Stick with me, friend.
I’d like to make a distinction:
I revere writers but do not deify them.
My heroes and role models must be grounded,
Must have so-called feet of clay.
And there’s always something more in my craw,
Whenever I see scribblers carved in marble,
Glorified to the point of divinity and magic.
Because in my heart of hearts,
Reverence for writers,
Is an odyssey of disillusionment and

I fancy myself a man of letters,
Although “Humanoid of Keystrokes,”
Might be more apt; an appellation,
Digitally au courant.
I am a man on verbal fire,
Perhaps, I am of a Lost Generation myself.
And don’t you dare tell me to sit down, to calm down.
You stand up when you tell a story.
Even Hemingway--even when he was sitting down--knew that.
Let us go then you and I.
Moving our moveable feast to Paris,
To France, European Union, Earth, Milky Way Galaxy.
(Stick with me, Babaloo!)
Why not join Papa at a tiny table at Les Deux Magots,
Savoring the portugaises,
Working off the buzz of a good Pouilly-Fuisse
At 10:30 in the morning.
The writing: going fast and well.

Why not join that pompous windbag ******* artist?
As he tries to convince Ava Gardner,
That writers tienen cajones grandes, tambien—
Have big ***** too—just like Bullfighters,
Living their lives all the way up.
That writing requires a torero’s finesse and fearlessness.
That to be a writer is to be a real man.
A GOD MAN!
Papa is self-important at being Ernest,
(**** me: some lines cannot be resisted.)
Ava’s **** is on fire.
She can just make him out,
Can just picture him through her libidinous haze,
Leaping the corrida wall,
Setting her up for photos ops with Luis Miguel Dominguín,
And Antonio Ordóñez, his brother-in-law rival,
During that most dangerous summer of 1959.
Or, her chance to set up a *******,
With Manolete and El Cordobés,
While a really *******,
Completely defeated & destroyed 2,000-pound bull,
Bleeds out on the arena sand.

Although I revere writers,
I refuse to deify them.
A famous writer must be brought down to earth--
Forcibly if necessary--
Chained to a rock in the Caucasus,
Their liver noshed on by an eagle.
In short: the abject humiliation of mortality.
Punished, ridiculed and laughed at.
Laughing himself silly,
******* on one’s self-indulgent, egocentric universe.
If not, what hope do any of us have?

Writing for Ernie may have been a divine gift,
His daily spiritual communion and routine,
A mere sacramental taking of dictation from God,
But for most of us writing is just ******* self-torture.
The Hemingway Hero:
Whatever happened to him on the Italian-Austrian front in 1918
May have been painful but was hardly heroic.
The ******* was an ambulance driver for Christ’s sake.
Distributing chocolate and cigarettes to Italian soldiers,
In the trenches behind the front lines,
A far cry from actual combat.
Besides, he was only on the job for two weeks,
Before he ****** up somehow,
Driving his meat-wagon over a live artillery shell.
That BB-sized shrapnel in his legs,
Turned out to be his million-dollar wound,
A gift that kept on giving,
Putting him in line for a fortunate series of biographic details, to wit:
Time at an Italian convalescent hospital in Milano,
Staffed by ***** English nurses,
Who liked to give the teenage soldiers slurpy BJs,
Delirious ******* in the middle of the night,
Sent to Paris as a Toronto Star reporter,
******* up to that big **** Gertrude Stein,
Sweet-talking Sylvia Beach,
At Shakespeare & Company bookstore,
Hitting her up for small loans,
Manipulating and conning Scott Fitzgerald—
The Hark the Herald Jazz Age Angel—
Exploiting F. Scott’s contacts at Scribners,
To get The Sun Also Rises published.
Fitzgerald acted as his literary agent and advocate,
Even performing some crucial editing on the manuscript.
Hemingway got payback for this friendship years later,
By telling the world in A Moveable Feast,
That Zelda convinced Scott he had a small ****--
Yeah, all of it stems from those bumps & bruises,
Scrapes & scratches he got near Schio,
Along the Piave River on July 8, 1918.
Slap on an Italian Silver Medal of Valor—
An ostentatious decoration of dubious Napoleonic lineage—
40,000 of which were liberally dispensed during WWI—
And Ernie was on his way.

Was there ever a more arrogant, world-class scumbag;
A more graceless-under-pressure,
Sorry excuse of a machismo show-horse?
Look: I think Hemingway was a great writer,
But he was a gigantic gasbag,
A self-indulgent *****,
And a mean-spirited bully—
That bogus facade he put on as this writer/slash/bullfighter,
Kilimanjaro, great white hunter,
Big game Bwana,
Sport fishing, hard drinking,
Swinging-****, womanizing,
*** I-******-Ava-Gardner bragging rights—all of it—
Just made him a bigger, poorer excuse for a human being,
When the chips were finally down,
When the truth finally caught up with him,
In the early morning hours,
Of July 2, 1961, in Ketchum, Idaho.
I can’t think of a more pathetic writer’s life than
Hemingway’s last few years.
Sixty electric shock treatments,
And the ******* still killed himself.

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So why am I still mesmerized by,
The whole Hemingway hero thing?
That stoicism, the grace under pressure,
That real men don’t eat quiche,
A la Norman Mailer crap?
I guess I can relate to both Hemingway the Matador,
And Hemingway the Pompous *******,
Not to mention Mailer who stabbed his second of six wives,
And threw his fourth out of a third-floor window.
One thing’s for sure: I’m living life all the way up,
Thanks to a steady supply of medical cannabis,
And some freaky chocolate chip cookies
From the Area 51--Our Products are Out of this World—Bakery
(“In compliance with CA prop 215 SE 420, Section 11362.5,
And 11362.7 of CA H.S.C. Do not drive,
Or operate heavy equipment,
While under the influence.
Keep out of reach of children,
And comedian Aziz Ansari.”)

So getting back to Hemingway,
I return to Cuba to work on my book.
During the day--usually in the early morning hours--
When “the characters drive me up there,”
I climb to my tower room,
Stand up at my typewriter in the upstairs alcove.
I stand up to tell my story because last night,
Everyone got drunk and threw all the ******* furniture in the pool.
By the way, I’m putting together my Nobel Prize acceptance speech.
I can’t decide between:
“I may be defeated but I’ll never be destroyed,” or
“You can destroy me but you’ll never defeat me.”
The kind of artistic doublespeak they love in Sweden.
Maybe: “Night falls and day breaks, but no one gets hurt.”
God help me.
I need to come up with a bunch of real pithy crap soon.
Maybe I’ll just smoke a joint before the speech and,
Start riffing off the cuff about literary good taste:

“In my novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls, for example, I had Maria tell Pilar that the earth moved, but left out the parts about Robert Jordan’s ******* and the tube of Astroglide.”

Stockholm’s only a month away,
So I’m under a lot of pressure.
Where’s Princess Grace under Pressure when I need her?
I used to work for the Kansas City Star,
Working with newspaper people who advocated:
Short sentences.
Short paragraphs.
Active verbs.
Authenticity.
Compression.
Clarity.
Immediacy.
Those were the only rules I ever learned,
For the business of writing,
But my prose tended to be a bit clipped, to wit:
A simple series,
Of simple declarative sentences,
For simpletons.
I’m told my stuff is real popular with Special-Ed kids,
And those ******* that run
The International Imitation Hemingway Competition,
AKA: The Bad Hemingway Contest.
The truth is: I always wanted to get a bit more flowery,
Especially after I found out I got paid by the word.
That’s when the *** and **** proved mighty useful.
        
I live at La Finca Vigia:
My house in San Francisco de Paula,
A Havana suburb.
My other place is in town,
Room #511 at the Hotel Ambos Mundos,
Where on a regular basis I _
(Insert simple declarative Anglo-Saxon expletive)
My guantanmera on a regular basis.
But La Finca’s the real party pad.
Fidel and Che and the rest of the Granma (aka “The Minnow”) crew
Come down from the mountains,
To use my shower and refresh themselves,
On an irregular basis.
At night we drink mojitos, daiquiris or,
The *** & coke some people call Cuba Libre.
We drink the *** and plan strategy,
Make plans for taking out Fulgencio Batista,
And his Mafia cronies,
Using the small arms and hand grenades,
We got from Allen Dulles.

Of course, after the Bay of Pigs debacle,
You had to go, Ernesto.
Kennedy had the CIA stage your suicide,
And that was all she wrote.
And all you wrote.
Never having had a chance,
To tell the 1960s Baby Boomers about class warfare in America.
Poor pathetic Papa Hemingway.
Lenin and Stalin may have ruined Marxism,
But Marx was no dummy.
Not in your book.
Or mine.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who is the fairest of us all?

Skin so delicate and fair
Blue eyes and long black hair
A good king, a good daughter
A wicked stepmother

One day full of gloom and dread
When The Wicked heard it said
"The Daughter is the fairest,
O' dear! You are second best!"

The Wicked was wild with jelousy
And begun plotting conspiracy
Getting rid of the fair lady
Was the wicked plan of the day

The Wicked called on her servant
The name was **** Cindy
Bribed her with riches women want
Promised her a gift of beauty

So **** Cindy and The Daughter
Went into the depth of the forest
**** Cindy has led the pretty girl
She surely must put her to death!

Our **** Cindy however
Found the girl a thing of beauty
**** Cindy's courage betrayed her
Excused herself and ran away

The pretty daughter was left alone
Terribly scared but still alive
Tears fell as she thought of home
Doubtful if she will ever survive

**** Cindy returned to the castle
Showing a heart of a roe deer
And served as a loyal vassal
To The Ever Wicked stepmother

So **** Cindy got rewarded
With unimaginable riches
Lasting beauty she was awarded
At last she got her wishes

At night our **** Cindy
Her riches, all she gathered
And then she vanished swiftly
Away from The Ever Wicked

Meanwhile the pretty daughter
Found a place to stay
That house was full of laughter
And the rest was history

Highly pleased now The Wicked
Turned again to the mirror
But her hopes became unsettled
After the unpleasant cheer

She must die! She must die!
Went The Wicked's awful cry
She became an old peasant
Killed the girl with a poison

And so the pretty daughter
Laid in the forest for days
The cute house lost its laughter
The Wicked went on her ways

The sad news reached the town
And to our **** Cindy
So she wore her sexiest gown
And started on her journey

Into the forest she went
Looking for that pretty girl
Her heart skipped and bent
Feeling that awesome thrill

**** Cindy found The Daughter
Lying on a wooden bed
"Thy beauty is oh, so rare!"
Was the thought inside her head

She could not help but wet her lips
Staring at the sleeping lady
She felt a tingle below her hips
And sensation inside her belly

They said no man can wake the girl
And maybe no man really can?
So **** Cindy kissed The Daughter
And so her passion has began

The kiss was oddly very awesome
And it stirred the sleeping girl
It brought a funny slurpy sound
Waking up The Royal Daughter

"Oh God! Oh my! Oh my!
Oh my beautiful princess!
Take my hand, come with me
Away from this very place!"

So **** Cindy and The Daughter
They ran away together
Across the land of nowhere
Where they lived happily ever after

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who is the fairest of us all?
"Snow and Cindy are the fairest
O' dear! Now you're the third best!"

~THE END~

I.
White’s imprisoned gray.
A black sole subdues
one red glove with a crunch.
There it will pause, fingerless
until the first thaw.

II.
The sun's amber frown of diminished light
slides down black branches
a blundered slight,
but when it hits the ground, it rides
wonders of uninterrupted white.

III.
Steamy columns of warmth
slip through the crack,
pawed open by blue purrs from his white cat—
a tonic wash, to welcome.
slush-slicked, black boots back

IV.
Nuzzled, from the muzzling of a drowsy-
days-long muslin wrap, brown earth bursts
through what white patchwork's left, to cure
her forbidden tramplers with a slurpy
and black-mouthed, aubade kiss.

V.
Winter’s white makes shallow breaths,
and exhausted she coughs black
complaints about the crushed
green of popped-down bottles,
a cellophane orange cat with a close hold
on his shorted stock of shock-
yellow crumbs, and the assorted other
man-made matter mocking
her color, but never her,
wherever they stay.

O sappy daffy incongruous frog
Waiting for a beauty queen
to be kissed by
to turn to a prince in your dream

You want some lessons
on art?
You want some lessons
on art?

then come to me
For ye it’s gonna be for free!
Oh come to me
I can teach you how to read
Poetry
in manners that are non-slurpy
and slimy
As your automatic long tongue

I be a friend and a lover and a teacher
For the manifesto of our Love

We’ll read  as loud as we can with our combined reptilian heart

Let’s shout until we silence
Let’s shout until we can be heard
as and by and for the silence of the spirit

Without defining
Gentleness
to be assigned to any poetry

Let’s trespass these fake borders
of the image of our predefined
Body
in our  
As boring as can be
shells
made of the phrase
Only clever birds sing it as:
“This has been done already”
before
Your shout would silence
My Palpating heart

Please do not misunderstand my
Love word
and traditionalize

As mushrooms grow
Under rotten
Floors
Of urban flats
or lies
Like
La la la lies

and pathetize
Yes Pathetize
my words
Without understanding what they’d truly mean

When words
Combine to a phrase with the spirit
Truth shouts
but not the cynic

Like a poisonous
Venomic-Tonic
Made of the scared sound of your blood

which should have instead been sacred
by the earnest of our lovership

and
Without any of your definitions of poetic

You shout
You shout like politics
Which is meaningless
For true ears

A defined silence
has no power to trespass
Boundaries of conditioned
aesthetics of your
Learned poetry

Let's dare to read love now
As plain and clear and straight
As can the truth of hearts be
without the need of any gelatinous stickers
or the chess board tattooed
Along the skin softness of
our sitting bones

I would rather
be a
wanderer
a belongerer
to no body
to no country
a loose end

​
than to bob
eagerly
at every tug
of the yarn's
end
whose
wound-up
mass
amasses me
a wriggled up
ball of
wriggles
​

I would rather
be alone
than
scooped up
in a basket
with others
of my
supposed
ilk
and held in
by the
over-under
wicker
edges
domed up
for containment
​

ominous
clicks and
scrapes
of my
destiny
clattering
and chattering
above
​

fraying
frizzled
frazzled bits
smoothing out
as my length
is tugged
up and up
like a long
slurpy
noodle
​

I would rather
be loose
and scrappy
and stumpy
and ragged
the one that
nobody loves
the discarded
refuse of a
more discerning
eye
​

than be made
surreptitiously
into somebody
else's
jumper




© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield

I’ve seen your work before; fearless, freshly framed
for those colored *******; slowly visible in moist  
and languid ways, splitting sleekest hairs
in scorched sheets, cinematic, grotesque grunts
humming the atmosphere.  This is your love at it’s
latter, punching dusty walls dim, *******, firecrackers
pressed against bellies, new equations filling the exterior
in jittery squirms.  The plot is peeling smokeless holes,
unfiltered, breathless, old solos fading in filth across the
canvas as dark eyes spark slurpy tangent twists,
their keys tight against the lock, slowly pushing the door
open to jagged letters.  You can’t blame me for following
your footsteps. It’s my duty to leave those strike-through
images against the blackboard, single-spaced adjectives
lining the detail, similar to how you fed those *******  
of your time with florescent glitter. We’re very much alike,
you and I, stiff steel of goodness, tight-strapped, monstered,
baptized with crafted portraits, old yet so close to home,
breathing inside our interior.

The moment I opened up
Like a true millennial I open my phone to text you immediately
And as I start to write my thoughts
you send a text
It's 7:30
You NEVER text me at this time
and I NEVER text you at this time
and here we are
Two energies seeking each other
My day ends in a hot yoga class
I had forgotten about that moment
and the instructor
Is super sentimental and likes to start his classes with an intention based off of a morning thought
He stated that the story we should focus on
is when we hold hands and can feel the hand after it leaves
when we go to call someone and they call us first
and BAM
It's there again
my eyes are open.
It's all connected
My energy and yours.
You are my relief
My dear pea
Our days mesh
You tell me about your doubts with the passion and love and depth you offer others
it's dangerous for them
you think you are a danger to them
but you aren't
you are sanctitude
You are magnitude
You are resurrection of the soul
that window you stare into
Your energy is felt even when you don't think it is
You want labels
Especially "crazy"
but you are color
Every ******* color
And this is not meant to pet your ego
and make it purr
It's meant to bring attention
to the fact that those souls
that you feed
They are hungry and you feed them for a lifetime
or momentarily
but both mean just the same
Because you
is in all of it
And just like I know what you are about to tell me
before you even utter the words
I feel every movement
to such a degree
that I truly believe the universe will never separate us
And my gorgeous dearest friend
You are an organized map of all that I am with you
and all that you are with me
and we can organize it together
without the ****** liberation
but with the freedom of the connected pod
You think you destroy and destruct
but you are merely just being you
The you I see in your hands
when they hold you up in crow position
You cannot dim your locks or your influencing spirit
Don't ever do that
Just because others don't know what to do with it
Your dreams manifest
You have to ask yourself
Where am I in all of this?
What do I need?
and don't shame that
You need and you want and you cry and look up at windows
and it's all gorgeous my dear friend
Your poems, your lyrics,
don't ever mistake your pores as seeping black
They have always been spilling yellow
Gorgeous layers of yellow
I beg to be sandwiched between those hues
I hope more that you recognize the slurpy messy textures of the radiance
in a form that is graceful
and
dear dear beautiful
soul brother
pea to my pod
You recognize that all of your glory
is good
Destruction is not your middle name
rather its complicated
It may have so much to do with the incapability of the others
and how they respond
and if they are capable of jumping off of the tip tops of trees
into the depths of the oceans
breathing and finding
I can actually breath the cobalt
and if they allow it
they could combat the world with you
instead of against you

Photography's funny & it's focal when your slurpy runs run foreign then local with a sister-******* yokel, as it's fixed by punchline what a ***** joke'll make of a wiener-shaped sausage in the course of a family-friendly poke-all; into a ******-shooting heroine or a coked-up coke doll. Take back our toothpicks 1 rotten tooth at a time.

You’ve seen it all
Done it all, all over.
Bit the biggest bite,
Soared, slouched, sailed
Swift from Heaven into Hell.

Accessing, excesses
Arranging my pain
Nitpicking my brain so…
Neatly, sweetly, completely
Eating your lover’s brain.

Showed up by Conrad
Exposing the Cain
You’d been found out
Shrinking, Showing, Sharing
Knowing himself, he knew you too

Button your vest.
Straighten your tie.
Pull the garrote tight.
Smile, smile, smile…
And head to work.

For all I knew
You started a martyr
My God! My Freud. Mein Freund.

For all I knew
You destroyed me
While you were destroying you.  

Did you destroy me
While cursing you?
For all I knew?
For all I am
Might I, for knowing you
Be ******, *******, My God?
                      
She wasn’t pretty but…
She was ripe. She was…
As they say…Available.
And ripe ready to be shared,
Devoured: Dessert, a slurpy
With cigarette breath.
And I didn’t care.
Did not care.
I cared too much to care
To die violated by my own right hand.
    
Like you, I served the cause;
Eating someone young and raw.
Who. Like me believed in me.
Moses, Jesus, More…
A Demi-god. A Kurtz. Marlowed.

Like you, for all I knew
I was killing me.
Killing her ere I kissed her.

You knew.
I was raw,
She was ripe.
We sold the sweetest juices.
Nectars sweetened to taste.

title: liquorice -
body: pretend it's
        just some vinyl.        

            these 502 bad gateway hacks are becoming...
not even bewildering... just idiotic...

it just dawned on me... come mid-afternoon...
i took a shower, put on the washing...
still ******* waiting to hang it up...
hmm... "counter-culture" and what not...
very unlike that glorious past of the 1960s...
i'm thinking: "red pill" and "black pill" and
******... sorry... incels...
    the future: a Saudi Arabia... copper-neck
new Brazil of trans-racialism... blah blah...
    polygamy or... a return to harems...
       but... i'm getting into a groove...
    oh **** me... **** me stiff... also necrophilia
style *******...
         men... are looking for *******...
they're bemoaning: a lack of *******...
  it truly is an Agent Smith argument...
        people... just... have no idea... what... entitles them...
when: they are given... shoved into...
having... absolute freedom! esp. men!
sure... women... do your thing... shackle with...
but we're finally free... take a breather...
you don't need to stash your make-shift imitation
train set in the garage...
     new focus: get drunk more... bask in the sun...
i'm free! weird... there is no social obligation
for me to couple up... and have someone
by my side to fuel the economy...
     this is better than anything Marx ever could
have envisioned! it's like the whole system
is going to self-implode because:
that's when Darwin sparred with Marx...
       as a man... i'm only going to spend money
on what i need... not what i desire... eventually: deride...
because... eh... leave the peacocks to the peacocks...
that saint: who wed himself to poverty:
Francis of Assisi...
                 depicted with a trio of pseudo-witches...
of Macbeth... or the Graeae...
i still don't understand... i'm trying...
     we're gloriously: free!
                 for once we can sort of live like *****:
freely-floating forward toward nothing:
with nothing: to mind!
               i still don't understand men that
bother themselves: bemoan not being pair-bonded!
borrowed from the tales of
the miseries of my grandfather and father...
*** is a great gift-card... but... later on:
i hardly wish i was "there": the preservation of life
can befall the "idiots"... sure... but life encapsulated
by one: for one... rather than the demands of
the many... what a relief!
   sure... life's burden from the perspective of "lack":
less is more... weird... weird... wriggly...
i don't know what to do with so much freedom!
ease up... i just don't know what to do with you:
dearest: freedom...
       woo hoo!
let's spell out some Deutsche!
   ich bin ein: frei-mann! woop woop!
       because... it's so demeaning... for a man...
to have only to focus on the ontology of woman...
ugh... sickly: sweet...
after all: women only spearheaded one "idea":
the Trojan horse of feminism...
hence the necessity to compound:
stoic-feminism... n'ah ah...
cynic-feminism... nope... not going to ******* float...
none of this is going to float:
i feel glad... irresponsibly glad...
almost altruistic / autistic... *******... *******: giggly!
ha ha! i'm laughing at my own jokes...
rolling out of control... having that dementia
moment of: transcending egoism that spells out:
I AM A GOD...
  or just... a very unfunny man...
whichever... i'm glad...
but i don't need to be a husband! i don't need to provide!
i don't need to be a wage-slave!
wow! phew! one relief after another...
and then euthanasia come the bad and terrible
and need for an umbrella...
phew! life... finally makes sense!
no one is going to miss me...
no one is going to grieve me...
i can't complain... i wouldn't want to...
it feels like it has almost been orchestrated...
i'm suspicious... now i want to drink some more
and... and... not bargain... ah... gambit: gamble
with traffic! with: big trucks and buses...
i feel an itch of: thirst that can't be quenched
with water... more: adrenaline...
         ugh... warm whiskey...
slurp-up: slurpy-****... juice up...
       *****-down...
                      ****... why is my forehead still aching?!
oh... right... that night i spent...
fighting with "myself"... or rather...
my shadow... whichever... even i get confused...
i still don't understand why men bemoan not
being subjugated... chased... hand-cuffed...
you're free! yeah... well... freedom does do a lot of
whacky **** to people who are:
5am wake up call primed...
              
me... happy... so happy that i try to make myself
feel sad... punching myself in the head
sort of alleviates the tension: but: not that much...
erratic cycling tactics in heavy traffic...
pretending to get a sun-tan...
that... oh ****... that helps...

      it's like... the Spartan warfare machine never
existed: even though... i'd love some rough and tumble...
even now... women scribbling Neo-****** of:
who is and who isn't to reproduce...
isn't it? Neo-******? out-breeding the lesser caste?
because... all women are the omni-caste...
no... they're not...
some will pop-out a: hyper-inflated head of a sort
of... "egg"... weird **** out from the imagination
of Mary Shelley... crap i'd want to dump... flush
down the toilet with my ****...
sorry... nature is cruel...

but it's a bit like: a square is square...
nature is nature...
you can't dispute it...
RADAR... you can spell that word
backwards and forwards...

     but me... hmm... what man wouldn't find relief
in life if he were bonded to a woman:
strapped... chin-mugged... scraping his
very dignity for some poke at the clam...
i just don't know what to do with my freedom!
like that Joker quote:
i'm like a dog chasing cars...
i wouldn't know what to do if i managed
to catch one!
i'm happy being sad... i'm sad being happy...
i'm like Eve having just eaten
the forbidden fruit... erotically "confused"...
but... not willing to give up that feeling
to the idiot that Adam was...
            ha ha: "transgender"... well... a little bit
of everything...

it's this freedom that's suspect...
well... if we are going toward an Arab style society
of polygamy and harems and...
and i'm a 6ft2 100kg hunchback with
bad teeth and bad eyesight and diabetes...
**** me... well then... Darwinism really works...
works like: Marxism never worked...
single men... driving the economy:
to the ******* ground...
   because... who the **** is going to buy hulahoops?
or dolls? or make-up?

again: i just don't know what to do with
my freedom... do i... simply: live?
wow... so much time... too much time even...
eh... pushing toward 80 isn't even an option...
thank god for the liberal attitudes of
the Benelux concerning death...
                      i'll most certainly look into that...
you can say your life is complete after
drinking milk... or eating an ice cream...
or something ridiculous like that...
   why? so freely disengaged from anyone in existence...
perhaps some drag concerning historical
figures... but...
     weird strategy... an even weirder energy...

not out of some upon-high reason for anti-natalism...
not because i'm an Einstein or a Newton...
i'm not the man who invented the nail or the hammer
or beer...

seeing prostitutes sort of helps with any
potential "anger"... "issues" about not being strapped
to potential: leech...
why is it in my nature to be so predisposed
to entertaining this idea like i should be grateful
rather than resentful for it?

mein gott... the days when women were these
mythological creatures of curiosity and
idealism... i hate writing these words...
           and what did they become?
prostitutes... headaches... or spare parts;

   you just can't prefix feminism-
  before any / every school of thought that man
conjured... because: oh the headache...
everything is replied with: ****!
   i'm alive... but... i'm ******* bailing out;
my lifelong dream from my youth...
honestly... i always wanted to enter a monastery...
i always wanted to become a monk...

nice to know that some choices could
be made for me...
and no... not at the altar of Ba'al Yatoosh...
who? ******* Hey-Zeus! Chrissy of Nazareth!

all the evil urges of the Demiurge:
that... i'm fine with... but not the kneeling
and pretend ******* break my jaw sort of b.c. to a.d. clocking
in to: life like a torment...
i don't exactly feel like living
in a clone army; in a hive mind.

Oh how greatful i am that you have come into my life. The anticipation is overwhelming,  thinking of one day bejng your wife. I wish i could show you, how loved you make me feel. And i know that yours is the touch that showed me live is real. As i lie in bed at night, i wish you were hear. Hand grabing firmly yet gently from ear to ear. I shouldnt be doing this, i need to get some rest. But with thoughts of you my hands softly caress my breast. I other hand wondering down my sheets to find such a mess. I dream of you often and what our life would be like, holding hands as we walk the beach and the children on bikes. Do you want what i want, can you see what i see?  I wake up with a small puddle under me.  I wish  you could taste it, its so phat soft and sweet. Griping your head firmly, bon appetite. I need to get up and take a shower, but that may make it worst. Ill use cold water to calm me dowm although i shouldve use warm water first. This is not working, i need something inside. You are not able to come so ill shallow my pride. That thing my sister bought me, never tried but im pretty sure it will work. She said it easy enough, stick it to the floor or wall and twerk. I dont know if i could do this, nor have i ever wanted to try. But my urges are overwhelming and im sensitive all over, no lie. I guess ill go and get it, it seems to be the only option i have. ( as i walk, day dreaming of that time you were in the bath. I placed a towel on your face, because i didnt want you to see. Then i picked him and put him in my mouth and ****** like a slurpy. Then slowly step in and got right into place, so i could sit down, not in the water but on your face.) Ive made it to my room and for sure ive changed my mind, only because i waited so long  amd mom will be here anytime. Well, maybe for a little bit, no one here to catch me, but just as i started, a bang at the door. Who, could that be? Why are they pounding so hard, **** i wish someone would pound me. I run to door swing ot open, its my baby. I dont know or care how you got here. I just really need you to help me, you see i have this inch, inside, deep in my *****. Do you think you can help me? Do you think you can reach?  Bent me over daddy, im your student, ready for you to teach. As crawl on all four and the you soft grab my hair. I start to leak a little and wake up again amd you are not there.  ****, i was so close, but not close enough it would seem, well back to sleep to try and continue that dream.

yes, i sometimes do: the odd star-gazing... not because i find solace in the constellations - although: truth be told: how did man arrive at a pyramid or triangle: or any other geometric proposal if not via the stars... i look up... i see them bewilder me and thrown me into the pit of geocentrism - by night this is what the eyes require to digest... take a peep at... come to think of it: i have written this for eyes solely: i think (therefore i doubt) i have left my tongue somewhere where onomatopoeias are best uttered: where words have no power... *** in a brothel - i like to think that all brothels are scented with an allure of a perfume that's very much all: bourbon "stink": by stink i'm inviting a texture rather than a scent per se... it's sticky... it's almost gluttonous: how these two opposing bodies can flesh out an architecture of diabolical pressures with a tenderness: that upon touch is a wilting passing by. Yes, these stars... these fazes of drifting between stages of amazement coagulated with utter dumb bewilderment - their sanctity of faking animate illiteracy - as any sensible stone might: a breath of god a devil's eye - they are forever "sensible": unmoveable... yet give them enough years and they are predictably chained to the same canvas. I can't object to what i'm forever subjected to... these stars these pressures of time... so to deviate... i took a stroll through my garden in this glorious wealth of night... to admire my work on the cement work of a newly erected fence... that i had to dig a miniature trench and fill it with cement so that my neighbour's **** garden would not penetrate my bias against weeds... the rains have been plentiful... no **** sprouts on my side of the fence... armed with a flashlight i chanced upon looking down to see where my foot were toying with step and perhaps some mythology of chess... what did i shine upon? well... the graces of the night welcomes a **** sapiens dreaming about origins of **** similis... that's all the night is worth: a sleeping fellow at the pivoting crux of membranes - i too desire a night filled either by a vacancy of dreams: therefore a lack of... or at least something to give my fatty sponge of a brain: illumination ill conceived... two slugs: feasting over a corpse of a third slug... that i must have strapped to a pressure from my foot... and how... gloriously spectacular: this feast of two slugs on a body of a third... some of the consummate part thus exposed almost looked: appetising in a sense that: seafood appears when... given unto a dissection prior to... the cooking hands... yes.. yes... STAR gazing... only for a little while... L is just sort of a right-handed... while delta is most certainly just shy of an equilateral triangle... pity that a square was never given a "letter": beside the point! up up above these stars these dreams of an exhausted geography of the world... the tamed and the less so projects of ennobling "barbarians"... but of course little ol' life beside man feeds off the night... a wise fly will take refuge on a leaf of ivy beside a ripe fist bundle of teasing burgundian blood fruits... even if shining a light upon it, it will not stir or dare movement... shine a light upon the slugs... the younglings will fold their eyes and peep from a fatty covering of their slurpy gut / glut... but the higher ranks 'un will continue their festive **** of cannibalism... for someone who still managed to see how the countryside operated... the ergonomics of keeping chickens for both eggs and flesh... how chasing one poor judas around the yard... yielding a stump of wood an axe and... the last electricity of a rolling of the eyes and the extension of the tongue from out of the beak... until... the body was carried away to be plucked from its feathers and poached for a soup... the remaining chickens would start up a frenzy... jumping onto the stump dancing voodoo... pecking at the head and slurping up the gushed out blood... for all that's night: oh look! prime visage to counter the constellations has decided to take up a promenade: peruse of the sky... scythe baron that coming upon her zenith will turn from an illuminating autumnal bask in yellow to a bone carving whiteness... half illuminated while half hidden... this star gazing... but little of the night i've rented for an hour beyond a predictable pattern for days to come / to salvage... such "things" happen below mere minor stalking a sensibility of cravatte attired smocking donning type of societally accepted conversation: such things as csns only breed mirrors and ghosts for their brood... and have to discourage an ownership of them from a genesis: one born from the agony of thought: is to never find repose in the well-established furore of an aging body... the original splinter is this: gruesome advent of over-adjectivity... from the sensible pleasure of the night... to this base life ladden toil for toil: oculus per oculus... such greasy masters of sloth roam the critter domain of the night... such slurp base degradations of what's edible and what's not... i come to the conclusion that: not all is this forced **** of prizes, of amnesias, of... i kept myself forgotten upon a third descriptive usher-ing of detail... yes... from such heavenly sanctity of an above... to such debasement cold... thrown among a harvest of potatoes... it has been an absolute pleasure to revel in: the demands themselves presented... perhaps what's missing is... an haiku for the coroner? i gladly think, that that's all that's ever missing: to make enough puncture into canvas, page... silence.

If I had the full power of the potential I've bottled up inside
Over the years of swallowing my pride and putting my angers aside.....with all the pains
Fears and tears .
Dark lonely days walking home in the rain..loves lost or takin away.....all of it...
all of it all at once ...in a pill
I'd take it ......and then
I would stand like a giant
With all that power
Could you imagine?
And I would walk to 7-11
I would demand a free slurpy.
Instead I would get laughed at
.... probably
And I would not receive a free slurpee.......
Because no one will remember any of these sufferings.
Not the way it was felt by you...
And no one's gonna apologize
Not the way you need them to.
Nothing you have suffered through will elevate you ...sorry
If it were true
I would have died from diabetes
With a coke and banana slurpee
A long long long time ago

Your slurpy oceans of swelling melodies
rushed through my veins like gushing water,
the fountains of your love lingering
on my gorgeous *******, extreme pleasures
rising over my ***** lips, drunken eyes
drowning inside your desire, the beautiful
rhymes in your thighs, ankles a slick silky
shine wet with anticipating romance.  I want
to leap inside your naughty mazes of tempting
thoughts, **** the sacred pages from your nature,
from the sweet nectar of your eternity, inhaling
your wild ride, as I jam inside your ravishing
roller-coaster ride.