Do you suppose
within the blizzard
of transmitted text,
packed in bytes
and individually addressed
in such a way
that your emoticon kiss :*
and mind *: to you
may have met and smooched
in cyber space
before they 1 & 0'ed
the computer codes
that displayed on screens
our mutual affection?

.there's redemption at the end of this diatribe, or so i think there is, well... whatever hector dejean could have ever done... of all the places in europe... i kinda wish i visited berlin... e.g. paris, mid 00s? the best place in the world... stockholm mid 00s? ******* closed it off, cold as a butcher's knife cutting into meat to the bone... and i know the saying: he only saw a bit of the world, only because of her... who, who's her? solo... how i pulled it off, i still don't know, how i became introverted because of the writing? that i know, i decided upon a career (insert snigger, and no " ") in drinking.

discovering a channel like
contrapoints and
shaun (salad fingers)
                        in a single day?

               sorry... no...

   the day a ****** starts to maul
its way into my head...
one ****** i can take:
two trannies?
              no... sorry...
i'm arachnophobic already...
what's another phobia
                      to do with it?

shaun: much appreciated
pedantry...
           to too came with
my own set of toys

  what's isn't chemistry
   is also not čeating...
all the major nuances
     of the english language...

but this overt-obsession
of the other with regards
to being either gratified,
or not...

      you should ask me...
'why is it that you don't
experience erectile dysfunction
when going to a brothel?'

   why a sudden concern,
interest,
              as to what men
              do, or don't do?

pet a cat,
put on a washing machine,
hang the washing
and shy away from the day
with three ciders...
   stare at a blank screen
with a blank face
and a morbid itch of anticipating
some sort of spew
from, yours truly?

   suddenly everyone is
"worried" about the leftovers?
albeit this "abortion"
   can talk back...
     or... "think" back...
because every time
i'd ******* i'd count it
          as an act of genocide...

        "loneliness":
   because i found an outlet that
bypasses...
          the editorial process
                 and is... unihibited?    
   ****, there are two of me
when there are three ciders
                                            in me...

      you know...
   i've never come across potent
left ideology,
                        until now...
****... maybe i'm also a leftist,
or: what does all of this even
                                 mean?

personally...
                        it's not saying i'm
not unconvinced,
       or i'm hallucinating
or anything...
         maybe these so-called
incels would not get
such bad press,
    if... there wasn't a problem
with ******* priests?
  and... the name
   suburban cenobite was
introduced?

  when one mental "disorder"
is... Norman...
          and all others
are...
                       Tabloid Taboo...

seriously, Matt, get your *******
head around this...
    'i'm trying, i'm trying...
but this **** is not lily *******
savage...
         translate
                   counterpoints
from behind
                 a camera lens...
to stage...
                       who's laughing?

the queer that was,
when it first started to tease
the public's taboo
                    orientation...
the current public's taboo
orientation of certain
                  negations of ease?

different ball-game...
            maybe that's why i sometimes
frequented brothels...
   best shrinks in the whole
******* world...
         but of course,
"*** slaves"...
                        oh that one time,
when i forgot to trim
my ***** hair and thought:
that would be impolite...
              so we just smooched
for an hour...
   do you even know that
they charge an excess on
the hour if you want to perform
oral on them?

       i just think of eating
raw oysters...
          
     but ***...
                do i really have to think
about it so much,
on such political terms?
     this is it... no ******* bucket
and ***** for me...
     the continual cycle of:
not-keeping-your-own-affairs-intact...

are days always like this?
by this i mean...
penetrating - my ego just turned
into a ******
  and became ****** by
        a ******-tongue / voxdo...

or maybe i'm personifying
   an atypical reaction from the actual
echelon of addressee...

               but this isn't a blaire white
hmm...
             buffalo bill -esque...
who said anything about...
   ****** bones?
    hands don't, lie...
              em, yeah...
    ***** envy...
             with a hand that can
hold a basketball?
            do all you want...
but once the hands come into play...

and then... the video of
counter point nears its end...
and i'm...
   like...
                      o.k. this could
work... consolidation...
a truce...
                  you be she
                      whatever you like,
   i'll be a suburban cenobite...
unofficial...
        but at least i will not
be some paedohpile priest...

       i needed this...
   there's still one cider left,
i hang the washing...
which included my mother's
underwear
   and i feel... insanely normie...
having just realised:

    i usually normal with this
sort of content...
       why now?
   oh... right...
   reading the sunday times'
magazines...
       and imploding from
all the disconnect from
                mainstream media...

   yet i will persist...
      what is an irrational fear
when the thing itself, in question,
is also irrational?
my arachnophobia
     is irrational...
            is the spider even
given a status of either
rationality, or irrationality?
         i'm definitely being
irrational...
   but the spider is neither
rational, or irrational...
     it's a spider...
  it doesn't have the luxury
to be irrational,
   other than it is a rational
                extension of per se...
sure, god, evolution,
                             whatever...

for so long i craved to write
something so alienating
that it makes me feel
uncomfortable...

        ah... the subject matter...
that was it...
       the death spiral,
the dodo project...
           first time... Isabella...
psychology exchange student
two years my scenior...
Grenoble...
   no...
   she really was a dream...
then there was that time
with my ex-girlfriend
from high school...
    a whole afternoon
and her *******...
later something else,
and then later something else...
months apart...
then the ukrainian *******...
then the russian bombshell...
the puerto rican
          plum in amsterdam...
a black girl
with an ***
     just about right
for my lack of ***** envy
or whatever it's called
when a black girl's ***
requires the desired tool
(i hear they're releasing
a new album, can't wait)...
then a few bulgarian prostitutes...
then a thai bisexual
(yeah, to my shock...
she was wearing a sports bra
and there was no thai
surprise in the end,
but the suspense was
killing me
   just before we did it
                       in the garden)...

details, details:
   i'm not going to suddenly
write out a hard-on...
   ****... i was starting to feed
into the paranoia of identifying
myself as an incel...

cool cool, "are traps gay"...
we're back in lily savage territory...
ha ha, always the subject matter...
     i hate that...
freaking out about something
you're not...

          it just had to come
at the right time,
   downing this third cider...
and yeah: it's sunny...
   i can't wait for the night
and the foxes...
it's mating season,
so they'll be at it
             more prominently...

          ah... the trans-movement...
the benzene ring...
and Plato's concept
   of punishment
     of men being reincarnated
as women...
or.... in this instance...
  women being incarnate
in male bodies...
            it's like: hell decided
to blah-blah its way into life...
          fun times...
            sure, and a bunch slurrs
and slurps of milkshake
from the great *** of kamadhenu...

i'm no better,
   look at me,
               drinking,
                 brothels...
                   among
the mad, the ******
                       and...
                  safe to say:
            liberated from
the pogrom of establishing
              myself as a father figure.

i never understood why people decided to couple such symbols into images esp. in fictional narratives rather than see the sound in lipstick smooched for symphony; how hard you try, the a to z will not provide you with a mental cinema image of a giraffe; more like a gaff, and what's a gaff in photo? leopard on giraffe or a giraffe on a leopard, because it's all very fine telling the narrative of traffic coordination evolution coming back from africa with the zebra to suit pitchfork stoppages in hay on the redneck lazed walk. the sole reason why it's understood: fiction is the use of lettering for the creation of images, poetry is the use of lettering a bit like a waterfall for a bored emperor apprehensive of the sound of thinking; and philosophy is the reverse of all that, strike two flints together, and enter the realm of ideas with the onomatopoeia of the image - given that onomatopoeias act like surgical scalpels, or a miscarriage of ideas bundled up for something else by kandinsky; actually, saying that, onomatopoeias are images in motion, prior to the movies, when all you had was a painting embraced by a fancy rim - still life of decay of the royal flotilla on the thames with a mouth moving: chatty chatty boor of a bloke who talked.*

i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
a salmon with other sea fish cropping up flying
into a butterfly net:
before the assemblage of bacon
into the mouth watering eye.

i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
to have seen a thousand flamingos
strut invoking tide -
on a boneless march into marsh of
a bubbled gill of fish popped for whatever name alive,
or dead in the disco crescendo for a nixon:

tears of a robot had always the glory of man laughing akin;
since annexed was the dualistic ambiguity
of the theatrically mistaken two masked.

into the night we both walked
under the moonlight we smooched and talked
you wore that nice dress
always dressing to impress
I wore that smile as if lightning had forked

In the great dephts of a collossal anthem
There were ray beams gathered, focused
Beautifully by a magic magnifying glass.

The true meaning of existence was living,
Breathing, focusing on step by steps little
Revelations; non-existing bouquets lit on
Misty meadows glowing in the morning
Dew drops budding on cherry blossoms.

He thought-nevertheless: he's falling into
The infinite abyss of his enticed farenheit
Hell, swirling his brilliant darkish mind to
The point of total absolute white, mingled
With blackness and sweet spectre of love
Profoundly smooched~wickedly nooked.

Maybe it's the way we danced the tango,
our arms gripped tight around each others'
torsos twirling and strutting down the
street.
Maybe it's the way the fragrant rose in your mouth intoxicated and clouded my vision and thoughts.
Maybe it's the way you grinned when my legs dabbled beneath yours or maybe
it's the way you smooched me after that first performance.
"Querida mía," he crooned.
I still remember when he stroked my hair and implored,
*"Please be my partner forever."

She catapulted herself out of the steaming water into the frosty breeze
Laying in the frigid flakes feeling the crunch under her back, she looked skyward and screamed, "I'm alive",

Her temperature and her feet climbed higher and higher and higher up the mount. When she reached the top, collapsing like a tired puppy, she breathed apace the wind into the the never-ending blue sky, "I'm alive",

As the neon peach sunset reflected on flushed cheeks in the hastily fleeting evening, she slipped her shoulders from their cloth prison and quivered with fatigue. And even though she gasped for breath and her knees begged to surrender, she reassured her tired limbs, "We're alive",

Walking in the unexpected sodden spring with pasty, sheltered toes, she stripped her feet and gingerly exhaled her foot toward the welcoming sludge. They met, and, with a sigh, she squished and curled her toes into the sloppy, mushy earth. The palms of her feet puckered and smooched the mud beneath and before returning them to their man-made prison. She thought, "I'm alive",

When the trees outside her window lost their color and blankets swallowed her whole, she forgot to let oxygen stretch to her fingers and toes, but the voice that kept her company repeated, "You're alive, You're alive, I'm alive",

And when she threw the pills and her past out the window, her heart beat tapped her on the shoulder and reminded her, "You're still alive".

My grandma's hands,
My mum's lap,
My dad's chest,
Were ideal pillows,
But, my pillow,
My bedfellow,
My partner of crimes,
In all my emotional times,
Has a story to tell.
Night is when she lets go,
I, the pillow bear the blow.
I get tossed, thumped and battered when she is angry,
And when she is full of joy,
I am smooched with hugs,kisses
and cuddles,
When she is sad,
I witness her pain,
She can fool anybody but not me,
Her tears pour out on me ,
I am drenched,
At last she falls asleep,
Curled into a ball, hugging me tightly.
I smell of her, I love her,
I understand the pain of her tears,
The ecstasy of her laughter,
And all her secrets I hold within me.
She and I, forever together.
11/2/2019

oh i haven't seen my cousin in a long time,
last time i saw him i learned he was gay,
no problem,
   went to a soho nightclub with climb,
ended up kissing a brazillian
trying to imitate blinking along to
a strobe light effect...
                   oh ****, kissing a man is
pleasurable, don't get me wrong...
               a few days later my gay cousin invites
me to his birthday party,
  so i go,
     prior to though, a bunch of kids attach
themselves to me, begging me to
buy them a pack of cigarettes...
             sure...
                      so this elder girl gives me the
money and tells me which brand...
       i count my spare change...
and i buy them the more expensive brand...
blues camel 10 pack...
        i walk out...
  give it to her... she's all confused:
so i tell her...
                    trust me,
if you want to smoke cigarettes...
you'll be better off with these than
the brand you asked for...
                      i finally manage to get
to the party, and the brazillian smooch
is there...
          i give my cousin a present i just
bought on oxford st.,
  some book about leaving
cigarette butts and lost ashtrays....
      and this girl approaches me,
and asks me the most intimidating question
concerning homosexuality...
            nausea hits me like a fiddling
thumb in a belly-button or a sky-dive...
do, do i mind what?
        i don't mind homosexuality?
     wait, wait...
       you don't mind the kiss of Judas?
i have the brazillian smooch over there
and now i'm talking whether...
     who said anything about performing ****
*** as the aversion to circumcision?!
           sorry... but the reality became:
i had to excuse myself very quickly...
this isn't a party, this is an interrogation...
i had to fake feeling ill to my cousin...
       London... **** yeah...
and a bunch of village people living
in it...
                 i can do homosexual kissing,
but i'm not exactly willing to be
judged on the fact that there was no ****
involved...
                  might as well ask about
the judeo practice...
    after all... a **** pouch will not
        exactly constrict to an **** canal
that: would probably leave you
              circumcised...
                             buying cigarettes to
those under-legal-requirement-age
children was more fun than this party...
     why even bother attending
a party with lots of homosexuals
when the opening-line you strike up with
a heterosexual makes the man
  bail:           imitating celtic river dancing?
then again, it might have been me...
seeing my brazillian smooch from
several days ago sitting among
        tooth fairies and rent daddies...
which... well: not exactly shoo'ga(h)...
                 hell...
                    turns out i'm not a bad kisser...
but this girl...
             how the **** do you
strike a comfortable conversation with
a stranger on the get go
   and not allow stomach churning
reactions?
                     i left the party as quickly
as i thought about buying those
under-age kids those ****** cigarettes...
  i wish i could condense it
into a homophobia...
                     more like feminaphobia...
   because how can you stay at a party
that a woman attends
   and demands a dialectical
     assurance with a question:
     you don't mind homosexuals, do you?
huh?!
        the ******* doing at a party
with homosexuals?!
      my cousin is here,
    and he invited this brazillian
         i smooched in a nightclub only a few
days ago!
                hen party happening in
Blackpool or something?!

when will people stop ascribing
poetical techniques
   to mental disorders
       in their casual, informal,
ascription sequences?
     psychosis does not translate
into psychopathy...
just because the two words share
the same prefix,
   doesn't imply that -
   "somehow" they're one and the same...
melancholy:
lethargy, and a lost sense of cognitive
"will"... automated thinking...
how many times during
the day do i imagine throwing
myself under a train?
   for the hard-on about 20 times
before i get out of bed...
   which is 20 times less than
when i stood on a roof,
    on an industrially sized complex,
notably the scottish widows hq
near st. paul's and thought
about jumping...
     and pancakes...
    and the thrill of the fall...
and then the initial shock
of impact, followed by a pause...
and then the sigma of pain rushing
into my body...
     schizophrenia is a different
version of lethargy,
   most mental conditions are
lethargy inducing,
                     or quasi-paralyzing...
one psychosis can last a year,
or years, another, can last a week...
but when your thought patterns,
are subverted by auditory hallucinations,
psychosis: the trip for champions,
l.s.d. trip will not do justice
to a psychosis "trip",
         alcohol helps as both
a sedative... & a pentothal derivative...
it's: disinhibiting...
          but not to the point
where i send someone a ******* ****-pic...
what sicko would do such a thing?
a psychopath would...
    psychopaths do not have
enough emotional "intelligence" /
gradation to encounter an ego-dissociation,
last time i heard:
instead of a healthy dosage of
serotonin,
      they have a pathological dosage
of dopamine: or some ****,
equivalent to that...
      if i were an expert on this matter,
i'd be paid...
     and since i'm not,
i'm simply concentrating my attention
of the general public vernacular,
namely:
      why are psychiatric conditions,
spoken of,
   in such poetic terms,
heavily reliant
             on the technique of metaphor?
we already have the phenomenon
of premature depression,
which seems to coincide with
the 19th century phenomenon
of premature dementia (schizophrenia)...
psychiatric literature is my thing,
when i went to a psychiatrist
i was told: 'you have good insight
into your condition'...
i just nodded, kept my mouth shut,
when i went to the *******,
i was told: 'you're nice'...
"forgot" my genitals and smooched
for an hour,
   i just forgot the fun part of kissing,
got bored of looking down on *******
and the gymnastics of genital
interaction...
   when i was supposed to go
to the priest... i...
             funny story...
   i walked into an empty church...
   paranoid as ****,
smoked a joint, walked around central
London, cowered into a church
near Camden Town
(opposite the postal service
hangar - near to the King's Cross
Station) -
              went to the side altar,
took a white sheet from the altar,
lay under the altar,
   and heard... a descending choir...
got up... started running around
the empty church...
   without saying a word...
     then a great wind...
   a breath that imbued me with a fear
much greater than what i was
experiencing on my psychotic "trip"
on the street...
        i thought, yeah "thought"
of one word:              SATAN...
    and the 40 days and nights spent
fasting in the desert,
    i called my ex-girlfriend
when i got out of the church:
while some Spaniard was walking in,
sat on the curb, phoned her,
and said: 'can you come over to
X location, and bring me some bread
and water?'
       whatever they say about
the sort of marijuana extra-strong
chemically enchanced skunk
of England? you can... become psychotic...
if you smoke, and walk in public,
and put nothing into your gob.
conversion? what?
   just plain honesty...
      no wonder i kept my mouth
and didn't want to convince people,
i still don't... **** happens...
             this was, when?
   oh... back in 2007... when i was 21...
now it's 2019...
   i rarely recount this event,
it's too much of an existential shell-shock...
i'd compare it to a suicide bomber
detonating his vest on the bus...
and you're, literally just taken a sip
of coffee while walking down a street...
do i believe "god" exists?
i don't have to...
          do i have to convince other
people that "god" exists?
   no... not really...
                  i'm glad i kept that event
to myself for so long...
          but it just gets on my nerves
when people mingle an outlier,
like me,
    with psychopathic individuals...
if you've never experienced a psychotic
"trip"...
   you know jack-****...
           take some l.s.d. and...
look at the bright colours and the sparkling
neon lights...
the end...
            given that i know of no drug
that allows you experience
auditory hallucinations...
   funny... isn't it... given how auditory
hallucinations are...
   by my estimation...
                 the sort of "pain"
                      that would leave some
wishing for a ******* toothache;
it's the sort of "claustrophobia"
     with the only "room" is your own head...
and your ego is being flushed
down the toilet of a shy hive of "spectators"...
as i've aged: **** me... 12 years...
yeah... i can tell when it's stable,
and when it's not...
        once i walked from Romford...
to the Dartford Crossing,
           then toward Barking...
   somehow managed to catch a bus...
left the house at 12am,
came home at 11pm...
   blisters on my feet...
     just because i had a vivid dream
of sleeping on a couch downstairs,
and an ominous shadow figure standing
outside the window...
    i was kicked into this trance-paranoia
state where i had to walk it off...
i had to translate this mental pain
         into a physical pain...
that's how i began knowing that
physical pain can alleviate the symptoms
of mental "pain"...
        which probably explains
why the pwetty pwetty teenage girls
choose to self-harm...
   just saying: it's not right,
    but now i can sort of understand
the justification...
         an old man is able to justify
melancholy...
   his life is at its end,
   the house has been built...
               but this current phenomenon
of premature depression?
              speculation after speculation,
after some more speculation...
    but to just blatantly borrow from
a psychiatric lexicon,
   to justify explaining one's general
abhorrence to any given event?
   a psychopath as also being psychotic?
**** on me...
  what a poor choice of words...
bad analogy,
   and even ******* description tactics...
but i guess there's still some use
for poetry in the collective parlance
of a vulture journalism class of people...
at no point encountering a psychotic
episode implies
losing i.q. points...
            in my scenario:
                    the faculty for learning
rigid chemistry rubrics...
was replaced by an unihibited thirst
for language, and its conveyance.
i still don't get it:
   "journalism" as reading journalistic
articles...
   i'm not convinced...
           that sort of, "journalism"
belongs to a sunday edition of a newspaper,
in the news review section,
or... something akin to
that section: letters to the editor...
but ++,
             poetry is still in use...
       psychiatric terminology used
as the crux of adjective and subsequent
metaphor...
              psychosis has so little
with psychopathy that...
             i just don't know where to begin...
again, there are outliers...
        a axe wielding psychotic
who managed to ****...
                             1 person...
   before experiencing a shattering
sense of guilt and a continued sense
of disorientation
                      from auditory hallucinations...
how i tamed mine?
   fear of god...
                       yeah... that "guy"
on the *****-nilly side of the petulant opposite
of the happy-to-pray-folk...
        but a psychopath?
  cool, collected... enough brain-numbing
dopamine in his head, or lack of...
   like: a part of his brain is just
"dead"?
      well... 49 is not a bad number...
it would usually take about 7 jihadis
to ramp that number up to over a 100.

Am a runway
her smile
Like an aircraft
touched and
smooched my lips

It's actually the need to impress.

As  seeing her wicked beauty more grandeur than a dream...
as if a  thaumaturgist sharing facts...  a warning how to work the chemical tinctures, how your doing it.

Is she a coy feral  ****? Knowing 'can make interested  those whose core advocates all companionship's cruxes- includes no adorning.

As much as losers slip about, we're actually revealed to be there faster than insects- the spiders which web  reminders, fears, no identity.

It's difficult to see one's self... to try a swanky nested intention of approach to this queen, indubitably "any way is right" internal  validity.

Please caress our person, our chimes, ***** thinks "**** I'm cheap", some great person identifies, as society vows- some if it's power.
So to speak.

Universe of causes.. everyone except the questioning. What are my failures? Ends to a means, yet, she can't go grind this meat.

With these wings, lace, lipstick, her golden gloves all just ebb
and flow... boyfriends who attack to return to ascension.

The epitome of smirks bade, perhaps once smooched by the garbage.
She does so good, that all you, are gazelle. You got a problem druggy, mr milquetoast, go  fast... for she can't have any of that, time is only a mirage.

To say it backwards. Do precious atypical she beings have an earlier keeper, did they free the kingdom of this queen and what followed?

Simply too much momentum for now.  
It seems her favor delays celebrations.

As reality is beat to the verse of the impressed and
free achievement... or not, for truth knows  
not so hollow pain can her beauty be...

As all who've ever set eyes on her with
muster of painful delight go forth eternally!

When I am sad and angry my pillow suffers and bears the brunt most,
It's case drenched with salty tears,
Punched again and again when in frustration,
Hugged tightly in my arms or between my knees for solace,
Smooched with lipstick,
And used as tissue wipe for runny nose .
Poor thing it also acts my holder,
My secrets forever,
And little things I want to hide from my siblings which they want and I am adamant  not to give,
Then it becomes a sit on,
When the situation becomes tense then it has to fight with their pillows.
Fare,wear and tear,
It has become out of shape,
But it is my heart,
And I can't part with my heart.
14/8/2020