language: synthesising i.e.
mimicking - before i started analysing it...
      and when i say the groundwork for any
theory on the subconscious is to focus on grammar
and grammatical word interjections into
a Joycean stream-of-consciousness...
                              for that's worth the upper-tier
working from the sub-level...
                          of utilising language:
then the unconscious is far from dreaming...
it's equivalent in seeing how i acquired a language
at the age of 8 to synthesise / mimic what the children
around me were saying...
   but that it took me so long to analyse the language...
which the children around me acquired within
a reflexive bias to later strand such reflexiveness into
a divergence of calling their angular retraction
philosophy, linguistics, poetry, psychology...
whole all i had to do is to appropriate a reflective bias to
later strand such reflectiveness as to say:
of my mother i say polski, of my father i say:
             ojczym - and i can reflect upon him,
foremostly his diacritical lack of the wriggling-blagger's
economisation, when due coinage is needed.

We voyaged with contented vigour,
not a second glimpse to the blackened moon.
Bodies numb, fallen stiff to the chill
beneath dim urbanity -
only the warmth of us
thawing glacial palms.

Fractured hearts ruminate,
filling scars where voids once evident.
Further the night wandered,
I embark its goading path -
tantalised in speech
from such copper-buttoned eyes;
steeped with stories
of a past torn from its flesh
and dressed to resemble me.

Our ghosts confide,
beckoned forth in rich exchange;
the currency of gilded tongues.
Stitched as testament to brick fabric,
where apparitions tucked rest;
those musty Shoreditch steps.

"I've fallen in love,
And her philosophy is divine" he said.
"Her words, they cascade.
From her mouth- enchanting like surf on the sea.
Her views expressed with anguish and creativity."
I told him to run away.
"She's just well spoken, well versed".
But he only cursed me,
And his heart became hardened.
She had divided,
She had decided,
On his behalf.
He was a sacrifice, and she had to eat .

i should be handling a champagne flute by now,
i don't know, maybe it's the laughter
that's curbing me from doing so... oh the fizzling
of my shizzle: or whatever's the trend in Campton.

now i'm watching videos on the pros and cons
and i'm thinking: it's really out of my hands -
i can do what Pontius Pilate did, back when
everything political required things to be hygiene prone
- and when there were literate fishermen who
miraculously broke from physical toils
       and wrote anti-Pharisee booklets.
forget Socrates defiling the youth:
it's me and a few old men -
will i become martyred because of it,
am i deluded with an invasion of
Shoreditch coolio across the depth and breadth
of London: who cares?!
       i like a good film, and this one is
always going to be good -
it only takes one word (well, two): the queen;
mainly the logic stuck true to the end
result: it would have been too good to be true...
take that logic and make it into a motto -
        wholeheartedly honestly,
      i have not an inch of my own wet *****
dipped into your ear: that's what
being independent means -
it also means that Copernicus ruined
   all things nautical, sunrise, sunset,
                  and thank **** the earth is
3D, now the problem, what shape is the universe?
   as it goes we're in a fudge swamp -
we aren't going anywhere, we think we are,
but people forgot to twin thought and doubt together,
   instead we have thinking and denial twinned,
which means: no matter how many facts are
spewed and later picked up as golden nuggets
we're not going anywhere.
       that's the beauty of a niche armchair,
      you get to bypass the comforts of crowd and airing concerns -
i'd never miss those emotional reactions
of people slyly: for the world!
    i love how they think that spying is masquerading
and not stating the obvious: which it usually is,
spying is stating that: the opposite has a tradition
built upon using sharpened knives:
                    me and my blunt knives:
i'm tearing into the meat like a vulcher -
what the hell can you do?
   sell the truth for 30 quid, buy it back for 20.
  that's a Homeric certainty -
    no, not the jokey Springfield variety:
the serious Grecian 2000 year old (if not more)
one - and i already asked:
what are you here for?
  me? i'm into writing a 2000 year old chapter
ranging from monkey, neanderthal and man -
     given the obvious disparities
and image issues and ****** favours considering
the pale anorexic Parisian modelling skeletors.
     you know what i found distinct in that story:
Slavs among the Germanic tribalism?
i concentrated on the eyes, rather than admit
a less pronounced *occipital bone: yeah,
that's almost a tail in evolutionary sprechen.
       all thanks to a girl in school who noted
that "defect".
     i just looked at the eyes and found they were
more ****, and subsequently quasi-Mongolian
and less Germanic fish-eyed fixative of ogling
out as if about to be gouged out, or simply
popping out with a reference to helium.
    once again: a stick has two ends.
         it's the historiological (why the iota in that
i'll never know) demand:
the pendulum simply said: too good to be true -
and it was:
  i'll go one better, better than black and female?
how about native?
   now that would be a game-changer -
      anything less than a native american is
as about as revolutionary or a status quo disciple
or a hamburger for breakfast:
hence the reason why sarcasm and apathy mingle
        and look down at the doormat:
  oh right, only wiping my shoes does it? hell,
i'll wipe my shoes: come in and take a ****.
     thus the misrepresentation of writing on
pixel-paper (or what's called:
       drunk, but still in want of having a chance to
revise, because we're all sloppy when
      staging what the original transgression was);
   i never write with a want to say the things i write,
i just think the misrepresentation comes
when i treat the internet as a punching-bag to think
things through: a voyeuristic-reversal,
        as such a great medium to think things out:
the new ****.
   nonetheless, it's hard not to laugh within
the framework of defending the freedom to sprechen
and leave the defence of the freedom to denken
  within a socialism that never manufactures
    anything: apart from protest marches -
the F. Gumps amid broken vocal chords.
                  you get suspicious about deaf people
hearing more than those able...
                                 to hear a crackpot mantra
and subsequently diffuse it.
                     i wish we lived in world summarised
by the words: all eyes on Mongolia...
            but that's what happens when you popularise
**** and industrialise it:
    a. China and India beat you in terms of industrialising
             it (over a billion buggers by my count, each!)
and b. it's a litmus test of youngsters in the future
              suffering from depression -
now that's really obscure - i don't really have a b.
     point to make... pornographic industrialisation
got me...            come to think of it:
if america didn't industrialise *** i'd be in a transgender
clinic trying to figure out whether i had
    any ego in my phallus - completely bewildered
whether i should accept my ******* as if a dog
accepting its canine extension...
        given women these days
and the fact that i had to pay for the pleasure tells me
a lot...
            i either pay for it and play the genteel role
or i go mad from ****** frustration and ****:
at least we're talking a contract,
like that bubbly Puerto Rican woman in Amsterdam:
                                         **** it... Freud!
so we solved the whole "earth is not flat" debate,
           even though we still require the n.e.w.s.
to go about our daily business... tragic: we now have
to encapsulate the universe as having a shape -
  milestones have been conquered,
  from a 2D earth into a 3D earth
      we now have an infinitely 1D universe -
                because it couldn't have been: a box
within a box, within a box: without an actual box,
or as the people said: hence we having the sport of boxing /
dentistry.
            the Russians put a man and a dog into
space: fair enough...
      we go a step further and end all fairytales
  and turn our children into ambitious astronauts
breakdancing on the moon -
                              then comes Mars...
if we're going with that sort of escapist route then we're done:
   these traditional capitalistic endeavours for
mere competition have turned into a variation of
simple escapism - as i was taught in a catholic school -
imagine yourself in a world, then leaving it -
always imagining the earth from afar, from the moon, say;
all that really was said was the Taoist motto
about not engaging with the world on terms of
rounding up, rabble talking and ******* whatever needed
******* (pervert, i know the slang in the engagement
     of the cultish excesses of skin; rough ***?).
   but that's what it is: escapism -
                         as they said: a message from former
communist countries -
                           a sprouting vogue in western
           societies: with their beards, and chequered shirts,
social conforming hippies know as hipsters:
i don a beard because it's cold around here:
plus i look less of a fat person -
alcohol fat ain't cutie pie fat: it's called being bloated.
       only among an obese population would you
get anorexia - again: historiological logic (the pendulum,
or the Newtonian impression) -
         once Newton was told he was less than accurate
people decided everything was relative:
the Greeks abhorred moral relativism -
   it's not that god died - cause & effect died
in what's modern, and reliably crescendo.          
sure, humanity will go on in any other argumentative suite,
      it's the one thing humanity can't be, i.e.: undermined.
*** is (after all), an existential variant of ******* -
you'd be daft to think that it was or could / would be
  otherwise.

"I've fallen in love,
And she's so beautiful I could die", he said.
"Her hair, it flows.
As much as a pixie cut can flow.
Her eyes, they glow.
As much as the gates of heaven can."
I told him to look away.
"Love is a child's game. Don't be a fool".
But he was a ****** fool,
And his heart was set upon her.
Finding,
Dining her.
After all,
She was a delicacy, and he had to eat.

A GARLAND FOR NATIONAL POETRY DAY 2014

My Once and Only Garden

It’s no longer mine
But I pass it
Nearly every morning.
It’s untended,
Overgrown, autumned,
The camellia needs a prune,
The irises have gone;
The garden needs
A good seeing to.
A sad garden to pass
Nearly every morning.



The Chestnut Avenue

I came back to fallen chestnut
Shells, conkers, everywhere,
But the leaves are still
Thinking about falling.
No wind you see.
On other trees I pass,
The lime,the white-beam,
There’s a crinkly brownness
Scattered across the path.
So dry, no wind,
September sun.
The chestnut avenue
Has some way to go.
Wind, rain, frost perhaps
And the leaves will fall.


******* a Boat

There’s this girl,
A young woman really,
On a boat.
Not living on it yet
But plans are afoot,
Along with essential repairs.
It’s not ‘Offshore’
Like Penelope Fitzgerald’s
Boat on the Thames.
But in a quiet and placid mooring
On the River Lea instead.
I thought of sending her this book,
But it’s all about liminality,
People somewhere in between,
People who don’t belong on land or sea
. . . And the boat (eventually) sinks.


Still Waiting

We sat on the seat
Under a bower of roses
In the herb garden
And she talked in that singing
Way of talking that she does;
Such a tessitura she commands
Between the high and the low
With a falling off portamento
Glide - from the high to the low.
Her hair stills falls
Across serious freckles, auburn hair,
Gold with a touch of red
Like her mother’s only softer,
Like mine once was, and my mother’s too.
She has a slighter frame though,
and is still waiting, waiting
For a real life, a woman’s life.


Cyclamen Restored

I went away and left it
On a saucer, watered,
In a north light
Near a window sill.
Its pink flowers were *****
And nodded a little
When I moved about the room.

On my return it had drooped,
Its leaves yellowed.
There were tiny pink petals
Scattered on the floor.
I put the plant in the sink
For half an hour.
It revived,
And the next day
Seemed quite restored.


Driving South

Driving south through
Dalton, Shoreditch,
Hackney and Hoxteth,
The Hasidic community
Garnished the Sunday street.
Driving down the A10
South towards the city:
The Gleaming Gerkin,
the Walkie Talkie,
and further still,
a Misty Shard.

As a child, the buildings here
Were so much slighter
And a grimy black;
The highest then, the spires
Of Wren’s city churches.

Sundays to sing at ‘Temple’,
With lunch at the BBC,
Driving south from New Barnet
In my Great Uncle’s Morris,
Great Aunt Violet dozing in the back.


Gallery

Small but beautifully right
For her London show,
Good to see her surrounded
By tide marks from the shore,
Those neutral surfaces,
Colours of sand and stone,
Rust (of course) from the beaches
Treasured trove, metal
Waiting to become wet
And stain those marks with colour.


Ascemic Sewing

Having no semantic content
These ‘words’ appear on the back
Of a chequered cloth of leaves
Backed all black
Stitched white,
A script of a garden
Receding into
Trans-linguistical memory.


September Dreaming

Facing the morning
Above a barrier of trees,
Oaked, foxed, hardly birded,
I would  wonder while she slept
About the richness of her dreams,
Dreams she had spoken of
(Yesterday, and out of the blue)
And, for the first time, in all
These precious but frustrating
years we’d slept together,
shared together.
I had always thought her dreamless;
Too fast asleep to experience
Envisioned images,
Sounds and sensations.


Think of a Poem

She told me in a text about
Think of a Poem
On National Poetry Day
Just a week away.
That’s easy, I thought,
There’s always that poem
Safe and sure in my memory store
Once spoken nervously,
under a rose garden walk,
but there, there
for evermore . . .

Who says it’s by my desire
This separation, this living so far from you. . .


Missing Music

Today I read a poem
Called The Lute: a Rhapsody.
‘From the days of my youth
I have loved music,
So have practised it ever since,’
Says Xi Kung.

In his exquisite language
He then describes its mysterious virtues,
And all the materials from which it’s made.

How I miss my lute, its music,
And the voice that once sang to its song.


Drawing

I wonder if she’s drawn today,
And what? I wonder.
John Berger says:
Drawing goes on every day.
It is that rare thing
That gives you a chance
Of a very close identification
With something, or somebody
Who is not you.
I wonder if she’s drawn today,
And what? I wonder.

City
almost  done now,
the fun somehow has left these streets,
but weary feet are tramping home, sick to death and weary to the bone.

Rtoseberry avenue
postcode EC1 and then
it's gone.

Clerkenwell green,
scene of many unpleasantries leaves me and on to St John's street and
more city feet.

Old street not paved with gold except for the elite and more weary feet tramping on.  

It's the end of another day and the city always had its way with the few and the lucky ones escaped by bus,
not us,
we went hobo on the city street, tramps and dodgy people, feet so sore and where if when we look to see the Shoreditch box park know we are not far or free of Hackney and the night falls dark across me.

I do
I do
Said twice, but in my heart I knew it wasn't so.

I go because I must've been and seen it all before and though I know it's rotten to the core it draws me like a magnet and I am being trawled by some megaline or dragnet.

The streets beat me down and the pirates in this ***** town have stolen me away,
just another bedtime story written underneath the evening stars and just another ending of the day.

Just hanging around stuck in the background where Echo and the Bunnymen sing sad songs,they're not funny men and I'm not one too.
Going to take my Queen and fulfill a dream,dine in style at Mile End,wend my way down to Nandos,pay for chicken,sticking less to the plan because I'm only a man I travel to Hackney where the wild men of Shoreditch come out to attack me with rolled up newspapers,their capers amuse me until I blink twice, and I see, that my Queens seen it all and goes off in a huff,
Puffs of smoke are no joke when you're born as a bloke because the magic don't last,blast it nearly passed it,the turn off for middle age,junction twenty six on the revolving glass mirrored stage,but I made it and now I'm back in the sun waiting for my Queen to come,my apology accepted along with the promise of a day trip to Poundland,stand and deliver while we shiver our timbers and limber up for the party on interstate four,
sore from the laughter we take a bath shortly after because we like to stay clean,my Queen thinks I'm ***** and men go that way after thirty but I'm not so sure.
I have pure intentions and clean underwear,does she care? I think so but it's so hard to know what she's thinking,she tastes of melons when I'm drinking her in.
In this flotilla where the will of the one doesn't win,we all stick together, whether it's a good thing or not,
but I've got a plan and because I'm only a man it's a good one and so I carry on and she carries me,I meet her mum and she marries me..sounding obscene,I mean I married my Queen,not her mum.

It's all in the spaghetti which I'm sure that SHY YETI'S BEST OF BRITISH - PART 1 doesn't cover,so it won't keep me warm but no harm in me looking through this facebook and cooking a dish,should I wish, for some it's back to interstate four,where the cops will be waiting with a ticket to the potteries and a fine for the finder of the stopped timex watch winder.

where was I
in Mile end?
yes,
going to spend but stay lean as I talk with my Queen,
and so it goes on.

Let me do you justice with my words.
I'm forever tortured with the urge.
To glorify you with every letter.
To make you, in my mind,
Even better.

it was a year of peter bjorn and john with what later became an advert - what meant Olympic integrity, when R.E.M. didn't sell it's the end of the world (as we know it) to Microsoft... because it would just mean another mansion of 22 toilets and 16 bedrooms, rather than the standard bog where the ****-dolphins laughed along with Dr. Susie...

i remember the night well...
we met some producer looking for the school playground
of gimmicks in a bar in the plush part of
moving the Afro-Carribeans out of Hackney into
Havering, so that the Olympics "legacy" could be
established with a mirror pristine look for
that locals never ever would resemble: the Japanese
pensioners and the tourists: harr she! squat *******!
squat! squat in the workplace, squat at home!
we ended up at a party where i was
wearing a t-shirt with the iron cross,
gott min uns, she was Finnish, we started snogging,
out came the prowler t.v. presenter looking for
more ***... miquita oliver was there,
and so was simon amstell (the prowl hi
i already mentioned), as we were leaving bloc party
arrived when one of our accomplices was all giddy
like a tour-fan-****... we went to the producer's
pad... ******* for the Hitchcock blonde using it to
start a conversation... you upstairs in the attic
shivering on a massive bean bag...
cuddles... shivers... cuddles...
now your children are ready to go to school...
can't blame me for nostalgia... i can't blame myself
for not keeping a wife and tax revenue or life insurance...
spending the night there, breaking up
when the sun rose... so much for high school sweet hearts...
it's true... the hipsters thought i was a hipster **** that
one time... i'm laughing about it now...
but thankfully the song i mentioned had no
ethical superiority surrounding it...
thankfully this memory will not be worth much,
it's like a bunch of Romanians selling shoes at
a Polish open-air market... peter bjorn and john's
young folks crept up at the heels of uninspired people...
well, even the monetary fund or the tribal fund of
sticking together, breach of justice, to eradicate tribalism
give it alcoholism without expression...
keep the monetary tact in line with piranha...
well... it's part of a homebase advert from now on...
so it means there's no emotional commitment to be leveraged
for any other purpose than a purpose per se, which ends
on the last dot.

It started well, so cleanly
Soaked in Lush stuff she soothed the aches
Whilst wife was meanwhile cooking a treat
Cider soaked pork and apples
The taste was tremendous
Precedent set for the night ahead

Feeling cool as ganstas we bopped and grinded
To hip-hop only Jurassic 5 could please me with
We were few female amongst a crowd of masculinity
And we relished the imbalance
Flirting my way to the front of the bar
I reignited my relationship with the favourite Jaegar-Bomb
And there dust settled upon the cleanliness

Things turned hazy but in a good way
Post gig we flooded onto the streets of Brixton
And drank the finest foreign beers from an overflowing alehouse
The company was our long-missed men-friends
And yet we still meeting more
As we shared the ingredients to ***** our lungs
They asked for 50 shades of grey in return for rizla
So I rose to the challenge in my half-cut state

This time is was always my intention to wash the weekend down wildly
And starting Thursday this premature session could progress to only place
…the Queens Head
Where dust turned to grime as snapshots of evidence
Prove it was on the credit card that those Jaegar-Bombs were paid
Time and time again
We had become team-mates and it was time I fed them
So we muddled back to my place
Trumpeting our voices through the building
As I served slow roasted pork from glasses
Apparently felt good choice
But next day our melted fingerprints disagree
Our heads also disagree with the antics
And it takes two rounds of tablets to numb the pain

Before later forcing recovery as in Shoreditch we start again
Gathered at Bettys we watched music played
Our rumps rested on armchairs upon the pavement
We continued drinking until the early hours of the day
Then searched for somewhere to take us on the dance floor longer
After only brief grimes of movement and Jaegar
Our night ended abruptly to our dismay
Instead had my first take of kebab
And went north where *** took the night away

Once again woke next morn in bed with man-friend
No memory but surely not in a **** way
Now the skies ******* a mocking mirror of our livers
It seemed a sign to sink further
And the finest ****** Mary led the way
And together sat on sofas we philosophised subjects that we deemed great
Then we ogled sparkly get ups
With prices that we couldn’t afford to pay
So went south to join more friends whose film we met to celebrate

The beginning of the end of madness
Needed cocktails-all we could tolerate
We had formed a tribe of friendship
And we hunted somewhere to prolong the rave
By now all sense of cleanliness long-time washed away
So a downstairs dive provided venue fit for our friendships to extenuate

Then outside met a generous stranger
Who offered tastings that lead our minds astray
Our insides dirtied beyond belief
But sprits high so when we stumbled upon a private party
We were welcome guests to join their birthday

What happened next I needn’t say
For inevitably it had become Sunday
So ***** now we were beyond grey
In wife’s bed I lay
Whilst my insides showed their dismay

This would take some cleaning

Born and bred into poverty to
end their days confined in the Marshalsea,
in debt for a penny
to the Aristocracy, who
with
Jeweled eyes were unable to see
the poor people
living in poverty.

With silver and gold, they paved streets so we're told
olde England with
riches
overflowed,
not that you'd know it amid the tanneries and
horse ****,
but that's just the way
the thing goes.

Among the harlots and ****** who scoured the shores
of the river when the tide was in ebb, were
the living though dying,
the failures and those trying to survive and
Dickens picked stories from the dead eyes
of Shoreditch in the 'jago' where they go
and he went.


In The 'mansion house' the banquet goes on for
the sightless unseeing but I am already
fed up.

/                                   donald trump is here?!
   on these splendid, splendid isles?!
                                      really?
  where was the past week?

good thing that i bought
that johnnie walker red label
especially for the occassion -

    without actually knowing it was
to take place...

    i guess you might call
watching protests on t.v.
       a bit like:
                going to an illegal rave
party in an abandoned
                               industrial building
somewhere in
       dagenham, or shoreditch,
                            or 'ackney...

britain is not getting what it already
wants -
                       i can understand blatant
flattery, and airs, monsieur,
             monsieur bleu, rouge et blanc...

the one time that britain looks...
bedazzled?!
                               frizzy haired...
the sort of comic sketch
of a **** scene where the man wakes
up having sobbed himself
to sleep, in a disney cartoonish
way expressing frightened awe
and the words:

     [what] the **** just happened?

   'ave a tongue for a ****, mate.

- honest to god though:
   where have i been for the past week?!
i've paid attention to the football -

croissants, or, chequers?!
  hmm...
                   oi! two face, what's
your gamblers' pundit?
                    
                         - let the slavic sub-plot
'ave it,
              if goran (ivanišević)
     could do it, this ******* litter can do it,
given they reached the semi-finals
in 1998...
          
                      and believe me:
   some people...
                    are really jealous of the chessboard
representation on fabric, shh...

or at least that's what i whispered
into the ear of lucifer,
        hermitage's secondary
    (only to achilles)
                       schwarz, mouse-catcher;

and if i'm wrong -
     then i'm wrong:
     but since i don't actually gamble using
money...
      i tap into the emotional
excitment of gambling -
   within the confines of expectation
of being right...

               somehow, gambling,
       but where what i bet with is... zeit...
and grooving to boris brejcha,
tantra of a DJ set...
                   **** me via my ears
and call me Sally...
                              
                         ­     nod nod nod...
(ten minutes later):
   nod nod nod...
          (15 minutes later):
   nod nod nod (with an added
drumkit imitation of the whole
body starting to form a scary shadow
of a man sitting down

before a blank pixel screen
   seeing letters and words appear
like a god might
see stars, and constellations appear
in the dark, dark: voooooooooo
                      'oid)

  which is no proof that i made
a hiccup.                                                          /

To state what seems true
it's about the ratings
don't you
agree.
We shall gather up plaudits to Lord around Shoreditch and Hackney to Bow and watch as the ratings go up.
We shall sup on our tea somewhere down in Lea Green,which is South of the Thames, or as the crow flies about two beats from Lewisham,these are names that I know,places I've seen when I've been down on my uppers and up on the downers,where stories to tell are retold by the fires that burn bright in hell,but I'm well,
It's the ratings we dream,the ratings that seem to be honey,making money more money and funny how sweet it becomes,number like runs on a wheel,spinning the new deal,rating things real when they're not,like spot the ball when there's no ball to be found.
The sound of the ratings that comes through the grating grates on my ears,a whine,electronic,white noise and quietly ******,turning me on,tuning me up,making me look good and I'm just a dwarf plant that grows in the wild wood.
Even better than this as the ratings reach up to **** on the sky,there is payment that's due from the ratings that you long to give.
Why,
I don't know how to live is a mystery to me,a case of rate it and see how it goes
and ratings are all about shows that we take,things that we break,hearts that we make full of joy.
To state what seems true
I am sated on ratings and fated to be
a number in someone's
dating directory.
Did I say dating?
I meant rating
almost the same
but not quite.

Never paid for the pitch
but
sold **** to the tourists
East
down in Shoreditch
and
later in Petticoat Lane
I sold **** again
made a bundle
then
trundled off home.

Life's getting hard for the
twopenny bard and
it's looking like rain
so
I'll sell **** again
on the fly.

By the by or by the way
whichever suits,
on Saturday
I'll be down at the bay
selling mussels to the
weaklings.

As Friday’s sun descends

A manic grip takes hold of the city.



Shoreditch on Shabbat like

A holy land for revellers.



Here the city ignites, the senses

Are at once dulled and overworked



Suits pull suitcases. Weekend trips

Coincide with business meets



Filling hotel lobby bars

The Ace, card dealt on payments.



Shaven bleached heads

Sidestep less fortunates



Begging for more, more, more

As night turns to morning



And mourning the nighttime

Bodies dance through



As sun ascends - bleaching the eye

but beholden because it let’s us go.

some songs are just, ****** hard to find,
name me a song where
you get an intro of a synchro.
of the rhythm sections
  from drums, bass and rhythm guitar
with slight accents of solo guitar?
i can only name one so far (short memory):
motley crue's dr. feelgood.

anyway, so i had this muslim schoolfriend,
and boy, hard enough to going
to a catholic school, in an all irish
neighbourhood...
         "broke" the fast of ramadam with
him by eating a date at school once...
but he had a real "moral" conundrum...
  he fancied *natalie portman...
i said to him: you know she's jewish
(if not in practice, then by heritage alone):
broke the guys heart...
        i think that means getting ******
in pakistan...
       well... natalie portman: fair enough,
but she's a porcelain beauty...
you imagine touching her and doing weird
**** in the attick: you start building
up this phobia of carrying champagne flutes
and a bull in a shop that sells... well:
either chandeliers, glass statues,
or... porcelain.
   i was watching this 1999 film today and
i found an answer to my "longing":
it seems i was always into rachel weisz -
(ray-chell or ra-ra-k-k-k-el? never mind) -
but you see, that's where the porcelain
beauty disappears: and in comes the onion
beauty, the babushka poly-layer -
the mandible jaw... you can imagine doing
circus acrobatics with a girl like that...
and yes: she's also of hebrew heritage...
  curls and curls of a woman's hair are a sight
equivalent to a tornado in the elements...
so much for poster boys and girls,
but in all honesty, ms. weisz was the face
that made me read stendhal, working
from the book-adaptation on screen of
the novel the red & the black (alongside
gweg mc'gweegoor) -
              nope, not going to change my mind:
natalie portman is a porcelain beauty,
some platonic, pristine,
worthy of only having homosexual friends
of the opposite *** in her company...
           tamara? oh, who? that one night
stand... a spanish girl, picked her up in shoreditch...
couldn't get a *****, took a bath with
her the next day... the whole bit of she's:
almost passed out, and wants to do it
with the lights on, but under the bed-sheets...
+ the word angel... well not quite...
  i love how girls break up with me:
tamara said she was going to seek love
on the luvvie-dubbie island of ibiza -
   well fair enough: could have given me a day or
two to relax and get a *****...
        not all men objectify that quickly:
it's not like a drop of blood a mile
away with the shark sniffing it out...
plus the madonna-***** complex
that i completely agree on with regards to
my "anti-semitism" of freud.
so yeah... rachel weisz is a babushka beauty,
hidden layers, a mandible jaw of ***,
while natalie portman is a prized possession
readied for trophy and the glass cabinet
among the other porcelain-type prizes;

the muslim school-friend?
probably the only muslim i ever liked -
no... that's a lie...
   this other muhammad in kenya wanted
me to go to his crocodile farm...
evidently i refused...
  and this other pakistani that invited me
to visit his family...
                 anyway...
                                       true story;

and god, how much easier to write about real
life, than having to stage the intricate
labyrinth of finction, and reduce yourself
to a constipation,
   while your tongue gets snipped by a minotaur.

Three pronged leaves stain the footpath.

Yesterday’s rain indents their tridents

Around Shoreditch. Swept away by council,

Amusingly, at the start of autumn.



In October, when morning’s golden sun

Lies shadows on each building you pass,

This building - a holy one - has front steps

That bed the bedless.



In October, the tattooed pavement

On Pittfield Street illuminates with lives

Past and present. Spring’s leaves have now fallen

And left these trident swords to battle winter.

I'm not in Greenwich, Dulwich, Woolwich or Shoreditch
but I've been to all of them and never looked at them
the same way again.

The staples to me were
Paris, Rome and Naples,
been to them too
passing through en route
to other locations
assignations
desire
every
destination on fire,
and
then I found you.

don't ask what the pen knows.

Shakespeare's at Shoreditch
which is a bit rich
considering
the cost of living.

Stories.

He'll not be listening to Jolly Jack Tars
there are no Bankside bars in that part
of town,
no!
everything's bijou
and everything he once knew
has gone.

of the two places this world has to offer... i find a totality in only two enclosures... the forest... Bower Wood... or the Havering County Park... and any cemetery... it has to be a contest between, either trees... or graves...

i usually weep when i find something insufferably
beautiful... that it's usually music
is no surprise...
               i could argue with the Darwinism that
surrounds the argument that men are
visual creatures, primarily... to be honest?
i'm more prone to trust my ears with regards to...
what ought to be wept over...
i.e. if Ancient Greece is known for their cohort
of child-men... philosophers of this period were:
the epitome of the child-man...
there's no argument...
         never did so many individuals have so many
original thoughts as those, ******* did...
period...
but what is Byzantine Greece known for?
         for me? the psalms...
            Δευτε λαoι...
           now i could rewrite this using the proper
diacritical markers... or... i could use hyphens...
i.e. for the syllables being seen...
    deu-tE       lao-E...
             the capital letter indicates an acute accent
hovering about the letter... in the latter case...
an IOTA becomes EPSILON...
  it's still bewildering for me...
the difference between EPSILON and ETA...
but these letters have... names!
so much so that they can become mathematical
constants or scientific constants...
on point: it also seems it's not that the greek
gods died... but the letters abandoned the Greeks...
that the Ancient Greeks were the originators...
they didn't give us any follow-up scrutiny
of the world...
imagination takes its toil...
but at least the letters are also nouns...
unlike their Roman counterparts which are...
vowels and consonants: two categories...
only last night i was writing with someone
when... it started to rain that sort of impossibly
while i was perched on the windowsill sitting
on a folded right leg with the left leg dangling...
as it rained i outstretched my hand in an imitation
of a cup and... subsequently...
started to smear the rain onto my face
and into my hair...
it's coming up to the anniversary of my grandfather's
death and... one year later...
i abhor to borrow from pop culture:
esp. harry potter...
but... it had me thinking...
the horcrux...
             crux: pivot... cross... Golgotha..
but what's the etymology of the prefix hor-     ?
-ror?
        it implies what it implies...
splitting of the soul via killing someone...
through the absolute negation: the non-existent other...
it was only a splendid 1pm when i sat down
to drink some coffee...
on a side-note... after having stopped drinking
the typical way English people drink tea: with a dollop
of milk (they also drink tea this way in Siberia,
who came up with it?) green tea... thoroughly green...
i've emerged with a lactose intolerance...
i could drink raw milk by the pint...
now? i get the ******* ***** and stomach churns
like i'm about to eat a bag of beans!
i guess Pythagoras was right...
there must be the antonym of a horcrux in terms of...
the people we loved... were intimate with...
perhaps love is unlike killing...
esp. when the people you love are no longer
in your life...
it's not impossible to think that your soul (Σ...
that which is the all encompassing animation of
this, here... body) can't split... splinter...
oh it's so much easier with prostitutes...
one hour... half an hour...
i still remember them... how i touched them...
the grooves of their collar-bones...
their knees...
how their hands disappeared into mine...
the tenderness of so many parts of their body...
the tension in some...
            that's easy to sort out...
  but i'm always elsewhere...
  ah! it's so simple! what?! the etymology!
the prefix hor- is not associated with the root word
horror... it is... hor- for horizontal!
well then... if the thesis of a horcrux... is achieved
by killing someone...
then... the antithesis if a vercrux...
vertical / (transitive) to see...
                   oh i see... even having affection for
my grandfather (maternal): my paternal grandfather
can be dismissed...
don't ask... long story...
               strange... this transition...
when nature takes its course and a vercrux disappears:
you sort of... implode...
a piece of you returns to you...
since... a piece of you attached to a person
is no longer alive...
i still have plenty of vercruxes to find...
well... "find"...
for a year i tried to cry... i found it was easier
to break my head a little and bleed out one night
than cry... i finally did manage to mourn...
but i don't think i was mourning...
it was still beauty that brought me to tears:
el cant de la sibil.la catalunya
                       jordi savall...
hell... i still have pieces of me lost in people
somewhere...
it's not that i regret them not being in my life...
this one Russian beau...
beauty she wasn't... sort of troll-like...
bad tempered dreads... terrible accent... great ***...
terrible manners:
liar... she introduced me to her grandmother
and told me she was her mother...
while her mother... was "apparently" her sister...
well... you know... those Novosibirsk girls...
****'s on fire!
i rarely lie so when i hear someone try to persuade me
with their little fiction piece but
no ******* Anna Karenina... i tend to believe them...
it's not that they're purposively liars:
infusing lies with negation...
but that... they think their lives are boring...
mundane... bleached... eh...
there's this proverb: lies walk on short legs...
but i can't forgive myself the fact that i:
gave up a piece of myself for this girl!
i bemoan a part of my lost to her...
i don't bemoan her...
she ****** off like Jennie in Forrest Gump...
engaged to me, married some poor sucker...
then dated others...
she's... 34 and on her 2nd if not third husband...
the last time i saw her...
for some odd reason i need to visit Edinburgh...
again...
if there's any city i wish to haunt...
Paris is great when you're alive...
but i imagine Edinburgh is even better when
you're dead...
there she was... the same old her... girl...
playing video games...
with her hand slashed downward in parallel with
her veins...
i brought a copy of Joyce's Finnegans Wake...
i peered at what she was reading...
Ulysses and some Nietzsche...
                such a talkative creature... arrogant...
now... reduced by my presence to...
chewing on her tongue...
               she threw a party because i guess my presence
evoked a sense of claustrophobia:
esp. seeing her so vulnerable... slashed had
detailing the presence of her veins...
only then she seemed like a tender creature...
but then i started talking to this guy
and he said he ****** her...
while she was dating this other guy who
simply looked at me sitting on the sofa... sleeping
on the sofa for three days...
never being undressed...
bringing her a curry: mein gott... the amount
of coffee she was drinking while playing
video games...
she was draining her body of potassium: i thought...
my first girlfriend came up to Edinburgh
for me to play a lesbian game with her
while ******* her *******...
months later... maybe a year... she lost her virginity
to me... not a fun event...
******* a ******: i don't understand why you'd
need 72... i remember the sensation of
pulling back my *******
and the... flimsy sort skin protecting what
would later become...
a breeding machine... i commented on her
most recent birth... how sad she looked...
she excused me for being an artist...
i don't think she understood the meaning...
i was saying she was sad in the context of Henry VII...
5 children... all daughters...
and she came from a big household...
two brothers and a sister...
Priya... love at first sight...
     i remember the first time i saw her younger sister...
i must have been 18 while she was...
14? well... you read enough Marquis de Sade /
Nabokov... there's nothing terribly bad about
anything... if you orientate yourself properly...
****... i need more juice to write some more...
momentum!
i've never tasted amphetamines...
tobacco and more bourbon will have to supply
me with enough substitute...

forests and graveyards...
i'm at my wit's end trying to compare...
both... i can't tell the one from the other...
making a ****** lose her virginity is one thing...
but losing one's own?
from what i later found out in the brothel
where... unlike that Spanish girl: under the bed sheets?
seriously?! it's suffocating...
at least in the brothel we do things openly naked...
dimmed lights... sure... but not in ******* cocoons!

Isabella... what a ****** way to lose one's virginity...
third year exchange student from Grenoble...
Isabella...
            man in *** is like a diesel engine...
it takes time... it takes experience...
i've given up on how the reverse missionary:
rodeo? would look like... *******...
i've given up...
  30 minutes every half a decade is:
by my "understanding" plentiful...

first girlfriend... so we had a party...
blah blah... the rest of the night i remember tending to
her in a... sand-sack(?)... all shivering...
while her best fwend was downstairs
in some Shoreditch apartment doing coke....
i just remember the sensation of her shivering...
half away... came the morning: came the break-up...

it's so refreshing when you're a man
and... all the women in your life break up with you...
it's so refreshing not being a ****-boy...
i love it!

oh these grand biographies... once the life has been lived
people finally surrender to what
some people find: ongoing... it's never something to
be "found" once "enough" has been...
ahem... "accomplished":
i find it's best... found... at its most fractured...
yet "somehow" coming together...

TOMIKUNI... a name of this Japanese fwend i had
at university... watch me now:
i'll bemoan how Japanese... doesn't allow
its syllables to mangle with two consonants...
akin to -bl-
         which, looks deceptively Russian...
i.e. ы...            at best represented in Latin via: ý...
but in Japanese you can't mingle two consonants
together...
you can't have a... PRior...
               everything in this language
is cut to sushi proportions when vowels mingle
with consonants...
it's such a lovely... way to encode sounds
without process Chinese ideograms (skeletal
hieroglyphics)...

i'm still a splintered conjuring of man...
i left pieces of myself in others!
two parts of me have returned...
the death of my maternal great-grandmother
and my maternal grandfather...
mangled hip-replacement bona fide(s)!
perhaps if i lived among people that
happened to breed like rabbits...
it could make my stomach churn out less
spare cheese of curd....

a litre of diesel fuel of herr whiskers
& ms. amber will do to ein... one...
i've splintered my soul so much up...
then again: when i'm all alone and... ahem...
"surprised"... i'll find the world
at its zenith...
me not being in it to begin with...
what a comforting thought...
terribly blessing with all its agonies:
nonetheless... forthcoming in the grit of reality....

one litre of bourbon! **** me...
back to my "good old days"!
only recently i ws scribbling with some girl...
what is it.... Halloween season?
i need to be messaging four girls
simultaneously?!

i still think my beard makes a better violin:
should even the best of violins come
to the fore!

Skin like golden dew
In the midst of a
Shoreditch summer.
Your lips like Milk & Honey,
Let me have a taste of that.

Transfixed with
The way you say my name
With that language
I haven’t heard
Before.

Breakfast in bed.
In the morning
Chet Baker,

Hit play.

And tell me
Soul of mine
How do you do
That thing where you draw
The Art of Happiness
In my mind
With those eyes?

It’s been a while
Since I’ve heard your voice
Or seen your smile
Moments spent together
I replay in my head
Priceless memories
A potential treasure chest
But for now I must be patient
And I’m trying my best
But I’m so displeased with quarantine
For pausing whatever moments lay ahead
Whether it’s hot dogs and gelato
Or Sunday strolls in Shoreditch
I want to experience it with you

simple...
  the 3Ps...

                   priests,
psychiatrists,
              prostitutes...

i went to one
by mandatory
standards
of going
through
a catholic education
system...

proud moment:
played
a xylophone
   in a nativity
play...
so no,
i clearly wasn't
the dumb
kid who played
Joseph
and ranted
some *******...

back of the bus...

psychiatrist?
oh yeah...
  the usual cocktail
of mind-numbing drugs...
i was "discharged"
from seeing one,
was never admitted
to a mental institution,
told one i read Kant
and, like her,
i too was a fan-girl
of r. d. laing...

ha ha... fan-girl...
you get the idea...

but then the, lucid
moment... a *******...
**** me...
      that's a *******
snowball in and of itself:
effect...

      which made me question...
Jack the Ripper's intentions...
why prostitutes?
what so bad
about prostitutes...
when... clearly...
they can replace
both the priest
    and the psychiatrist?

2 birds, 1 stone...
psychiatry: pandering
to what?
   chemical juice of the brain?
my so called
i.q. soup?
   yeah... thanks...

  priest...
       pandering to what?
the priest's *******
voyeurism?
    confession is about
giving him a hard-on
while i'm strapped
to an oyster digesting
my *****?
thanks...
   but i think i'll keep
the testicles,
as i've rarely noticed:
the pope can keep
his castrato choir
and paedo-fiddly-bits...
as the sheikh
the harem of bored
    lazing akin to female
seals...
   in need of: less *****...
but as insurance...
   a castrated male...

bit off too much
to actually chew, yes?

well...
  that's why i was left
with the third P
  of the PPP of society...
a *******...
  such responsible creatures,
one even told me
that she goes
to the doctor for regular
s.t.d. checks...
no problem with using
a rubber...
hell...
   i'm not circumcised...
   so when i imitate
a circumcised *****...
i also don a c-ring on the tip...

plus side...
   i don't have to feel
guilty about jerking off...
favorite videos?
eh... you know...
the usual...
   a girl doing the same...
on the opposite
side of the screen...
but for me...
no bed, toy, scented
candles...
   when i'm,
and i'm always doing
it on the throne of thrones
it eases up my
**** when i'm slightly
constipated.

the holy trinity,
doing no. 1,
       no. 2 and no. 3...

and not once,
not even once...
  well... once...
when i forgot to trim
my ***** hair
and asked her to just
smooch...
   not a single time
had i ******* issues...
you should have
asked me about
Tamara...

living with three homosexuals,
who wanted to do it
blind drunk under
the bedsheets,
who later had a bath with
me... who later dumped me...
picked up on a random
night out to Shoreditch...

well... yeah...
didn't have an *******...
but seriously...
cocoon ***?
  under the bedsheets?
and all the lights off?
it became too much
of the unbearable lightness
of being scenario
as to whether:
  no... **** with your eyes
open, yes,
  kiss with
         your eyes closed...

so she ****** off to Ibiza,
as she said,
  "looking for love"...
while i ****** off
to a park, and a bench,
   and a decent amount
of beer,
   being approached
by a man who showed
me a mathematical
magic trick,
   and lamented how
he was living with a woman
who was allowing
their son to smoke
dope freely
   and that it was turning
the boy psychotic...
and it was...
the most unusual part
of London, south of ol' Thames...
close to the Oval ground...

and...
tragically...
you're reading this,
   and have realised
                   there's a 4th P.