someone once said: only the natives can be designated
free speech...
the immigrants can have their dog
and let it bark, along with whatever thinking comes
their way...

exploring the last remains of thought -
well then... suit and boot me up for some "thinking"
as i extend it into writing...

if i were of the native stock... "elsewhere":
most probably h'america or australia... even in italy
having tea with mussolini i'd be:
an expat... as an outsider among outsiders
but among my sameness-namesakes of surnames
akin to jones and smith:

i will never be an "immigrant" among...
it's not even a voice of cocern, this little voice of
mine...
an englishman who decides to move
to h'america is an expatriate for the native
englishman who stayed behind...
he's never an immigrant...

perhaps other nations view the people that left
them in such a positive light?
where else to emigrate to that doesn't
speak basic english with a tinge of
a "welcoming" plethora of accents?

proudly having expatriated...
or having to have had to humbly emigrated...
bark bite and tail in tow...
my the luck of being an expatriate...
readily prepared with a francophile basis...
e.g., or some other: less frost-bitten
idealism as the work ethic of:
work work work...

we know the english immigrants
as expatriates... but i doubt that people
from where i from would call me...
an expatriate... they'd call me...
eh... hangman noose... a deserter...
god forbid the fact that i somehow managed
to integrate... but then found myself wondering...

have, have integrated into... "what"?!
today i was truly astounded...
after all... Romford, Essex... England...
can boast about a few things...
notably? it's the past place you can buy vinyl
without amazon.co.uk...
you can actually play the buyer and the person
that loiters with his shadow...
flicking through a dictionary of sorts...
finding a record...

i actually left the house for ulterior motives...
but i succumbed to the allure...
and as i walked the January 2nd 2020 highstreet
in Romford...
i heard english... as a spoken language...
twice in the pedestrian commute...
and of course when it came to a lingua franca
scenario of buying or selling something...
otherwise:

perhaps i retained my primitive instincts
and the tongue and should have left it with a ghost
of me back in the clarifying vicinity of
an airport 50 miles from Warsaw...
i have bigger things to worry about though:
how i should start learning Romanian...
even though: i thought bilingualism was a good
idea?
it's not?

not among the natives could i ever be
an expatriate...
an ever: never... like any more thesaurus
sharpening would do the trick to balance
the optics of "perspective"...

if it wasn't a mistake...
it has still been a purchase:
freddie hubbard on the trumpet,
jackie mclean on the alto sax,
kenny drew on piano,
doug watkins on bass
and pete la roca on drums...

the only reason as to why i bought
a gramaphone was to buy the only cheap vinyl
there is... jazz...
to escape the earphones...
to find the complete volume of space
that would later be deemed:
confined to a room... cell... or some alternative
variation: but... oh jeez...
how wrong it was of me...

make a note: alto sax jazz is not for you...
remember: alto sax jazz is not for you...

a sensation of being a foreigner in
an already double-dutch foreign sense of land...
anything that drops from clinching
to the London transport system
with the trains and the tubes and buses
is: england...
the england of my youth where i remained
like that... dunce in the ****** tunes cartoons
interlude...

and what of my citizenship on paper?
wave a passport around
like a benchmark or an otherwise easy
accent-identifier?
perhaps i don't even know:
Bristolian - my best guess with this acquired
tongue...

but at least buying jazz is getting easier...
freddie hubbard a known name...
but... no... alto sax jazz is not for me...
now it figures...
i can get away on a whim when
a trumpet solos... but not when an alto sax
solos... i really can't stomach it...
will i give this Bluesnik record back?
no, i need a testament -
i have bought something
but the self-reflection is free...

there's only so much classical music escapism
you can try -
before long you realise that the people
listening to classical music...
mostly... when they make requests...
want "something soothing"...
want "something jovial"...
or usually it's a piece of music that has
been attached to a movie...
classical music - apparently doesn't feed
people a subtle stream of images...
and it's obvious: those requests are not phoned
in on by blind people...

imagine... the ****** of F... when you have ⠋
to work with...
what is an sunrise... a sunset but a dash
of colour... a spring of the heavens
an autumn of the heavens...
but my my... in this inverted listening of jazz...
⠙⠑⠑⠏
⠃⠇⠥ ⠑    DEEP BLUE...

if i were blind: and came to the pearly gates...
i'd ask for letters: primo pronto!
later i'd worry about colours and shapes...
as i'd probably stick to my first passion
and hearing this fathomless shapeless
sounds that... abide to no lineage with a recant
of a triangle's use of 90°...

otherwise... what if you've been fed
the: classical music when listened to when a child
will increase your i.q. -
but what are the chances that you will:
"regress" from listening to classical
music and take to jazz?
perhaps because jazz has to be felt,
it has to be heard, first,
rather than... the silence and scribbles
of a composer at his desk -
where a classical music composition
is very much like writing:
that whole a prior shabang!
none of the a posteriori zigzagging
of impromptu and jazz?

one thing is certain... i'm not going to
be a fan of alto sax jazz...
sonny clark on piano - yes...
art blakey on drums - yes...
kenny burrell on guitar - yes...
alto sax no... ah... but give me tenor sax
and... no please no big bang jazz
equivalent to thelonious monk...
at least jazz gives you pedestrian tastes
and whims...
nothing akin to bowing at the altar
of a Beethoven: or talking lightly of
the man - "the man"...

and who the hell said that being
objectivity "works all the time"
that objectivity "runs the marathon"...
alto sax jazz is pedestrian music...
don't get me wrong...
you want to walk down a busy street
and you want to drown the sounds
of progress: no horses sneezing,
no horses' hooves playing tic-tac-toe
chess on cobweb stones...
alto sax jazz is your take-out
walk-through...
but when you're hunched in a chair
and pecking at a keyboard with
ten good beaks of the tips of your fingers...

again: how do the hands rest before
the keyboard?
the right hand:
index middle, pinky and thumb...
the ring finger is used for the: delete button...
a revision - the pinky does the enter -
and the cascade follows...
the left hand?

primarily the index and *******...
the thumb is always attached to space...
shared with the right hand's *******
to space,
i can't remember if i ever used my ring
or pinky finger of my left arm...

so much for inverted chiromancy...
the polacks will never give me the wings
to be an expatriate...
i will be forever: he who abandoned
that land running with milk and honey...
but... look at how they stand behind those
from england that decided to go "elsewhere"...
they are not immigrants...
they are... expatriates...
have nothing filthy them it comes to
the connotation...
it's not sad it's not funny it's: somewhere
"in between"...

because we know that the only russians
that ever make it out of russia
are the oligarchs... and by that standard
of "sentiment": they're always welcome...
who wouldn't welcome the pharaohs without
giza pyramid ambitions of construction?!
passing chalk as cheese -
and passing... ink for blood...
perhaps i haven't sweated enough to be allowed
to write but as little as this...

there's always this sense of alienation
among the germanic tribes of "israel":
europe... even if they are the scots or the welsh
suckling at the teats of romulus & remus' lupa...
as the old saying goes among the slavic people
when "integrating" into a germanic-esque society -
by the time you have integrated...
there's this dog-**** pile of Babylon left...
and the germans are: "nowhere"!

the saying goes via:
if you go among the crows...
you must croak their croak...

here's to flying high as an imitation seagull!
brazen: into this arable land...
that's being teased by the Thames estuary...

passing through a Warsaw train station
i noticed the immigrants / the expatriates
on the eastern front...
mostly mongols...
notably the ukrainians...
but now in england i'm starting to think
in concrete terms... better start learning
Romanians...
and on the street: you can't see a focus of
who's here and who isn't here...
back east the Roma people stood out
like a sore thumb or a voodoo plum and...
that didn't bother the locals since they were
meshed like glue...
but, here, in england?
everyone's a sore thumb a voodoo plum...
because the natives,
the blessed idiosyncratic professional
eccentrics have left and...
i'm not going to be the first chasing them down...

London the only and last bastion is
overrun with the whole lot of us...
well: the "us" vs. "them" mentality...
don't get me wrong... i'll still listen to the concerns
of the peripheries... in this cest pool
of immigrants, degenerates...
old people who "forgot" to move...
the lunatics the in-betweeners and the old guard
clinging on...
perhaps, after all... english was a very
accomodating language...
it wouldn't take a genius to learn it from scratch
being thrown into the deep end of the pool
aged 8...
who was mute aged 8 going to school
being moved from "east" europe to this island
with... no prior to linguistic connection?
moi...

and now look at me... i'm teasing myself
with... sordid welsh as if i were ever the posterboy
for welsh nationalism...
scottish nationalism? eh... if they were to retain
their gaellic roots...

expansion:
the longing for those who have left:
in the anglo-sphere - expatriate...
the abhoring sense of those who arrive -
immigrant...
otherwise... the english are always
and everywhere: welcome...
hence the expatriate status of those
who have left their native land...
even in h'america: a shared language:
to be an immigrant... while speaking
the same language?! how preposterous!

the difference between eastern style
comedy presentation and western style
comedy presentation: on stage...

the eastern folk prefer cabaret: theatre dialogue
montages...
the western folk prefer stand-up:
monologue samuel beckett esque
performances...
'woe i... stand alone in this infinite
space and... find others to laugh with...'

- perhaps we're not being less funny because
we're lowering our "i.q.": yes, the we are...
we are... lowering...
i find lee evans to be funny...
a laurel and hardy weren't exactly funny
by modern comedy standards that:
it's only funny if it's intelligent...
if there's a crossword puzzle at the end of "it"...

perhaps pride is the shackle...
and ham... what ever happened to self-depreciating
humor that managed to somehow
elevate you as also having a sense
of humor:
do intelligent men even laugh
at something that isn't a word-play or
a corset of wit?
perhaps we're experiencing a drying of wip...
perhaps the jokes are only supposed
to come: days after as a form of
reflection on the sigma canvas:
the joke has to exist outside the performer
and the stage... it needs to be: a live-experience...
it has to take on DASEIN qualities?
it has to be internalised?

that: oh yeah... that's funny...
perhaps the same thing has to be observed
and it can't be retold in an impromptu
fashion shackled to a stage?
the stage is the new camp-fire?
i thought so too... about the television...

as: here's to slagging off everything that's
being published online bypassing
the editorial process of selection...
well... if it weren't for all the seriousness
surrounding internet banking...
and internet shopping...
pen to paper...
******* clinching a ripped roll
of cushioning paper
and a pseudo-***** imitation
for a wipe while massaging my prostate
over the enlightened prospect
of dropping the blitzkrieg plump-dump-plum
into an echoing lake in the ceramic basin...
otherwise...

a seanse with that moment of realisation:
"something is happening to us
collectively"... it's as if: we're under a spell...
oh i was under a spell today...
watching alec guinness in the fall of the roman
empire...
and as coming from a people
that were never conquered by rome?
on this fine fine island that was...
well... my hopes were also high for
the conquests of the mongol empire...
and the remains of it in the form of the tatars
in crimea...

here are my tattoos... it's hard to break from them,
it's hard to wash them away...
but at least i can attest:
my brain might be all fat and sponge and
electricity... but there's some skull and skin
to be had of it...
otherwise... why would the year 1066
be important for me... why would the magna carta
be important for me?
i too have my years in tattoos on this big brian
of mine...

otherwise there's that copernico-darwinian
surge of: journalistic science...
i still find it staggering that darwinism continues
to capture the imagination of people...
"of people"... only in Wittgenstein was left
alone in finding that Copernicus did something
astounding... this surge of "awakening"
via darwinism: this statistical bombardment
like it was some tabloid journalism:
throwing a pebble at a mountain while
also ushering in a mantra: grow by
a poppy's seed added height! grow!

perhaps i'm just jealous...
among the polacks i will never be an expatriate...
what a jealous people...
an englishman who moves to france...
comes 20 year later...
he will have never experienced
the mark of cain: immigration "humphrey bogart"...
he or she moved to france...
perhaps to italy...
i remember being in greece and...
i was nothing when i said i was ******:
but with british citizenship! to add...
so what?
well... so what greece...
i latched onto some north africans
and went to **** away the night
in some strip-bar where i had
two strippers either head o' mine...
and it was constellations galore...
grandmother Etna said:
rest here, among the smooches poor child...

i borrowed Etna from when Aeneas
"left off"...
****'s sake... this is the Meditarrean
and not the Baltic? where is the amber
the whiskey and the leverage of gratations
of time?!

i will agree. Macedonia come night traffic
of quicksilver tinging?
if the metal is cheap and you douse it in some gold?
a mountain dripping fresh from some quicksilver
from the moon peering at it?
objectivity what?

the finite plateau of snow-riddled Serbia...
and perhaps that's because these people
speak their own language...
and have so... and i'm just the next
"english" tourist...
a jack kerouac americanism and:
oh sure! sure!
spectacular fly-over country tourism!
everything's so so different!
and yet all so oh so much the same!

darwinism was going to run the 5000 meter
race... it's currently running the 10000 meter
race... god help it in running the marathon
of still pretending: old news is new news...
i can't distinguish between darwinism
and copernican discovery...
only in the english-speaking world
would this discovery not escape a criticism
from ancient greece and some, some predecesor!

wouldn't anyone just bore of darwinism
if they were told: over and over again:
the copernican "reality"?
a scientific fact is... akin to a religious dogma...
until... it becomes regurgitated with
enough time, with enough journalism and...
tabloid wind... and after a while...
it's only worthwhile to be spoken to
amnesia peoples of the world: unite!
it's hardly "stupid" or "intelligent"...
more or less overlooked...
because a pebble thrown at a mountain:
is... no added mountain to behold...
conventional wisdom is the only wisdom
that there ever was made to be made:
available...

nonetheless, the circumstance stands...
unless from the slavic hemisphere
of europe...
unlike any other circumstance: other than
the one given, among islanders...
among continent builders akin
to australia and h'america...
the post-racial societies of post-colonial
spain in south america?
ever wonder why the brazillians don't
look for inspiration from the portugese
when it comes to football?
you'd think: those yanks better have
the best football team in the world...
they haven't exactly looked back...
back at "us": oh god... tea afternoon and cricket...
baseball wha'?
basketball? "football"?
why are "we" looking forward and "they're"
looking back?
perhaps i should learn some spanish and
get some insinuation about:
the argentinian sense of lack when looking
back into spain...

or what else is there to be had?
move to Greenland... admire Denmark...
**** it: do the whole stretch and find
some locals on the Faroe Islands...
perhaps i too will find a tomorrow...
but tomorrow i will find: sobering up
and having to deal with: everything beside jazz...

mmm... "delayed gratification" prospects...
seven kings: canon palmer catholic school...
when boys are educated alongside girls...
what if i went to Ilford County High?
what if i were born to immigrant parents
and wasn't an 8 year old immigrant?
what if i went to the Ilford Ursulines?
the all-girls school... the former, Ilford County High?
what chances of me being an intellectual
******?

what, oh the chances!
perhaps praying: segregated... is a tad extreme?
but perhaps ******-exclusion policies:
teaching boys throughout their puberty
as segregated from girls in the same hormonal
development "range" is...
well! how else! you take a boy and girl
and you put them into the hormonal cocktail!
just because it's in a shared educational
environment... why these teenage pregnacies
you ask?
i wouldn't ask such blunt questions...
not since the genius of Copernicus
couldn't attract these...
psychological left-over intelligenstia clingers...
that darwinism has allowed...
what it darwinism and journalism?
everything! the ant as the ego
inside the mind of an ape...
the dormant tapeworm embryo
inside the mind of an ant:
with siesmic consequence of a disturbance
of the collective hive network...

borrow too much from an ape...
borrowing from an ape is one thing...
it's the borrowing from all other
animals: with the ape as the backdrop
that's truly bothersome!
at least religious spew the same facts
over and over again...
scientific dogma? who keeps track?
tomorrow might be the next:
butter vs. margarine controversy!
what sort of "religion" is science
(it's not a religion... if it's not...
why does it have to cohabit a bed
with journalism then, to spew "new",
"improved" facts, then?!)
when... it's so ******* finicky!

look via the ape long enough:
it won't matter whether it's a geocentric
of a heliocentric system that
reigns above your head, no torso,
a pickled spine...
legs and arms floating about like:
an octopus experiencing spasms
pickled in brine...

perhaps these are the zenith years of
darwinistic popularity...
perhaps like the copernican popularity...
there will come a time of:
fatalism... that somehow all of this
is... inevitable...

i see one answer: this cage of grammar
this cage of whatever this god made human
pressures me into complying to...
to the last typo! i will stand against it!
without caging me into a use of emoji or
some other hieroglyphic purse of:
shortened "thinking"...

the "seven silences" might have passed
around my presence that i dare not
call it: in concrete - figure...
and still my eigth silence to unmask
nothing more than a mask...

who are these immigrants, these tight brewed
broods, these furrow brows
representing the native pensive "squint":
of anything beside the eyes and a thought
of h. p. lovecraft?
perhaps inside of europe:
but as ever... without a russian passport...
without a russophobia that's
a tickling hard-on... the "in-between-land"...
perhaps the balkans...
who are we... to these germans and quasi-germans?

we use their tongue, their zunge...
their everything they will otherwise allow themselves
to deny: perhaps this is not Dublin,
this is not Glasgow this is not Cardiff...
perhaps this is not Italy,
this is not France...
perhaps this is "europe" as long as
Scandinavia is involved...

woe a we unto us: the viking Rus...
or some lent word of lost vogue...
last time i heard:
these northern ******* are in no favour
of treating the Spaniards or the Greeks
as their equals...
as long as they have rich arab pimps
race their lamborghini brute ******
down... knightsbridge...

then! and only then! iz ist europa "reconquista"!
"reconquista"... i'll defend these poor polacks
that didn't think it...
"necessary" to only learn english in order
to comply to the global dictum of neu-communist
internationalism...
- what, they didn't teach you you stupid
**** that it only took to learn from english?!
- last time i heard... not teachings polish
to a canape of anything beside the french,
the spanish... also worked!

english as a language is oh so accomodating...
the people will react like antibiotics,
naturally... enough of darwinism and you'll
be found, bound, to having to reference it...
past a de facto menu:
and more like a subjectivity...
there's only so much truth that can be stated...
before fiction has to reply...
because... how many regurgitated facts
can be regurgitated...
before the desert of fiction and...
there's only the fact of a bottle of water...
that remains...
and there's not impetus to walk toward
an oasis...
a fata morgana is hardly a scientific experience...
when experienced...
it's something associated with
a desert and within the desert must either:
live... or die...

what if etymology was to become the new
standard for journalism...
what if one were to escape this contant
bombardment of darwinism...
like it wasn't the next new vogue akin
to the copernican "revolution"?

is that even possible?
whenever i return to Poland...
esp. in Warsaw... i'm a deserter...
i'm not an expatriate...
the native english call those who left
with a sense of longing...
somehow: or at least that's the leftover...
the expatriates from the inside-out
perspective... never the immigrants...

i'm an immigrant and...
a paper citizenship is: no citizenship at all...
a passport is only worth a passport
at a border crossing...
in between the everyday daily affairs?
'where are you from?'
****... 'Bristol?!'...
i'm hardly going to speak
the cockney cockers or an essex schlang...
am i? ***!
all but ******* plumbers and church pulpit
mongers... and some over-ripe
riddle fruits: if not simply left
bottles of wine for the bears...

the first part though, bothers me...

someone once said: only the natives can be designated
free speech...
the immigrants can have their dog
and let it bark, along with whatever thinking comes
their way... in mere thinking...
and a dog barking...

the natives will only have a freedom of speech...
what if an immigrant becomes a citizen?
just asking...
what if an immigrant is granted a citizen
status?
well then... i am your humble example
of a civic nationalist...
such a confusing term...
it must be: for the natives...

oh ****... what language am i using?
the language of the... natives!
rubric civitas!
civic nationalism is reserved for:
those that came from abroad...
i guess the ethno-nationalists never made
this distinction clear:
watching their contemporaries leave their
native pit of woe...
and they would never call them:
deserters... only... only... expatriates...
after all... aren't we in the postmortem of ancient Rome?!
isn't this the time when the remnant
english come out and glorify being
the conquered people of this: lettering?

what is civic nationalism?
what is learnt, integrated nationalism...
this is civic nationalism...
how about the english forget about something,
like solving crosswords...
esp. among the middle-classes...
and let's envision their globalist dream!
let them learn a second language
and let us all become bilingual!
oh no... not polyglots... just bilingual!

i can't be an ethno-nationalist...
em... because (a) (b) and (c)?
aren't the post-colonial commonwealth
remnants of the empire the sort
civic-nationalists there's talk of?
what language am i writing in?
hebrew?! mandarin?!

ethno-natioanlism and its tribalism...
civic-nationalism and its state...
where does the church fit into all of this?
it's like not being an amuptee but
nonetheless being prescribed a "missing limb"...
the **** would i need a third arm for?
wilt the third leg allow me to run faster?!

i guess the term ethno-nationalist is
conflated with civic-nationalist in the ethno-nationalist
realm of "debate"...
a civic-nationalist is your casual parlance
h'american patriot...
patriotism in h'america: nationalism (still)...
in europe...
if we have to: hello, my name is: bob
do it all over again with the squares
and dictum assertions and what not attached...
between the ethno-nationalists and
the civic-nationalists...
the inter-nationalists...

i'm a civic-nationalist because:
i fear people need concrete examples...
i will not move back to Poland...
except on the holidays...
to visit my grandparents...
which is why i have retained the labour
of a native tongue... and "identity"...
i will remain in England...
until England becomes: Alle-Land...
and even when all these
ethno-nationalists ******* to Australia...
and become civic-nationalists over there...
well: over there good luck!

why would anyone ask an ethno-nationalist
the question: are you a civic-nationalist or?
civic- implies:
i'm a Brit from a grand "beyond":
circa 3000km away...
civic is a bewildering prefix for the nationalist
of a ethno- persuasion...
it really is... esp. when this ethno-nationalist
doesn't believe in the existence of
expatriates... that he would remain... "stuck"...
and that somehow... ethno-kin could come
and replace... those kin that left: "in good faith"...

savvy?!

bypassing the 502 error: title - whiplash...
body... cream...

original intent:

they're doing road works on a stretch of road
where the brothel sits:
house of the rising sun or whatever you want
to call it... i'm not ready for the thrist:
for the plunge that will extend into half a decade's
worth of not *******...
i'll give it a week or so... before i take the plunge:
proper... mind you... i've already found
the perfect formula for drinking...
the cheapest bottle of australian wine...
at 14%... mixed into the glorious Mayan drink
of the gods' that's kalimotxo...
and if i'm still not "feeling it": i'll top myself
off with some slender-man's whiskey glug-glug...
it worked so well for 4 years without
touching a woman's body...
what the hell prompted me?
to wake up from this slumber?
oh... right... i own two maine **** cats
and when i was grooming the female...
she stuck up her brunt right into my hands...
it felt like: trans-species ******* for a while...
a cog in my brain went loose...
for days i cycled in the night into central London
looking at the flesh market:
of the free peoples of the western world...
what prompted me...
i was grooming my maine **** cat and she
was tempting me with a: ******* hairy apple...
no... wrong... just plain wrong...
perhaps i swing around beard envy & ha...
***** envy (well... imagine a rabbit ******* an elephant...
big **** genre of: and how deep is that...
ahem... hole? standard kama sutra...
not one size fits all)
but when your cat starts to imitate getting it...
**** me... the night... cycling... sweating it off...
until you have to touch the antonym...
but suppose you come across a timid girl
and you get a case of erectile dysfunction...
while you end up caressing her: timidly kissing
her because she's timid...
pointing at her eyebrows... nose... eyes...
ears... pimples... freckles and moles...
the mirror... fingers... elbow... knees...
and asking her to say the Romanian words for them...
sure... a momentary lapse in sanity:
the reason(s) was already self-evident...
take a woman like Ava Lauren...
now... my god... by god... that's a ****-machine...
an *** like a Lamborghini and a body
like a leather armchair...
and she stuck through it... a mandible body
of the extension of the jaw...
some people are born to be boxers...
she was built to be ****** in the confines of
orthodoxy...
dead pornstars though... i.e. Shyla Stylez...
it's really a joke if i ask: would it be necrophilia
if i'm doing it to images of a dead pornstar?
"doing it": best on the toilet...
no... no scented candles... no eager kangaroo *****
no webcam... no thrill...
3 birds:  1 stone: on throne of thrones...
no better way and all the best excuses to later
jump under the shower and get on with the dead...
sorry.. day...
4 years i did... grooming a cat awoke in my a thirst
i thought i had long forgotten...
- kinks: mostly foreplay...
       kissing after all that 2nd base foreplay
while she's on top of you veiling you with her
Turkic raven hair...
immediately after the act: all that virility...
now... dilution...
            kinks: i still tend to rub my hands against
a brick wall before i enter their abode...
i rub my hands against bricks
to demand more from when i'm touching
flesh... nothing can come close when standing
at the altar of a woman's naked body
in dim lighting... with at least 2 mirrors on the wall...
reassurances of cleanliness are highly
welcome... even though by a tonne load of surprises
she would perform ******* with the rubber
commoner of promiscuity...
- kinks: any body attired in latex...
  that's the height: ms. gimp...
                          well... there's that or me endowed
with a cockerel sized endowment about
to **** a maine **** cat during grooming...
as "sick" as finding out you've been doing
the nos. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones
to a dead pornstar like Shyla Stylez...
in third person: lover-boy all smooches
and octopus tentacles reading the geography
like he might pick up the braille of all the grooves
and hinges...
interruption: i'm no pornographer!
although there's this one allusion:
    Venus in Furs... ol' Leo von Sacher-Masoch...
on the tip of my tongue:
at the tip of my fingers...
to turn stone in skin...
   - i remember being in a strip-club once...
i had to fly to Athens for that one...
i walked into a market sq. and met up with
some random... Greeks... Algerians...
Medi- olive skinned folk...
complete strangers... we drifted around the nightclubs
and watched the girls coming out...
how's that scale of nought through to ten?
below average... and highly demanding...
the four of us decided: **** it...
we climbed into a car and drove to the outskirts
of Athens to a strip-club...
unlike a dog that's chasing cars
i couldn't just... look... a few drinks down
and still eyeing the prize
i had two women around my arms
and my face buried in one's *****:
while some demon-she look on from
the other side of the platform of lost clothing...
another put a green peg on the table
informing me i could have more...
by then i was out of debit... my card was
returned... a bouncer escorted me to the nearest
cash machine in a hotel... started talking
to the receptionist while i was pretending to
withdraw money i didn't have...
right there and then i became a child:
******* my clothes... excitement, fear... both...
dunno... drunks have this build in GPS...
Athens... a city i only just arrived in...
blind drunk mad with love...
i managed to find my way back to the hostel...
**** the guiding beacons into my dreams...
eh... a ******* is never going to be a brothel...

i don't like the argument of:
look... but don't touch... touch... but don't taste...
taste but don't... what comes after taste?
if ever i catch myself watching pornogrpahy
it has to be classic Italian flicks...
on silent...
i can never be fully absorbed:
i'll wait for a real experience to come
with the flood of the senses...
i can't give myself to simulation with all
the sense...
after all... i was probably one of the last
boys who bought a ***** mag in a shop
with... actual expedience of trade...
it was still in the open...
i might have died of shame but at least
i didn't hide it...

                  no shame in Belgium though...
we were visiting world war I graveyards
and the trenches... but at the same time
we were looking for the best brothel in Ypres
while i was the only boy buying a ***** mag...
all ****... shaved... unshaved...
no *******: because a man's imagination
was still fertile... you had a woman's body
impose itself on your psyche like
an x-ray... and you had all that imagination
to subsequently have to swallow...
third party ***** weren't involved:
you never felt like a cul de sac ******...
oddly enough... limp **** hey presto:
can't perform when asked...

ooh... ol' Turkic raven hair:
all her talents in the foreplay...
and all the smooching during *******...
thank god i could never marry...
father children...

4 years it has taken me to wake up to this...
"repressed" reality...
repressed or... even the Teutonic Order
had a brothel in their capital-citadel of Malbork...
Marienburg...
for the love of women who also love:
cleanliness... and the aesthetics of arousal...
for all that's love and all that's not love...
for all that beside love: intimacy without question:
but all the answers...
for two bodies imitating slugs or serpents
where no words are exchanged or given
toward *******: autonomous bodies reaching
for braille with eyes wide open...

- the road to the brothel was closed...
the guys doing the road works cut it off...
not tonight... tonight i'm going to bemoan how:
well... when you start writing...
don't expect to have the same sort of privacy rules
implicit of... whatever the hell you do besides...
why wouldn't a plumber raise these words
from the domain of thought that's probably
his most cherished freedom?
people can still pretend to hide in anonymity
on the internet...
but... why would you... write bogus comments
and troll...
before words become carbon on paper: pencil...
the circus of thinking ought to be enough...
unless: like me... you're going at it like a bull...
i don't think i can have "privacy" anymore...
not that that bothers me...
i'll wear a mask when i put my face on...
but literacy so squandered for the upper-hand
in slighting someone anonymously...

                    ha!           someone would have
written a confession: Anne Sexton brush-up on:
what's important... Anne Sexton... now there was
a ***** that if she was willing could make you
dream all day and night...

why are so many pornstars so... ******* attractive
that you'd wish to push them
into bird-cages with the parrots
or adorn them with white linen niqabs?
as much as i want:
my words are not sacrosanct:
but they're also no Mammon slot-machine
golden-goose mine: perhaps when i'm dead:
something might trickle down into the coffers...
but i doubt that...
words never become shapes or colours
or therefore paintings...
words burn... words and all that becomes
collateral as they dig and drown into
the unconscious: of course... no motive...
just a motif...
    
brother Balaam: fellow diviner of the god
of the Hebrews...
brother Balaam... give me the strength of purpose
to chase more shadows: more more more!
speak to me from under the depths
of the sea of death...
they have left these northern lands...
and as they now stand: proud in their multitude:
and still persist in their clinging to the diaspora:
for i will not glutton myself over
the accomplishments of but one Hebrew:
when i can glorify their deity!

literacy has been squandered:
best strip these people of their "knowledge"
of letters: letter by letter:
let them return to smearing **** on cavern ceilings!
hostile barbarians: paradoxically:
the Vikings were renowned in their celebration
of "effeminate" males: poets...
i could warn a dog or two to bark as i thus:
howl...
               little creatures of dispute...
little belittling lords of shovel ****!
hey! prompt! all verb no noun...
something these leeches might understand... "might"...

all this lubricated tongue has made me think
of something else that happened today...
beside me revisiting the cinema of memory...
grandfather and i: the hyenas of the graveyard:
although even he pronounced that
he was unable to laugh: i guess i started to laugh
for the both of us... eagerly, proper:
with the vowel catcher of the first
arm of the tetragrammaton: HA HA...
while the "other" vowel catcher would
smother the vowels in sighs: AH AH!
exasperated... almost...

       call it PR or whatever you want to call it:
i'd rather stack shelves in a supermarket
than work at a call-centre...
the deceit and the Peter Pan *******
i said: it's not the Shetland Islands...
it's the South East...
i was rummaging on an internet speed
of... 0.1Mbps (megabytes per second)
for a while... i reached a zenith of 0.6 - 0.8(Mbps)...

for a year... if not longer...
and there she was: she came...
this bleached-blonde pchła of a... she did put on just
enough mascara...
obviously taken...
i don't think *** entered my thoughts
when... she... didn't... parade her keychain
that involved a picture of her and her child...
pchła: an endearing term for a girl
of timid build... a body my shadow at noon
could break like a walnut...
i called her an engineer...
she wasn't going to construct a bridge...
she was going to fiddle with my router...
my internet connection...
a woman who had desire for fiddling with:
"dead" things: shadows...
arteries... veins... a concept of a heartbeat...

i just admired her hair...
obviously not natural... bleached...
     she was a body occupying a space...
a welcome intrusion nonetheless...
i sort of enjoyed the silence i surrounded her with...
"sort of": i clearly did...
best be on your way...
a female engineer...
well... from 0.1Mbps... coming up for air
now standing at... 5.6Mbps...
she asked: how did "we" manage?
we just watched a lot of the show live...
but... there were more important things to mind...

the bothersome truth is that:
you can't exactly dig into: pristine good...
this girl who became a "cable guy" engineer...
engineer: "engineer": "tech. support":
i'm not trying to demean her purpose:
i'm the one doodling words on a makeshift
canvas...
i'm no painter or mind having
enough nepotistic authority of: father painter
so i become a fashion designer... etc.

i pin-pointed the proper term though: no?
nepotism?
you just can't objectify certain women...
both of us beguiled having internet providers:
so... shouldn't they penalize the companies
that are all software and bar users?
will the software providers turn off my...
electricity?
the PR Peter Pan stunts... as i told her:
you being the engineer and me being the customer...
we can talk... face to face...
but over the phone?
put me in a confessional booth
with a woman from Mecca and her... double take
on what's to be seen: what's to be heard...
what's to be ******... what's not to be seen / heard...
eaten...

an eager *****: if a ***** is going to give...
but if... she's... this occupied presence...
it's impossible to penetrate her with words...
all i have is:
bleached blonde hair...
heavy mascara... something insinuating combating
nervousness: i am what i am: sorting out cables:
i reassured her: the aesthetics will be dealt with...
a drowning man will cling to a razor's edge to save
himself...
why do i feel so hardly alone
around people who invest so much
in... having children?
it's not like i'm expecting 3rd party sources
to come and salvage me: when completely decrepit...

a woman completely devoid of any ****** advances:
perhaps performing the role of a dentist:
a surgeon: it's already exploited by me
when it comes to: seeing her most ******
parts: her hands... at the grace of a supermarket cashier...
let her be... she's already averting her eyes:
i might insinuate a receding question:
there's the moon... the forest...
come autumn...
maybe i'm focusing on exaggerating myself...
i am: exaggerating myself...

toward a focus of timidity...
as best i can...
    i am a dead end joy-**** at best...
an underperformer at least...
              my own very self worn down
skipping barefoot in memory
right now probably better adorned by a straightjacket...
but who's fooling who...
the readied ***** or this girl working out
cables?

i can respect this one without a need
to pressurise her with a... ******* niqab...
until she might bloat over:
over-suckled... fat... nothing more than
a speed machine for *****-count...
something that doesn't deserve limbs:
is all torso and belongs
to the cult of the bone tomahawk cannibals...

that one motto cited by all Arabs
and pseudo-Arabs: there no water in the desert...
spoken in dearest of the dear that's England:
this green and pleasant land...
where's the ******* desert?!
shovel! both a verb and a noun...
how rare.... perhaps not so much...
        proverbs from the Middle East...
******* to the Middle East and let me
riddle my own: better a sparrow in your
hand than a dove on your roof...
how's that?

better joy in the immediacy of your own:
than peace among your closely associated.
******* H'arab...
you're no Jew... esp. when sitting
on Dino-Lamborghini juice...

castles in the sky: so the psychiatrists says...
or cities built on sand...
every Pakistani / Bangladeshi knows this
proverb...
the times of appeasing the "forever" sober
Arab and his sober-Arab libido...
i'll wait... are now... like i once said:
the horrible has already ah-happened...

and if it hasn't: then i'm still... pretty much
taking a proper role in being the only watchman
on a sly of a kipper...
n'est ce pas?

irritation culminates with:
when you make your own wine...
but don't have the filter equipment...
all that excess "fibre" probably gets your more
drunk than expected...

i haven't had enough to my liking to
somehow dissolve the pledge
to keep at least 72 ****** on a leash...
all that's eternity: given all that's
available and will be:
within the confines of un-chartered space...
send me a postcard from the eye of Jupiter...
i'm more than asking:
imploring: i'm... sort of making:
chain you to me: demands...

tomorrow's a sober head:
tonight... i'll be drunk with both wine
of my own making and...
the memory of a naked body of a woman...
exactly: if she's an engineer: "engineer"
fiddling with my phone socket...
she has a photograph of her and her child
on her keychain...
i wouldn't even dream of...
usurping her... status...

            looking at her felt like eating...
oats... something wholesome...
i met up with you... herr grey...
i did't find any child-fiddling bits...
what... were... you... hiding?!
i will laugh: if you tell me: a heart...
melt my stony enclave...
burn the whole world while you're at it!
there was never going to be any sacrifice
in the crucifix pose:
only purpose for focus: for... submission...
as someone devoid of wanting to continue....
he didn't die for "our" sins...
he died in order to be worshipped...
**** him... let him hang on... father of proselytes...

- point of closure...
for now... i never rose high enough
to suddenly turn cold-turkey: goosebumps
on the *******... still... dead...
i wasn't born into a Buddhist harem...
therefore i sometimes relapse into
the gimmick of the tease...
periodically... every half a decade....
i drink unfiltered self-made wine
and talk about hardly the ******
"exploits":
i come across magnets equivalent to
timid schoolgirls...

some supposed ****** revolution happned:
lob-sided...
given how the girls took the strap-on off
and shoved the **** down
the ******* brains of their bank account
squadron...
     the ******: "******" revolution came out
***-****-side first: thirst:
lopsided: the girls have all their fun...
we die... they come close to old age:
it continues: men tend to think throughout:
that period of concern: supposedly-deemed:
life...

the feminine agony of old age...
grandma's apple pie: **** grandma's apple pie!
i want to drink my wine
with... blisters and...
dis-ingestion...
              
         sucker punch:
            suckle toward a knuckle that might just...
make creases with caresses.

He reached me
through my
soul entwining
my heart
under his lips
kissing my
necrotic heart,
replacing my
heartbeats with
his lovely
smooches to
reincarnate my
heart so that
it can copulate
my soul!

"I wish they'd stop going on about it, the things that are unseen but for brief glimpses and shadows, and fully heard. The beings in their closets and under their beds, their voices carried in a wind that isn't there. They stand, stiff, breathing shallow and deep in the lack of light, dripping wet from the storm that didn't happen in this world, muddying up the carpet, mounting with stench. They're not there, you idiots, they're over here, in my eyes, in my head, buried between my lungs and pushing the limits of my bones, my weaknesses. Stop your complaining. If only I could muffle you." ~ Jade Day


DO: Ah, yes. Ms. Day is also a favorite author of mine.

[Anaïs smiles at Do.]

NURSE YUCKI: Really? I actually think that is interesting that we have similar tastes in literature.

DO: I know right!

NURSE YUCKI: I mean she could hook you with just one word.

DO: That she can.

[Do turns his head in another direction; Anaïs looks down as she clears her throat.]

NURSE YUCKI: So how are you feeling Do? Are your emotions gradually beginning to retract back into a more manageable state?

DO: Yeah somewhat, but they are still fluctuating a bit. I think I will be fine.

NURSE YUCKI: Would you like me to monitor you just in case?

DO: No, thank you, Anaïs. I think I can handle my emotions for now, but I will let you know if something comes up.

NURSE YUCKI: Promise?

[Do smiles at Anaïs.]

DO: Promise.

[Do’s stomach began to growl loudly.]

NURSE YUCKI: Ooh. Someone is hungry I am assuming.

DO: Ha ha well your assumption wouldn’t be wrong Anaïs. I am a tad bit hungry actually.

NURSE YUCKI: Well, considering that it is now lunch time, I suggest that you go to the cafeteria and enjoy yourself a lovely, hot afternoon meal. The cafeteria is down the hall to your left and is the third room on your right. In the meantime I think I will take a little detour and purchase some premium foods to consume.

DO: You know that actually wouldn’t be a bad idea.

[Do and Anaïs both laugh in equal synchronization.]

NURSE YUCKI: I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Do.

DO: Yes, you will. Have a great day Anaïs and thanks again

NURSE YUCKI: You’re welcome.

[Anaïs smiles and winks at Do on her way out. Do smiles back. Do then leaves the black room and exits through the entrance. Above Do’s head were signs that helped to direct him to take the proper route, but there was no need for him to read it as Anaïs had already instructed him on how to get there. Do continues walking down the hall until he reaches the third room on his right. There was a big sign above the entrance that said “CAFETERIA”. Do then entered the cafeteria to handfuls of laughter and patients talking amongst themselves while eating the meal of their choice. There was a moderately long line of which Do joined as he waited along with the rest of the patients to receive his lunch. Do noticed that a girl with *****, blonde shoulder length hair was standing in front of him. She was wearing glasses with square black frames much like the glasses that Dr. Nightmare often wore. She had beady eyes of an exceptionally moderate size and her skin was pearly white with a smile that was naturally inviting. She then spotted Do and appropriately began speaking to him.]

SPORE: Hello there. How are you?

DO: I’m doing okay. Yourself?

SPORE: Yeah, I’m alright but I wish this line would move just a little bit faster. This is driving me bonkers. So what’s your name if you don’t mind me asking?

DO: My name is Do.

[Spore reaches out to shake Do’s hand.]

SPORE: Spore. You have a pretty cool name you know?

[Do lightly laughs.]

DO: Well, thank you.

SPORE: You are certainly welcome, Do.

[Spore smiles at Do.]

SPORE: So where are you from?

DO: Like what country am I from or like what city?

[Spore chuckles.]

SPORE: I meant in general silly ha ha.

DO: Well, I’m from North America. I was born in a small town called Springfield, Illinois but I was raised in Memphis, Tennessee.

SPORE: Interesting.

DO: How about you? Where are you from?

SPORE: I am from British Columbia, Canada although I was raised in a small city named Abbotsford.

DO: What was it like there?

SPORE: At times it was weird and some days were worse than others, but I somehow managed to pull through.

DO: So how did you end up in here?

SPORE: Long story short I nearly decapitated my former friend’s head off with a chainsaw then attempted to slit my wrists with it.

[Do looked shocked as he was laughing at Spore’s statement.]

DO: Oooh brutal are we?

SPORE: Hey, ******* be trippin’!

[Both Do and Spore began laughing in equal succession. The line had continued to move forward. It was finally Spore’s turn to select the portions of her meal.]

LUNCH LADY: Good afternoon and welcome to Black Wick Cafeteria. Today’s specials are pizza and fish and shrimp. Today’s sides are coleslaw, biscuits and baked beans with your choice of cocktail or tartar sauce. What would you like?

SPORE: Um… I guess I will take the fish and shrimp with a side of baked beans and cocktail sauce and tartar sauce.

LUNCH LADY: That will be six dollars.

SPORE: That’s fine. You want anything Do? Lunch is on me today.

DO: Yes, I think I’ll have the same thing you are having.

SPORE: Alright then. Excuse me miss but could you add a duplicate order for my buddy Do here.

[The lunch lady nodded and began preparing Do’s order.]

DO: Thank you so much, Spore. I appreciate this more than you know.

SPORE: No problem.

[Spore smiled at Do. As Spore and Do were departing from the lunch line they heard a string of insults follow them as they were searching for a table.]




TABLE #1: Continuez à marcher baiseur. Vous n'êtes pas le bienvenu ici!

TABLE #2: C'est le tableau est réservé pour la belle et que l'intellectuel. Vous êtes trop stupide pour être considéré comme l'un de nous!

TABLE #3: Ahem! Excusez-moi, mais je n'arrive pas à reconnaître le potentiel de développement de la beauté ou de la popularité en vous. S'il vous plaît revenir quand ce jour est arrivé. Merci.


SPORE: Pay them no mind, Do. Just keep walking.


[Spore softly grabs Do’s hand as they are walking.]

WIFI: Hey look guys! Spore’s got a boyfriend.

WIFI’S TABLE: Oooooohhhhhh!!!!!!!

[All of the patients at that were sitting with Wifi began to mock Spore with several fake smooches and hugs. Spore blushed.]

SPORE: You see this is exactly why we never worked out WiFi. You were always so self-centered, narcissistic and desperate. No matter what we said, did or where we went it was always about you.

[Wifi got up and stood in front of the table behind him as he spread his arms out. WiFi had long, wavy, red hair with hazel eyes, and pearly white skin. He wore a black leather jacket with denim blue jeans and leather black boots.]

WIFI: Do you even realize how stupid you sound right now? If it was truly all about me we would have never dated. Think about what you are saying before you speak.

[Spore blushed again.]

SPORE: Yeah well…. Even then still it was about you.

[Spore gently wiped the tears that were streaming from her face. Her nose had turned bright red in response.]

WIFI: Eh what does it matter now? We’re not together anymore so we are wasting our time talking to each other. I’m trying to eat lunch and chill with my peeps. Beat it.

SPORE: *******, Wifi! I am leaving on my own terms not yours!

[WiFi balled his fists as he got up and began running at a speed believed to be faster than Superman. He was about to hit Spore but Do stepped in his way and blocked his punch.]

DO: You will not hit her or you will suffer the consequences.

WIFI: And what if I do? What are you gonna do? Punch me in the face? Are you gonna kick me in the *****? Ha ha I am used to that. Learn some new tricks and then we’ll talk okay. Now move out of my way.

[Spore screamed very loudly as WiFi tried to take another swing at her. Do blocked WiFi’s punch yet again only this time taking his arm and lowering his head as he slid under it. He then stood in the same position as WiFi while still holding his arm and began ramming his right elbow deep into his his nose breaking it upon immediate contact. Do then took WiFi’s wrist and arm and twisted them until they snapped breaking both areas of his arm instantly. He then picked WiFi up and slammed his rib cage directly on his knee and let him drop to the hard, marble floor.]

SPORE: Do stop! That’s enough!

[Spore was crying again as she stood there in shock. Everyone was watching. WiFi was laying across the floor in a fetal position with a small puddle of blood leaking from his broken nose. His eyes were barely open.]

WIFI: Ugh… Ugghh...

SPORE: Come on, Do. We’ll eat lunch outside.

DO: I think that would be a good idea.

SPORE: You and me both.

[Do and Spore grabbed their lunch trays and walked outside. It was sunny and the trees were still without leaves as it was still winter. The breeze was very cold. A musically digital sound began playing in the background. It was Spore’s cell phone.]

SPORE: Oh, and I just got a text from my friends of whom I’d love for you to meet. They want us to come and sit with them.

DO: Alright, I’m down. Where are they sitting?

[A girl with bubblegum pink hair was waving at Spore with a smile on her face.]

SPORE: They are sitting right over there against the brick wall.

DO: Ok then let’s go.

[Do and Spore walk over to the table where Spore’s friends were sitting. They arrive at the table and set their trays down as they took a seat.]

SPORE: Hey guys I have someone that I would like you to meet. Gum and Sweat meet Do. Do meet Gum and Sweat.

GUM: Hello, Do. It is a pleasure to meet you.

SWEAT: Sup Do? Glad to have you.

[Do shook both Gum and Sweat’s hands.]

DO: Hey. It is very nice to meet the two of you. Thank you for introducing me, Spore.

SPORE: No problem.

[Spore smiled once again.]

DO: So how did the three of you meet?

SPORE: Well, first of all I arrived at Black Wick on November 2, 2013. I met Gum later that evening as we were assigned as roommates. It wasn’t until about a week later that I met Sweat. He was fencing when we met and he finished then took off his fencing mask to greet me.

SWEAT: Ha ha yeah, I remember that. Those were some pretty memorable days eh?

GUM: Indeed they were.

DO: Where are you from Gum?

GUM: Oh, I’m from Oklahoma but I was living in Las Vegas, Nevada before I got here. Let me tell you I got into lots of mischief during that time. The parties were crazy and the night clubs were always packed. I hooked up with numerous guys and girls. I even did coke and **** do I regret that. I am never doing that ever again, but drinking is acceptable.

DO: How about you Sweat? Where are you from?

SWEAT: Oh, I’m from Memphis, TN but I was living in Cordova before being dumped in this hellhole.

DO: Dude no way! I live in Cordova too.

SWEAT: Really bro? That’s dope.

DO: I know right! So Spore who was that guy who was harassing you in the cafeteria?

SPORE: Oh yeah I almost forgot about that. The guy’s name is Willard Fike but everyone calls him WiFi due to his extensive computer programming and networking skills. He even knows how to build and send viruses to computers. Me and WiFi used to date which was long before the two of us ever ended up in here. One day we got into a very heated argument.

[The scene flashes to a black and white filtered memory. Spore and WiFi are standing in the middle of a living room arguing really loudly.]

SPORE: So you think it is ok to mug someone late at night as they are walking home?! What if somebody had saw you?! Do you have any idea what happened?!

WIFI: Look I don’t give a **** alright! I don’t have a job! I needed money! What the **** did you expect me to do?! Huh???!!! Answer me!!!!!!!

SPORE: You could try checking the job ads in the paper. You could try job searching within the city. There is no valid enough excuse as to why you mugged that innocent pedestrian.

WIFI: Well I don’t like being broke you can ride with me or you can go and **** yourself. Pick one!

SPORE: If money is important enough to sacrifice your dignity then perhaps you are better off broke because you deserve a dime and you sure as hell won’t be receiving a cent from me.

[WiFi one-two punched Spore deeply in her stomach and then punched her squarely in the eye before delivering an uppercut. Spore was laying on the floor crying as WiFi began searching the room for cash.]

SPORE: WE ARE OVER! DO YOU HEAR ME????!!!!! OVER!!!!!!!

WIFI: I DON’T GIVE A ****!!!!!

[WiFi begins searching around the room for cash. He searches for about 5 minutes before settling on a sum of $500 of which he found in Spore’s mother’s purse. Spore picked up her cell phone and attempted to the call the kkkkkpolice when  WiFi suddenly placed  a pistol to her temple and pulled back the trigger.]

WIFI: I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Put the **** phone down now before I **** you.

[Spore did as she was told and dropped the phone. WiFi took the phone and threw it into the fish tank behind him.]

WIFI: Now you won’t ever be able to make calls to anyone.

SPORE: You know you are never going to get away with this.

WIFI: Technically, I already have. The question is who is going to stop me?

[WiFi left right after he asked that question slamming the door hard as he walked out.]

[The scene flashes back to the present.]

SPORE: I never was the same after that night.

DO: And he got away just like that?

SPORE: Well word got around fast and the cops caught up with him two days later following a string of police reports. I filed the day following the event so I guess you could say that I set it off.

SWEAT: Still, that’s sad though.

SPORE: I know and as Do and I were looking for a place to sit, a bunch of patients started hurling random insults at us in French and that was when I came across WiFi. Him and his buddies were mocking us and saying that we were a couple when that couldn’t be further than the truth.

DO: You say that almost as if you are ashamed of me, ha ha.

SPORE: I’m sorry, Do. You know that’s not what I meant.

DO: Yeah, I know.

[Spore gives Do a hug.]

SPORE: How do you feel now?

DO: Better.

SPORE: Anyway me and WiFi got into another argument while in the cafeteria and he tried to run up and attack me. Luckily Do was there to protect me. He basically ****** WiFi up. I seriously wanted to laugh at how much of a ***** Do made him look. The guy was lying across the floor in a fetal position whining. I couldn’t have asked for a better picture.

[The four them laughed together in equal succession. Another loud noise overlapped their laughter from behind the wall. It was the sound of two voices moaning. Both of the voices were female.

GUM: What was that?

SPORE: I have no idea.

SWEAT: Don’t know. Don’t care bro.

DO: I think I’ll go and have a look just to see what’s going on.

[The moaning continued and became increasingly louder as Do walked around the edge of the wall and behind it. He found two Caucasian girls completely half naked. Both girls were laying across the grass in the sixty-nine position eating each other out.]

DO: This is going to be fun.

[Do chuckled and smiled as his ******* grew.]

Can you know how much I want you in the parking lot
to be strung out like meter maids in a fiddle
against my cheek and hard shoulder relayed
avoiding no string explanations but easy riding
stretched out beyond once at a Beyoncé concert
just to see your halo tyres screech echoes
aglow in the ccs of my tiny mind
as it wrestles with your personal youi toy issues
like a playful puppy with a soft-fix-rated wish list
to bite a whole lotta wish bits of open road can you
bare to test how serrated tongues kiss in tune

it's a don't miss love once thought I can fixate on
sense passion peach scent parking zone zany catch
pitching selfies of us two so perfecto we're in pinches
clinching made-up rows with post-cuticular itch scratch
u-turn buff out delecto smiley multi-teethy smooches
a no blame game mile after mile lost in the now
distracted in your put me through mobile beeps
full on not coping in the full brunt of my own alone bed
we motel back to hands off places
into back-out but no back-off welcomes

like a newly opened up sink whole from car to sofa
we click an unbuckle so well whenever choice strapped
telling goofed dippy love yous in nuggets kilo unlocked
staking times to care unextractable from distractions
wacky made from all your spills of tickle-tacky flesh
not wondering if its drive away thrills will go to waste
it's great transferring the apricot dream deposit as soon as
we dessert amuse each other after another amazing inference
goodnight speak for can I never come down from this highway

more and more under the covers of darkness accepting
without a hundred replica 'oh... don't' thanks
about who amongst our friends we can invite due to starving
for a combination of something they think we might be cooking
because we hate surprising add-in too except samfaina sauce
the spice of safe healthier for the solar farm morning recovery
your orange sunjuice extras converting tact without put downs
into staying cool out of the fridge and try not wanting to be set
in ways runny over your chin causing poaching without a permit

I know how it looks but I can't face not facing you
that wrinkle in your nose when it twitches to say
I see where you're going with this enroute idea
and pull me into the fast lane for the unbelievable
believed fully in you for a lie moment
needing you flat on your face and up front indecent
with the café latté grounds for chatting late
you gave me such a let's revisit French roast stare
you melted the café glacé I saw inside with a party intuition

the cheer me sense you uptake and bring to any cold space
by star walk in **** roles enough to water any dry as dust pan
slowly across with room for all eyes following
and brush aside arguments
so I can stay here tonight?
OK I'll drop my things in the got it all together
now on a successful detour
hearing your exalted exam declaration arrive "yes" in the mail
a result with female passes so nicely played on a level field

stepping up so mall boutique professionally to a border crossing
you were in a graphic position to stay
in shape in a way not relaxing
but with visa entries for multiple tourism
volumizing my eyes with an apply now unzipped boo-boo
uploaded in youtube to dual carber eater in full HD biker
rolling in hard drive definition a bluray inexhaustible backfire
shining out between leather studs your patch
“I live to ride”
and for the rest of the world's club it stops there
how not frustrating is that heart's topper for me

Boy why you hiding, why you hiding under a shadow
Those eyes tell me a truth as full as your lips
Don’t you hide the secret to the treasure in San Juan
A Jewel of the hips that sway, curvaceous being of fire
The touch surrounding flames like the sand and the night and the beach
Boy o boy, can’t wait to tell you boy, the place I wanna reach
The home I wanna build, for us and ours, with this heart full of light
Boy why you fight, why you push me away
Day one you teased me with smooches
Your touch tickled my brain to the point of meltdown
But now my little angel-dust, must bust out a new foot to lean on and learn from
Cuz his mortal human has crept into the shadow of your eyes
And the secret of your lies? The ways that you say, please baby stay
Those grunts out my mouth, the groans in my pillow, musky aroma of love
Fascinating a swag so fresh and so familiar, surprises left and right of the one you already knew
Smooth flesh encasing a suave flava just waiting to burst out
O Boy why you cry, why you tearing on my shoulder
Enable our fable to end happily ever after
The dance that shows one to the other
We are bare in the flow of the rhythm!
Rhythm I never had but somehow learned following your eyes and the curves of your flames
But now it sizzles, your eyes unknown
Lips sewn and wasted, a body so stiff and pale
Boy where are you?

at what point wasn't it a way to bypass
the editorial scrutiny...
to directly engage with a reading
public...
why did i think this might be: any good?
i guess i only thought:
i need this out and i can't stash it
like a corpse...
into some damp cellar... like a morally
relativistic monstrosity of a sociopaths'
analogy of: "feels"...
   well, no **** Sherlock!
how i made the following reply...
is beyond me:

- believe me... i had more to write but i felt a sense of restraint... i'd like to see what a terse reply would make you focus on... so i'm scrapping the concept of handicap: heads up... now it all depends what you'll be choosey about... or not... because there's plenty in you reply i could quip about... well... then again: is being witty synonymous with being satirical? i'm not for intelligent / condescending humour on my part... personally i love the dryness of sarcasm... but then again: what's to like about the bluntness of nail-heads? just my take on... what exactly not to like about schadenfreude (what's not to like about schadenfreude)... i'd much prefer a humiliation of a leather gimp suit... so it seems: honesty is the best joke in play... there are too many stereotypes in England too... the best one i heard was by my Glaswegian english teacher in school... ahem... how was copper wire invented? two Scots arguing over a penny... like the stereotypical arsenal of deciphering the Jewry run wild in the realm of the gentiles... with the Scots... being our prized asset of: reverse stereotyping... i guess because knowledge of poor Hebrews is either a mystery or taboo... worse still... a mythology... and here i promised myself restraint... yet i'm experiencing something of a writing block and i... most probably found the most surprising alternative outlet... the eroteme lady - ms. query... so there must be nothing concrete about you... well... i too remember being a teenager prior to 2000 on those hotmail chatrooms where the acronym ASL could get you... all hot & bothered... don't take this the wrong way but i've heard that most writers, poet (i'm a chicken scratching doodler at best) reverted to the medium of correspodence... lucky you, "lucky" that i'm testing the waters on you... but don't worry... i've tested the medium with other people and wondered about their stamina... you are starting to gravitate toward psychiatrist status...  it's so strange though... not writing on abstract... blank... rather: inform sender... it's to them... all that *******, romantic or not... about writing for that one person... sure... **** it... write 'em a letter... don't mind about that trippy-*** poem of yours... you know? apologies if you come across as something of a punching bag for sounds... i hope no typos... well typos can be excused... ah these ****** articles about... wait wait... momentary lucidity... i was going to use some of this in my way of combating my writing block... the troubles in the english language... spelling... "approximation" drop the vowels realise: that's how the Hebrews wrote all along... treating their vowels like diacritical markers... the ****?! i feel like i'm being robbed in plain sight... because Copernicus didn't ******* realise jack-****... they pile it up with their Pope and the execution of ******* Galileo...  ugh... it takes some ******* nerve for these days to allow for this ****-centred kindergarten of events in man's... non-evolving history to continue like some: no ******* dodo exctinction ever took place... (agreed... the following are all faux pas... "invigorations") honey? babe? ms. anonymous gender fluid pronoun neutral... what's the informal, best? ms. avatar ms. harleyquinn the world's stupid? what are american stereotypes of europeans? come to think of it... that cookies is too big to take a bite from... you can't exactly base stereotypes having only seen tourists... since a tourist is a stereotype per se... i'd have to go to california... to get a californian stereotype... to georgia for the georgian stereotype...  wait a minute... Costa Rica... "hint hint"? Latino? that wasn't exactly... it was a fork in the road... the Sephardi... you're working from an avatar canvas... you're making allusions to... what i look like and it's like i'm a mesmerising doppelganger of al pacino... is there a chicago accent? i heard a lot of the ****** diaspora was lodged in that *******... i was terrible at accents... almost always a chamaleon... people still ask me where i'm from... so like this one-stand-up comedian in Edinburgh said... when he was quizzed about the geography of his accent... 'you might recognise my accent... it's... educated'... now that's that... isn't it? i could fake you an indian accent if i wanted to... perhaps a german accent too... but i could fake it... by the way... in these parts... biligualism can be treated as schizophrenia... just saying... somehow integration is not fully deserving the status that: not integrating decides... because... not integrating is... "safety first"... the dodo project alliance...  least of all... i've been dying to by a baseball cap with the Cleveland Indians old logo with chief wahoo... so stereotyping americans... it's beyond hard... it's like stereotyping Russian that are not in the vicinity of Moscow... some are probably Mongol remnants... their own idiosyncratic solipsists to their own... i'll take up my bicycle tomorrow and this drunken tirade will most probably fizzle out... i truly couldn't make up giving a toss about what's internalized americana stereotyping... not that i don't care... i just don't know... the currency of the nation sends me years and years of Ed Gein reinterpretations... what am i supposed to "say"? tomorrow i'll be up early and bothered about my bicycle as if it were a horse... but i'll still want to retain gravity with leaving you with this frankness of a reply... lobster-red probably implies if not simply implores: ginger and freckles... i like to think of suntans as serpents shedding skin... i suntan i'm a copperneck... i like the german sound on this... plus... it's readily available as compounded: kupfernacken... what's better? auburn-tease? kastanienbraunecken? i like the joy you feel with what you already prescribed me with.. that i know so little about you... that while i'm prodding you withhold giving me concreteness.... concreteness would allow me... disadvantage me to focus on "things" that are absolutely not necessary... so: i can focus on whether i'm not being pedantic enough and: misspelling...so... what's the stereotype surrounding Alaskan gurls?!

- thanks for being ascribed in getting my "mojo" back...for now...

- What do you mean? I'm surprised this is the shortest message you've sent. I was getting used to your drunk musings. [I say this with a smile but I know you don't like emojis or silly acronyms, and writing out "laugh out loud" sounds ridiculous... after all, you know how important sounds are to me].

- you just asked one of those questions that... is aligned with asking... 'what are you thinking'? the moral 'ought compass waved me a goodbye and if i haven't broken any laws to pursue the sort of freedom of though i currently enjoy... bypassing the need so stress a "freedom" of speech... writing is an extension of thought: not a prompt / invitation to speak... i'm surprised that you scrutinise the length of my replies... and were we to begin with? in the "easily offended" pile-up? well i'm still getting drunk... you're still an avatar mystery... but at least i'm waging a war on prosaic sobriety to boot... i guess i had to come clean at some point... i never write sober... i don't see the point of being: disengaged from the genuine (a longer version of a one word would have sufficed... but i'm lazy about the spelling... while at the same time... there's this critical theory approach done in some of the newspapers about english spelling... let's see if i get it right... dis-in-genius... for starters... disengenous.. horrid... aaah so terrible... dis-less-advantageous... disadvantageous... oh **** me... i wriggled into that one: all sound and proper...why ask me: what do i "mean"? - it's not that i don't like emojis (well, i don't) but... what the hell... there are better hieroglyphs to focus on than chiseled into pyramid stone: own... happy face... the Chinese were doing ******* x-ray gizmo **** at almost the same time... it's a focus loss... don't even get me started that *** = a Parisian hello with tendering the cheeks with... a labyrinth of smooches... my lips are my pouches blah blah blah... you seem to be enjoying my rants... i gather? i don't even know why to bother with an ask (question doesn't even do justice to how i'm framing this)...  you want to write as little as possible to properly excavate me... well no surprise... if light can't bend around corners... i'll have a look: none-the-less... emphasis on the hyphens... this poor down-trodden word could be helped with some "breathing space"; no? i "mean": 霜... shoo-aang... frost... i have dancing skeletons throwing toothpicks at chopsticks pilled up in an area of pine wood... look at this sort of *******... and here we are... cradling one of the old languages with "holes in letters"... to peer through... O now i see... B: otherwise: ha, ha ha ha... what's **** in Chinese? the Greek prized π... but what P & I look like for a farting, mandarin? hey presto: "@"... not even a western concern for "patriarchy" could have complicated: what's already too complicated... a billion people... a wall... that didn't keep out the Mongols from invading... yet a phonetic encoding system that... would topple each and every pyramid... from Giza to the cleaving of South America from Africa that can be staged at some Aztec "miracle"... i am writing (to) you like a bewildered person... because: why wouldn't i otherwise not be? so what do i mean? hmm... what's that holy trinity of statistical terms... mean... meridian... mode? i think i remember correctly... thank god i'm not going to apologise for being drunk... i've heard the stereotypes of drunkards with no future for thirst... the other thirst... the thirst for something beside their own handicap... i'd also duly convert to Islam too... i was cycling past a mosque and heard the most impossible sound of praise that will never escape me... but by the bottle i did: closer to the Jewry i am... contradictory how that is... don't want to stop drinking... uncircumcised... it's a really magical juggling act that's littered with self-deprecating humour interludes... aligned with norse mythologies... grr... **** me... now i'm attempting to "sell" you a makeshift tinder profile sketch... don't know... never will... never used: don't ask...  but i forgive you... for asking me: what does "it" all mean? it means we're for the thrill of it... it makes sense if we're still gagging for it... and we're not exposed to old-age closure cinematic scripts of solo cinema of memory... i like typing because i have itchy fingers... you'd probably like to hear me speak... no? it's exactly 20 minutes past midnight and i have a date with a bagel at 9am tomorrow morning... i still want another injection of truth in me before i do the  lady nox some justice and sleeping with her fiendish daughters... i mean... who does that... wake you up with a hard-on? never mind... i don't even know how to end this "convo": it can't be with a farewell... or an adieu... or a サヨナラ... oh wait... that's "goodbye, forever"... how does one end a half-way between a musing and a real person on the replying end of "things"... i guess like this: NARA... ナラ... short for narazie...  translated from my mutterzunge as: perhaps loosely... for the time being... for now... how else... to end my tirade?!

- So let me get this a bit straight (as straight as a stray arrow, that is): you only write when you're drunk (I'm the luckiest one to be at the listener - or reader in this case - end of your tirades as you call them... I call them musings); you have a fixation with words, even the ones that you don't know how to spell correctly (except maybe in a language I don't know so I can't really tell), you didn't answer why I'm ascribed to getting your mojo back (where did it go?), and you wake up with a hard-on. Got it!

- i've been lodged into a backlog: ******-town sort of: stalling... give me a few hours... although: ever wonder what: giggles sounds like... in the deafness of the night? i do... i want to reply you like so... like now... like this... maybe i will... maybe i will not... i'm gaging to buy one of those cleveland chiefs baseball caps...the grinning siouxsie chieftan....perhaps i want to relearn "how to": take the GRIN... a little bit more... seriously... no? **** it... i'm drinking as it is... i want to reply you in full throttle... straight arrows... and the welsh V of the longbow-men too to boot... chopsticks straighter... "straighter"... i tend to only write when i'm drunk... i abhor sober prosaic intimidation and... all the lies, subsequently...sober people don't get "drunk" on moral relativism of white lies? and i'm born yesterday, no? you openly venture into... a quest of question within the regards... of being... this only.... i almost wanted you to feel this sort of... an alienating increment... of... how i might pile on more detail... they are musings... i don't take them seriously... about as much relax as is a required: necessary.... i have a fixation with words... jurisprudence to me is merely a game of thesaurus ploy-tow... i spell i don't spell... i'm overtly pedantic... i also felt queasy when testing my eyes at an authentic testimony of the "law"  being "exaggerated"... "tested"... "proved"..i must have: lying eyes... no other eyes do see... no? i have a fixation with "things" beside the usage of ***** and strobe lighting...

you have my attention... don't you? you know... the last time i attempted having a conversation... i was too naive...too young... everything "everything" applied itself to being too predictable... i want to love again: but being in love is almost a weakness... i don't feel like being weak... i guess this is where the rekindling of my "mojo" ends... hello cul de sac...

new paragraph... ever hear(d) of the alpha and the omega "man"? i'm pretty sure you heardf of mr. beta... for all the worth of a totality of... man... i'm last... i'd forever be... last... i don't want to be first... i also don't want to be 2bd sniffing **** and crab-meat-... either...

give me the totality... i'll be satisfied with a "question" of
last... hence the expression: omega man...
didn't hey-zeus say?
i'm the alpha and the omega?

i don't write sober, i'n afraid i might lie...
you're not lucky,..
but you're also not... godzilla....

i "somehow" haven't ascribed you with the sort of details of: explanation that would allow you... to satiate yourself with answers... as to how... why... yllu managed to "mojo" probe me back to life? you.. the Faroe Islands to begin with? you know... they have this gimmick... on the Faroe Isles... it's not a gimmick... it's called// i don't know what's it called... skúvoy? but i'm happy to tease when the whales are slaughtered... the the blood comes a running: the lions also... apparently tease with a yawn... look at this word, though: grindadráp....

ever catch the giggle im der nacht? nein? too italian... no? ******* borrowed pollack: the self-depreciating... loan... not load... of bollocking...

don't believe yourself as being the sole recepient of a reply...

you're not lucky... you're just... available...

terribly botherome... isn't, it?

- i thought i'd make this a two tier reply... it would be a shame to reread what i wrote on one of my "escapades"... perhaps this... hanging-over... ha'h... more like hung, drawn & quartered some time to time... but believably sane, pleasantly morose - at evens with masochism... so reclining into a moral trip-up... i probably mentioned grindadráp - since i still have the window open on the phrase i'm familiar with... Sámal Joensen-Mikines... i most probably ended up giggling in the night... god... i'm just skim reading what i wrote... well good to know that i can only the best thing and sober up: simultaneously returning to a more rigid, conventional... formal use of language: that i might suppose i'm in a confessional booth... a welcome mirage for the time being... while i decide to wither away watching the old firm (a derby soccer match between celtic & rangers)... of note... i had this argument with the natives so time ago... the... Celts... but it's the Boston / Glasgow Çeltics... no? you're a girl that likes sounds... i've been following this current discussion that has reached the heights of printed newspapers... citation, sian griffths (gwif-if-if-ififs) education editor: new spelling ROOLS to make english more predictable for pupils... "we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the feelds..." see... i really admired Charlie Bukowski for a while... until he came out as a lazy slob who would require an editor to correct his spelling... there's dyslexia and there's just plain: hash-browns... for all my worth of idiosyncrasy that i wriggle in as i go along, most of which will not find common ground and a cosmopolitan outlet of users... for me, as someone who acquired this tong'u: i've grown fond of how aesthetically messy this toong can become and how readily available this messiness is... even London can become a ****-joke: Loon'dune... in my mutterzunge sounds are more distinct... apart from the graphemes sz, ch, cz, rz (ż) - i'd have to borrow from a Czech a caron to hide a letter or two: š (sz / the equivalent SHarp in english) and č (cz / CHatter respectively)... all these unique sounds... ą, ę, ć, ń, ó, ś, ź - Wombat ł... anyway... i just thought, sobering up... that you'd like to have a certain bulging volume of fudge to return to... before i take another dive into ms. amber and pass another night as w. h. auden wrote: only the hitlers of this world write at night... sure... herr auden... because the day is for watching football and / or cycling.

- à propos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-L5iefl2QtA

- If you share music can I? I'm sorry that I didn't reply sooner. It's been a **** last week and this week isn't any better yet. I like reading your messages, drunk and sober. When I write in my native language I use the accent over the vowels to emphasize the second-to-last vowel of a word. I love speaking, reading and writing in my native language, though I'm sure that I know much less than you would about languages. Shall we continue talking about sounds? How about sounds in my language? Of course, you have to guess if you haven't already.

- mind you: i had second thoughts about writing this reply... perhaps you can judge for yourself... i'm just not into having double-mystery encounters with an "avatar"... plus i made an emphasis on the point... what music were you not going to share?

sure... but first share your music... i have this thirst for Nick Hornby's high fidelity and being a teenager again... a teenager in love, again...i was probably the most happy-go-anywhere sort of person when i found a vinyl copy of Wardruna's kvitravn in my local HMV... which is: sunrise records and entertainment ltd trading as hmv & fopp.... given i already have the other chapters on cd - copied into mp3... (runaljod - yggdrasil & gap var ginnnunga)...  and given it's so rare to fnd a vinyl of this calibre... that some vinyls comes with an mp3 link... i thought: hell... i'll give this record the proper 3D aura treatment and not listen to it on headphones... or utilise it to "conquer" space... & just walking with it across a market sq. without a plastic bag to stash it in... i might as well have walked with a cat on my shoulder... because... who the hell still buys... well... invests in vinyl? now... coming to the language...second-to-last vowels of  word... you know... you can keep me interested without overplaying this "mystery" game... isn't the use of an avatar enough? i really can't comprehend a language that focuses on second to last vowels... without focusing on vowels: per se... just to reiterate... you didn't share a link to some music... you pitted yourself as American... i can continue being interest without having too many enigmas to sort... i have yet to find a language that only applies accents to, e.g. suppOsE... or maybe i'm just too ignorant to have come across a language that behaves in such a way: unless it's some idiosyncratic variation (of it)... you don't have to remain a complete mystery to me for me to keep engaging... there can be some sort of rooting in reality... otherwise i'll just return to my original purpose of writing: staging myself against a blank canvas and a barrage of sounds that i'll need to "un-spaghetti" into linear streaks.... i'm not going to guess: you'll either tell me or not... i'm currently listening to snake-pit poetry: einar selvik... any one can have a ****** week... for a while i was anticipating you testing whether or not i'd reply not getting a reply from you... and that, somehow, miraculously... i'd continue to creep-up to teasing you again... perhaps that's me dabbling in misnomers... no... you'll need to give me something concrete... i'm already starting to itch with a sensation that i better return to the canvas than keep this conversation... no offence... it's just draining me when something abstract could also be doing: likewise... but it wouldn't end up being a ****-tease... i could possibly create something out of it... not just so more: oh... oh? ** **: what's next?! i know when it becomes a brain-drain... a side project... it has to come with an excuse whereby you'll probably recoil with: but i had a ****** week... granted... but who hasn't...  you could have waited another week until participating in the timeframe of the passing of weeks started to feel good once more... if you only dropped a music suggestion... otherwise... thanks... but... no... this conversation is going nowhere... i think i'm just relocating my writing block elsewhere... all the best: in keeping an aura of mystery... within the realm of avatars and non-accountability... come to think of it... no... this is as fair as i could be.

this supposed "unique" specimen... not really...
i want to focus on what allows me to belong:
beside the unfathomable landmarks
of trees and mountains:
roaming stars that even my demented
grandfather corrected himself on...
satellites... no... roaming stars?!
well... i didn't conjure this **** out of my own
*** for pleasure, either...

back towards... falling asleep while listening
to the Hellraiser soundtrack:
hellbound...
because eerie is how:
i how how: "things"...
i'm so alone at times that it's beyond making
sense: it's about infringing on a god-stature...
status... this omniscient
contradiction that some Elijah bundled up
into... two crows croaked...
the tower of London can entertain 6:
so the king's ******* and the queen's
jewels are left intact...
for the successor to worry about...

we have these conversations but too bad
the girl is playing timid...
and i'm... gargantuan...
the length of a tongue that turns into an eel...
hands like octopus extension...
i could wrap her up in... bubblewrap
and start the puncture pinch-pinch ceremony
of not seeing the bubble float: up-up...

i have a sense of ego like...
a bad l.s.d. trip?!
****-guage-abuse? gauge? sort the ones
for the snoozing zero-toasts
and you have yourself
a new jersey smart: bite-off... not bit... though...

i could never have children:
not because i could never be a good father:
but i'd be a terrible husband...
how do i "know"?
i would never allow myself
to earn the amount:
she'd want to spend...
via solo: i'll spend on ms. cojack amber
and some ******* liquorice vinyl...
and a bicycle...
rubber-teasing: ****-teet-****....
when using the brakes...
when minding my ******* "luck"
on a roundabout with a massive twuck...

plus i'd love to **** more...
i'd love to **** as much more as
the thought-"taboos" discourage me
from doing... so it's a nice adventure: thinking
the next: moral antagonist, antithesis
of "could i"?
central theme? Lo-li-t'ah...
and i'm the second from third removed
uncle of the marquis de sade...
you want... you need... you have to orientate
yourself around the last taboo...
the one that's not associated with...
crispy clean antics of those *******
in their savvy leather gimp suits etc.

"power to the people": *******...
power to who owns what...
i'm starting to conjure up
profanities akin to:
but at least when they owned slaves...
they took care of their slaves...
they wouldn't want a slave to be rotten...
to be despondent...
trouble with freedom is...
my own, self-made... man...
if i were a slave...
i'd learn to bend the rules...
i'd entertain the fantasy of freedom...
while being constrained with...
all the benefactor securities...
i'd be owned but i'd also be:
obligated to a social contract of some sort...

so freely as to nothing be:
so averaging assumptions...
presumptions... so by nothing i unfree myself:
to... sort of quest to: "be"...
while the priestly class held back literacy...
within the timeframe of when
a new literacy emerged... of coding...
so double-up-on-surds... no?

herr gizmo l:)(}{
the realm of the three brackets... )}]...
one literacy replaced the old literacy
but in terms of retaining the old type...
the new type is... not exactly allowing
for movement of... hearts? is, it?
i still have to retain punctuation...
i still need need to perfect it...

but this is not conversational linguinie,
is it?
i stand firm in, stressing:
writing is an extension of thought...
writing is an extension of thought:
it's hardly an invitation to speak...
the past centuries haven't taught us
that literacy is a constraining beast of priests'
fancy?
let me... detail my limbs for you
in stressing this point further:
what good came from the project
of literacy en masse?
graffiti scribbling on brick walls?
out of what beside desperation?

such constraints were employed as
to: the person exercised in completely body:
usage... wouldn't feel like
a ******* hamster of a ******* ferris wheel
when push came to shove...
somehow everything physical became
lesser class: demeaning...
somehow we all turned into *******
fluorescent
      telepathic / telekinetic Chernobyll
monkey sorts...
and the fat "stigmata" is a what?
                  
  this world is gagging for something tragic...
this world is gagging for a world war III...
but... it probably will not...
"advise" itself to experience such a disatrous take
on prospect...
nuance in language can go **** itself...
application of misnomers for added fluidity can:
go **** itself...
you ever come across a choir...
and a great wind...
see a ******* shrink...

don't look at me for inspiration:
perhaps some jokes...
i've been more honest these past two minutes than
i ever was in the passing of a decade...

death the limbo of "sanity"...
esp. when someone memorable has taken off...
who am i left with? "perspectivelly accountable"?
grey-matter fiddle-through middle-man
*******... no?
i'm not sifting through that, murk?
perhaps i'm sieving... sifting... sieving...
sifting... sieving... get a dog! she says, mother, dear...
i tell her: it's legal in Belgium...
her father already cited his complaints...
i'm tired of the ******* optimism...
i'm tired of this "adventure" some cling to when
deciphering "life"...
an overrated statement of too many facts:
that's life...
it's not a ******* frank sinatra:
come as we are... would be: mea culpa...

troublesome sufferings of a tired brain...
too many pop ref. points worth of closure...
i bought a vinyl today...
i walked it down a market place
like it was a puppy...
in a rucksack...

that there's a hope... my mother is crying
this silent agony of truth...
i tell her: it's sensibly legal in the Benelux...
England is ****** by all accounts...
a dog will save me?
i'm becoming rigid... brick-esque...
tide-prone...
moon is the mother of my skies...
i might might what?
fall in love: to fall in love is to allow
oneself to be weak; to be... dependent on
someone: the concept of "other"... no?
recurrrency is pricing on how many times
that's... sensible to try out?
before it fails?

i fall asleep listening to horror movie music...
i'm best coupled to a ******* hyena than
i am to a woman...
to live under a false sense of hope
is a: welcome bypass to otherwisse living
under a truancy of truth...
as the life around me shrinks...
the abounding shadow of me grows...
and not as a patriarch...

oh ****... "i simply, somehow...
just so it happens... fowgot to... encapsulate this
offload whiff a wyme".

All that glitters never meant much to me,
Petals fall & fade, withering along with time like its temporary immortality,
Money joining suit in its temporary fervour, but never buying love as the Beatles crooned.

So let me tell you what does:

The look on your face when I've made you happy with a surprise or two;
The sound of your laughter reverberating through the air as I cowl in my witty silly remarks;
The mental connection that pleasantly astounds me with every thought-stealing line and mirrored gestures-humour-reaction-action;
How your words has awaken the inner dormant writer/poet and inspired to put my venomous quill to paper again;
How you make me feel beautiful, appreciated and respected, just the way I am;
Your empathy and understanding that chase the dark clouds away and silence my demons;
The way we make love with the glances we exchange in public like there's no one around;
The way we make love with our bodies, explorative archaeologists tracing each other's landscapes gently-sweetly-devilishly;
How you claim my arm across, intertwining with yours, caressing it as if it's a part of you;
When your palm holds my face lovingly while we exchange sweet kisses, nibbles and all;
Blowing soft breaths onto our goosebumpy skins, whispering how much we love each other;
Cheekily stealing smooches at traffic light stops which never seem to be long enough;
Resting your head on my sturdy shoulder as I cushion mine into yours, christening it with my lips,
As we serenade that BSB song transporting me back to 14 again.

And the realization pierces me through like truth always does:

That I would not trade any moment, any era, any wish, any desire
Than the one right now with you that has headily grasped me so:
A dizzying cocktail of drugs that is you.

Shalini Nayar
31.10.14
(c) 2014

singing you is no problem.
but the problem with problems is no one cares.
no one hurts as they should; we only love deep enough to call it love
and that's a day of smooches
in the cavern
of our long
lost.

a soft job. a mule in the crater
where love is a function...
[ not a joy. ]

give me your meadows to restore the talk -
of our murmur amid the silence
in our meadow of
too loud
but twice
dark.

let's be friends that hold the grudge
like opening a present
where a future

veered off.

let's be friends that hold a grudge

and be more than ' **** it '

just for once.

the  problem with problems
must be the tangle
and the sweet
knot.

let's be that.

come on.

come on.

come on.

These present
          Kisses and touches--
The ignition of fire,
The exhalation of sigh--
          From the past smooches,
          m'goodly Lady, how different!

Glitter on the grass, moon light glow.
Lake side view
Body splash Dancing waters.
Blankets and wine
Star-studded skies  
Petals & chocolates
Wedding vows on a corvette sun-rooftop.
Smooches and snuggles
Giggles and belly laughs
A night to remember
Tucked tight
Sweet melodies

spill, spill me
my intoxicating friend
your dark red lipstick
smooches on my tongue
take me to warm valleys
and flowing rivers
gush and pull me
my cheeks as red as wine
burn my throat and make me sing
acid in my cheeks
together we must dine
as we drink
the last of the january wine

Witchdoctors of wall street
Maketh potions of poor man's disgrace

Angels still left on earth
Dying to get back to their place

Their sick of the heartbreak
Humans tend to bring

All it would taketh
Is a lightning strike
To make those humans fully believeth in pain!!!

Pillars of salt the cities hath become
Liquor stores to stupor one down

Some weareth pearly apparel
High class yet ( not found)

These fancy dressers
Pick and choose
The lives they wanna live

Whilst the angels sit on back
Saying do not taketh mine friend
But giveth...

Pilate like rulers
Rule by sharpened tongue
Making gods of figurine's
Lying in another mates secretion
Thinking they haveth won..

Cloying masters
Of tyrent rage
Emptied out of the bag
False lovers of nothing more
Than control whilst at hand

Club-women
And club-men
Hanging out at bar (clazelle)
Sold their soul to Satan
For a night of wine and hell

They fraternize their wicked schemes
Whilst making one quick buck
Wherein is that dying breed
Lost on mountain musk?

They freck thee with smooches
They leaveth thee the next day
Fratriciders of suicide
To their friends and family decay

Ideomotor ideas doth come
At least to those who art lost
Gaveth all they've had
For a fake idea and posh

But it shalt all endeth soon
The storms now rolling in
A hurricane of sweet refuge
No more cheaters to lovers sin!!

Poor little Johnny boy loves monkeys and Shakespeare.
He sits and taps the tattered typewriter glued to his chair;
When he is not hiding under the polka-dot blanket in fear
Of the bogeyman that his ex-wife left for him to deal with.
It’s tea-time now, and through a broken kitchen shutter
Johnny sees a young couple in the park beside McLaren’s bar,
Kissing passionately upon the glossy green grass underneath.
He sips his coffee more sensually than the lover smooches his date
And duly returns back to typing, oblivious that the cake he just ate
Was licked by good ol’ Marley, his Capuchin pet;
And so Johnny types on in search of his Shakespearean sonnet.

Oh, how I long to taste your lips, how I wish to hold your hand.
How I long to do something crazy, maybe **** I don’t understand.

**** and sensuous, freezing me solid.
My mind has been replaced with an insatiable lust for you. It’s gripping me roughly like I grip you.
My hands no longer caress your hips, instead they grip them generously and pull you closer. Head spinning, from smooches to kisses, we become more intimate with each lean in.
Then comes the things none shall tell.
Maybe soon bodies will be entwined, maybe one day moans shall escape. But on such a day, my mind will escape me. I will be operated not by love
But purely lust for our sensuality

Drizzling rain
Aims for umpteen smooches
On her fairy face..
And she too plays
hide and seek
With the naughty rain...,,!!

Hectic morning
Lovingly frustrating
Adrenaline rush as ever
My edgy morning self
Not enough songs
Then choices vetoed
It's frozen again
Letting it go before I lose my mind
Crepes for breakfast black tea
Lunch boxes unbrushed teeth
Morning kisses goodbye
Comfortable smooches and a shot of warmth
From ever caring husband
Simple
Then rush to the doctor
Cute middle eastern girl
Head wrap so feminine
Young slender body
Pretty smile
Innocently talking me into full check
With dermatologist
Hell why not
Oh man
Young man
Oh man don't you ******* flirt with me
Before removing my gown
Oh ****
Flashback 10 years ago
How I hated those ******* ***** faces
Flashback public pool in turkey
Eleven years old
Some blue eyed *******
Out stretching his limbs
In a most perversely uncomfortable way
Pretending it's a game
Then rushing to share with friends
Here laughing
Hello to my first adrenaline rush
Ashamed to tell my parents
I'm still here
He is a doctor isn't he?
No worries
He's covered by insurance
******* middle eastern beach
Need a drink
Waiter flirting
Stop looking me in the eye
You old looser
Am I hot?
******* ******* for asking that question
With that ******* expression
Adrenaline is still here
Here to stay because it's nice to be nice
And how I hate those ******* guys

I still feel bad that you never got to read my poem that I wrote for you,
not as a muse or inspiration,
but as a genuine ripped sleeve
that held my heart exposed beating,
rapidly, erratically;
when the only thing that could calm it down was your tender embrace and your own heart beating just as wildly.

Your madness made sense to me,
your pain felt known and homely.
I wanted to hold you and breathe into your foreign fragrance,
that felt home to me.
You were a missing piece,
an important bishop missing from the checkered board.
Without you, life had no structure and no fun.
Emotions had their ups and downs
but never as strong and never as abound.
You made sense to me,
my heart felt safe with you
but still it hurt the most with you.

It aches more longing for the days when you held it,
but I’m not over the pain that you triggered;
maybe I wasn’t over it,
maybe I wasn’t done being my old self,
who craved destruction and wanted war unto herself.

Maybe I’ve healed enough to touch your icy heart again,
maybe I’m warm enough to cool you down to retain,
your blissful sweet nothings
and careless slippings of fondness and laughter,
of smooches and simple hums
and running your fingers through my hair and your chords;
with little rhymes for no reason,
to harmonise the songs in off tune and high key,
to sing our love songs in glee.

It was a brief time, the winter nights stayed short.
you showed me a world that I never imagined,
and with you I want it all.
It didn’t last, some things stay beautiful just as memories,
but I’m not over how you’re so warm and cool,
so strong and sensitive,
so brave yet a fool.

Maybe if you return I could see
what long summer nights bring to me.
Maybe it’d be long enough
for you to make base,
to stay here and embrace,
my emotions and me..
perhaps this time, you’d be selfish
to stay just for me.

Ignorance of commands not to eat forbidden fruit made sinners leave.
Jesus sat in the land of the living and ate a dinner reprieve
He told the shocked disciples one of you will betray me, slay me.
They looked at him like he was crazy,how could one of us play thee
Jesus proclaimed I will die for all of mankind, so please pray for me.
Peter cried out you lost your grand mind, I can’t stand behind this, it’s not the way to be.
Because Peter could not fathom such an end so useless.
Christ rebuke was Get behind me Satan and called Judas a friend after smooches.
Told Judas to do his mission rapidly, he went into position happily.
Judas brought all of the army to set a religion trap for he.
They led Christ from the Garden, this was the price of a pardon.
God called Christ his beloved so Jehovah had to rise up his darling.
Then Jesus was called to the celestial award show in heaven.
The Word was the acceptance speech of Jesus to go be a blessing.
Jesus nominated by God showed his face to great fanfare.              
He's accommodated at five-star hotels called The Place He Prepared.
Podium was the mercy seat, God had to acknowledge his worthy feat.
Jesus dressed in white rose from the red carpet of Earth complete.
Christ took the statue from God to say I'd like to praise my Father.
Who raised this sacrifice from graves and raised me from slaughter.
Beside him beaming with joy, standing by his side was his Bride.
Made up of the saints who died, and followers of Christ with pride.
Angels give a standing ovation, Michael and Gabriel cry out "Preach Lord"
Jesus finishes his acceptance speech for the Most High God Award
Given to him unanimously by the members of the Trinity, Jesus then bowed.
We as believers would someday join infinity and the angels in the crowd.
He played the difficult part of Son of Man so well, Jesus surely made his Daddy proud
We applaud with Glory to God in the Highest, Hallelujah and Amen
No one else could play the role of Messiah in the God Trilogy, Jesus had to portray Him.

My eyes crave for sweat dreams..
you in my arms till the Down,
together dancing on garden Lawn .
Holding you now so close and tight ,
Decorating memories with those lovely sights !

My breath crave for that fragrance ..
Smell that you left my body ,
Sunset with you , are dull and cloudy ,
Your pics with laugh and selfie smooches ,
Your hand brushing my hair like feathery touches ..!

MY soul crave not for you but your love ..!!

i have seen it all
yeah i know it hurts
cause i have felt it all
the pain that lies after the break
or the joy that remains after the kiss
i have felt it all & seen it all
it makes no sense why our mind
our soul needs love to that extent
to the point were everything is just not worth it

i have seen it all
that's why all i do is wonder
why the heart doesn't just speak
instead of making our minds restless
or why the mind doesn't just speak plainly
instead of troubling hearts with irregular flow
cause it makes no sense at all
when we see love we're paralyzed with utter curiosity
and when it is gone we're left with utter diversity

sometimes the pain go away
just as a warm air as it passes smooches our skin
when inhaled flows into our lungs lukewarm
and never leaves a trail of any sought
whereas some pain caused by loving
repeatedly becomes a course that runs
it's session every single hour of the day
and pours down like an angry waterfall
just flowing with no intent of stopping

it baffles me that only memory of the pain
stays behind and all the joy that was felt
just somehow become so insignificant
it makes no sense at all
cause i have seen it all
and i have somehow felt it all

Written by - Akinsanmi Emmanuel/Mastermindpiece

i've done a full circle on my music listening habits, i've started listening to music i could play guitar to, oh man, that drop-D on almost all of the songs of System of a Down is mesmerising to listen to, esp. Aerials... it's right up there with smoke on the water and iron man... i even have a pretty decent voice when it comes to singing when no one is listening, it's surprisingly idiosyncratic, sort of rhaspic... ooh! ooh! i'm onto another google-whack... rhaspic alone generates only 10 results... rhaspic glue? 2 results... hmm... not to overcomplicate matters... let's just add a D... rhaspic glued... bingo! 1 search result: study number theories... great... i misspelled that first word, i was looking for something to the singing style of the dear, late, still lasting Chris Cornell... the message from Google reads:

It looks like there aren't many great matches for your search

nope... it's not that... i'm a google-whacker... it's a mild version of hacking... i like to find the needle's eye for a camel like me to walk through... because i do... and if i'm going to procrastinate it will be either google-whacking or solving a sudoku... ah... so no surd H in the word i was thinking of, i.e. raspic? ****, i didn't even realise there is a technical term for raspic: dysphonia... hell... it's not even raspic: it's raspy... oh... esp. with a "handover" from drinking to sobering up and a "hangover" from cigarette smoking... me singing is like me *******... best done so only the heavenly dead might want to see...

I.

strange occurrence at work, so i was given these nine stewards
who are a tight-knit bunch on the south stand of
the London stadium...
well... i say i was given nine, but Danni is a terrible
supervisor, everyone says...
who has ever worked with her...
she might have the qualifications to be a supervisor
but... i don't: and whenever asked i do the role...
because the greatest lesson my grandfather ever taught
me was how to deal with people,
i learned how to deal with unengaged problematic
youths by myself...
good training if you're going to go in the teaching
profession... i can see it now...
a fox in a hen shack...
obviously i'd love to have a wolf as my totem...
but you can be choosey... no wolves on the British isles...
plenty of foxes... fox it is...
and i can be a sly ******* if i really want
to be: i'll pretend to be naive... stupid...
ooh... ooh! "what's happening"?!
i know what's happening... i'm just figuring out
if the people playing games will figure out that i'm
also playing a game: their game and my own game...
i like pretending to be an idiot...
but when a chance comes and i can launch an
assault... i can be a merciless Rommel... Erwin...
i just play a waiting-game game...
it's fun... it's very much akin to a game of patience
when it comes to making wine...
or cooking a pristine curry...
like with Frankie, the girl i work with from time to time...
of all the colleagues she's the first one
i made personal references to...
she's also the first colleague i met up with outside
of work in casual clothing... i pointed it out:
a bit weird, not seeing you in a shirt / tie or a black
t-shirt...
it took me back... to the old days of...
"smooth-handshakes": i have £25 in my hand
she has a sachet of hash in her's... we shake hands in
public and the transaction is over...
she texted me last night: so... how's the "gear",
the dealer Adam wants to know...
i replied: well, i don't know... i haven't smoked it yet...
i'm all for delayed gratification...
i must have mentioned this already:
when i was younger i used to smoke marijuana to a level
of stoner, a stereotypical long-haired blonde "surfer boy"
type that an Australian girl would and did go out
with... i stooped to the level of binging on reggae music
and stoner rock and progressive rock blah blah...
an 1/8 (ounce) would last me a weekend...
then psychosis hit and i haven't smoked it for over 10 years...
a ******* invisible choir in a church
and a great wind that dispersed it... sad, sad story
(ha ha... back in 2007 it might have been
if nothing spectacular happened since...
but a lot has happened)...
but like i revealed to her: i need a smoking session
to be ritualistic...
i won't be delving into the mind that's high on hash
with the use of these two hands and a keyboard
and imaginary paper...
funny... when it comes to typing i'm very much
ambidextrous... you have to be... using a keyboard
to type... although... i once encountered
a general practitioner, old geezer... who used only one
hand to type, well... "typed"... he chicken-pecked with
his index finger the keys on the keyboard...
sure... some people go as far as use two index fingers
on both hands... me? i need to use all my fingers...
some i use more frequently otherwise i don't...
the pinky and the thumbs are especially favourite when
it comes to spacing and line-breakers and all the SHIFT
additions to a text... i think... i think i use the ring fingers
the least, mostly index, middle, thumb and pinky...
yes, the occasional ring finger: ah!
right hand ring finger is mostly used when deleting text,
and sometimes using the enter button
to give ground for a new line...

no, no one likes working with Danni, she's a terrible
supervisor, as most women when given
charge over young men,
instead of working with then, trying to gain them
she dismisses them and sends them packing: home,
not getting paid for a shift...
rifts of resentment... there are some aspects of
life that women don't understand:
their enlarged hearts are dismissive of certain
nuances... you can work with boys that
are not engaged with this simplest of works
concerning crowd safety, but you need to engage with them,
you can't just dismiss them!
i play into her thinking process that i'm
somehow her friend... she has already bought
the line and sinker... i'll keep her there...

i had to, for ****'s sake, take care of my staff
and her staff too, why?
who did she choose as a breaker,
Darwinism beckons, nature yawns...
a diabetic sick-girl who suffers from spells of standing-still
vertigo... i had to ask this sick girl to change her
function and stand in one place...
Danni? oh... she placed her in the worst possible
position... in a place where all the fans are rowdy
and constantly standing...
some people "think" they're thinking...
they're not...
i don't think they are being purposively
******* ******* but it just looks like this:
all-inclusiveness is not working out
as many have thought it might...
what are we talking about?
single men... tiger-mums in the East
and mantis-wives in the West...

how will a boss ***** relate to an unruly bunch
of teenage boys?
she won't! me? upon signing in i fist bump
or shake their hands... i recognise them...
men crave being recognisable, familiar,
constant... women? just attention-*******...
anonymously... or in passing...
men like to adapt to being recognised:
being familiar... women don't understand that
through their own self-objectification...
men are more prone to the: other's-subjectification...
a woman is self-objectifying
while a man is the subject-of-the-other...

i've watched enough people, i should know...
at a usual game i've built up this rapport with a few fans...
all the men are shouting out from the crowd:
hey! 5 bottle man!
a point of reference i should know about...
when this guy asked me for five bottles of water
from within the crowd...
he's referential point being: the subject-of-the-other...
women? ha!
they're like the solipsists of their youthful advantages
of looks... they are self-objectifying...
they are never a subject-of-the-other in their perception
of reality... they are not even an object-of-the-other
in their own mind's cravings...
could i ask a woman to dress up or put up make up
without her wanting to a priori the demands
or her own conjuring?!

but this one shift amazed me...
i had this breaker tell me...
'i'm not really sexist... but would you mind if i gave all
the female stewards breaks first,
before giving the males a break...'
i played it out... sure thing mate... you do that...
after all... the "new" gynocentric is the "old"
egalitarian movement, no?
let's see how this plays out...

              the old model worked according to: left to right...
or right to left... oh... not a spectacular specimen...
started talking me with all seriousness of
casualness... i hate my hair...
but you wear a baseball cap, mate, no wonder your
hair is matted... heard of Agar oil?
it's so much better than wax or hair gel...
but of course i didn't say it...
all the Asians with beards use it on their beards...
they carry bottles of Agar oil in their pockets to oil
up their ****** *****... i would too...
hadn't i oiled up before every shift...

sure thing mate... you do you "i'm not a sexist"
experiment by breaking the women before the men...

i'm just trying to figure out what i could possibly write
if i were in the vicinity of children that belong
to other people, how i could mould them with
the PROPER sort of ROT of explorative
tactics... hmm...

i'm getting a hard-on just thinking about it...
just the past two days i've been punishing myself
with a pleasure-delay tactic,
tomorrow i'm going to scoop the buds...
******* without *******...
my god... my hands are big...
no wonder i built up a beard-envy
and sort of forgot about a ***** envy...
the last ******* was sort of inhibited with her
pleasures... sort of uncomfortable...
half-way in and already the signs of discomfort...
big hands... mega business of jazz clapping...
well... that's life...

the KOMBUCHA mushroom people!
   shoe-g'ah!
rewrite everything in English phonetically!
come here, pwetty! give us a kiss!
smooches: yummy yummy!

but this guy "thought" he figured it out...
giving out all the breaks to the women
first, before the males...
i gave him the "substance" of "sport"...
work out? like **** it did...
one elder steward rebelled...
d'uh...
i'm taking into liking the Somali girls...
a Somali girl actually sent him back
to do things hierarchically...
from left, to right...
i'm a man... but i'm not a sexist...
seriously, mate, you're not a male...

it took a Muslim girl to teach you otherwise...
all smiling, smiles in slime...
i implored her: you know it wasn't my idea...
you know that he was just trying to get
his ***** wet in your ****:
not as literally...
she agreed with the most beautiful smile...
i'm starting to get turned off by white girls...
i'm starting to get turned off by white girls...
i'm finding the ones in niqabs and of a certain
ethnic "persuasion! rather attractive:
like one manager in the company
said the basics: black don't crack...

i'm looking at these girls and thinking:
butter melting by the power of the moon's rays...
how pretty they look...
i terribly want to **** them...
i'll terribly **** them!
these clues into nuns that Muslim women are
for a Don Giovanni...
these pretty petite Somali noses...
i bite i bite i bite i want to bite them
like cherries!

no wonder then...
i masturbated for two days prior to engaging with
the prostitutes...
i checked the proportions and non-proportions...
i'm done dealing with the ***-affairs of
stereotypical men...
i'll be ******* anything that moves...
married? not my problem!
seriously, not, my, problem!

mosh-pit carnal maggot fun!
well... if one generation sold us the patriarchal restrictions
being lifted, and what? we're to return to
a patriarchal system of "authority"...
you, what?!
i'm not going to live a life my elders lived with
full freedom that i'm somehow supposed to
inhibit, deny myself...

oh... i'm going to have the same as them: please!
no please?
then i'll **** the status quo!
simple!

the night crawls into a fruition of being limited
with being imbed....
two spiders for the worth of my hands....
i will die the most exotic pain
imaginable....
i iwlll surprise the "lost crowd".....
i will surprise the brothel...
30 minutes with one...
then as i am about to leave:
30 minutes with another...
and another... and another...
and another...

              one of those Lucy Letby trials...
only men are monsters...
my hernia and my Chernobyll
tattoo: the one she almost choked me
with... i survived...
i shouldn't have survived...
woman! agony to come!

i scratch my beard... i think: time is...
precious...
but women are very little inclined
into this dynamic.....
the world can burn!

death's trough: and pigs eat ****....
   best, kept reminder!

       well what a shift i truly wasn't expecting yout atypical
chocaletiers to come up with a game
of: broken chair frisby...
that yellow burning man pyro-technics was also
spectacular... but not even my mum would be
so concerned about my well-being as
this supervisor was today... what a terrible sloppy
mommy... i don't need to be protected
by your inability to protect me: i'll judge for myself...
******* busdy body...
i want in on the action...
    
i just couldn't wait for the shift to end...
i promised Frankie a review of the hash she sold me...
i told her:
i need to be tired from a shift,
i need some whiskey... i need an imaginary
octopus slobbering on my cranoum,
i need ***...

funny... the freely i have *** the more i'm detached
from it...
once upon a time i was all about pleasing
women... after they stopped pleasing me
i figured out: a **** it modus operandi...
time to be taken care of...
i think i'm so emotionally detached while having
*** that i'm borderline psychopathic...

not that i have any vanity project coming across
implying i might be hurt by
this condescending word...
no, rather the opposite: i very much enjoy it...

just today i stole another kiss from a *******...
she was so unwilling telling me:
you moustache is fiddly and it's tickling me...
but we kissed nonetheless...
she wasn't into ******* vaginally...
i felt growing limp at some point...
mental blockage...
it happens...
never again will i spend two days prior
jerking off without *******...
i know the "even horizon" of jerking off
and the moment when the head of the phallus
is being pierced via the ******* being
expanded: for men... anti-circumcision...
it's like being a ****** again and again: and again: and again...

she blew me, then massaged me with her long
fingernails...
oh... once she reached my cranium,
neck and shoulders... it felt better than the *******...
i was going limp... why? mental constipation...
it happens with men...
i was actually thinking about the furnace
of nothingness after *** after smoking some Afghan
hash... having grated into a cigarette on
a Rodin's take of ******* NUTMEG!

i ****, i love *******,
but i'm surrounded by people who don't like *******...
a terrible bewilderment...
to be alive is to love to ****...
who am i surrounded by? people who have attired themselves
in: progeny...
  people with children...
careless and carefree mothers of agony...

II.

i have to admit, it took me about 4 hours to wake up:
wake up proper...
each time i opened my eyes i felt myself
needing to turn to my side and fall back into nothingness
of that currency of switch-off brain
(let the body recuperate) -
a comforting numbness with a side dish of tickling
and fuzziness...
i woke up absolutely not interested in thinking...
for once... i wanted to absorb last night: fully...
frankly, i didn't want to let last night go...

O grand father time and the river that's your bride...
what a gloomy day... my perfect sort of day,
i'm so very fond of the weather of England,
more so the weather of Scotland,
island weather: my kind of weather,
gloomy, autumnal, the sweetness of botanical decay
and all the flourish of chlorophyll retreating from
the once bulging leaves of green...

wow... so that's what it feels like?
like that photograph by Richard Lam with the couple
who were knocked down by the riot police
during the Vancouver hockey riots
(Stanley Cup playoffs)...
well, last night it wasn't exactly like that...

west ham vs. Anderlecht... what a shift...
flares were thrown either side, chairs were ripped out
and used as frisbees... coins were thrown...
and i was on the edge of the tension...
me? never in a million years could have thought
the Belgians to be so triggered...
in comparison the Danish and German fans were tame...
phew...

afterwards like i said:
a magical combination of work fatigue,
an 8.2% cider and two or three sips of whiskey...
three cigarettes,
brothel... ***...
well... she didn't feel like having ***...
she felt like performing oral *** and looking
at herself in the mirror...
that's the first time i've seen it...
alternating from looking in the mirror at herself
and looking into your eyes
and then closing her eyes... a rare combination...
it's usually eyes looking at you
or eyes closed... rarely out of her own accord
looking at herself in the mirror...

and then? laying on my stomach the better part
of the evening: a massage... shoulders...
back... long nails digging into my flesh and...
roughing up my hair...
then? persuasions to steal a kiss...
yes! stole one... she was put off slightly by the tickling
of my beard...
but my god... those nails digging into my shoulders
neck and head...

another one i will give a book of poetry to...
raven hair work of a blue night in Venice...
then onto home and some more whiskey
and... that Afghan hash...
   two pinches of it being heated up... so... not much...

i just smoked a cigarette and opened my cigarette ash
tray (a jar that formerly housed pickles)
and peered in... what?! i only smoked half of the Afghan
hash joint?! seriously?!
i'm a light-weight... that 15 year break from smoking
anything has seriously did me some good....
me? last night? i was travelling across the entire
universe... i was hallucinating a darkness that was
a thinking-darkness that was heartbeat-darkness
a musical-darkness... i was travelling with the sort
of energy that could connect the dots between
gravity and antimatter...
     i was on the edge of a black hole and my heart was
dancing...
upon waking you have to listen to something
like Bruce Springsteen's Human Touch...

a touch of a woman... i'll agree with any critic:
i am a paranoid psychopath during ***...
i don't like being lied to during ***...
i have enough pornographic doubts to understand
that i don't want to be ******* an actress...
she might be a *******: but to hell with *******
actresses... even in their own words
they are asexual... prostitutes on the other hand
are closer to nymphomaniacs than actresses...

what, after the ****** revolution of the 1960s
future generations would tame the whole Pandora down?!
i don't think so... the Vietnam war had the best
soundtrack (period)... am i going to slow down?
no! but this Western Model that a man has to have a *******
horse cart and cottage to have *** is beneath me...
no! no! i looked into the Japanese model of
the Love Hotels and figured...
well... that's not getting any traction over here...
and since i'm only willing to follow the Laws of the Dogs
i.e. a dog only ***** if a ***** is willing to give...

and if prostitutes are the only ones willing while
the remaining women are interested in pair bonding
*******... i tried that... dates... clams and oysters
and spaghetti dates... cinema dates...
russian roulette of condoms and contraceptive pills...
i tried but i figured...
not even the whole dating app hook-up culture...
that **** passed me by, i was being busy in my 20s
unravelling a schizophrenia misdiagnosis
and reading up on philosophy...

                         imagine that... unlike Syd Barrett...
i descended into madness and... looks like many years
later i have emerged a pillar of nerves...
i'm calm during crowd riots,
i'm calm in the middle of one guy trying to choke
another guy to death while calming both of them...
and i can sit very calmly across 5 women that
i ******... oh sure... and i don't need that much
alcohol to have a brave heart... just a little...
and i won't flinch... i'll look all five of them in the eyes
and take my time before choosing one
of them for yet another night...
  
Western narratives morphing words like
******* into *** worker... "*** traffic" blah blah...
spoken by women about women
who actually enjoy having ***...
a female intellectual is hardly interested in ***:
true or false statement?
sooner rather than later i realised that i'm
more than just a political or a social animal...
i'm a ****** animal...

i like the idea of: an abstraction of people...
a sort of pedestrian abstraction... a quickie encounter...
a snippet of an entire other world that appears
and disappears as one might assume for it to be the case
in the macrocosm reality of time and all the people
in the world and the past and future to come...
but this... in a microcosm sort of imitating-the-host-of-god
so of way...

maybe because it's because of that Van Morrison song
Brown Eyed Girl... maybe, just maybe...
a well worn leather peeping through those eyes,
a body i could pretend to sit on
and snooze, or something like that...
it's just so much easier when women drop all their guards
and something casual can be achieved
without all that neuroticism of relationships...

i wish i learned this lesson when i was younger:
you can never love one woman,
well... you can love your mother,
you can tease your mother in a way that she feels
more like a friend than some authority figure...
and even if there's Lucy Letby when you were
born, attempting to **** you by somehow choking
you in a way that enlarged your heart
on top of the hernia and oh: if mother was in agony
giving birth to you you gave a second birth unto
yourself with equal agony:
no wonder that i turned to prostitutes for what
i really needed...
the medication of touch...

i'm not going to hide my intentions or for that matter
boast with "performance cues"...
sometimes it's long, sometimes it's short...
sometimes this, sometimes that...
but i'm sometimes a very impatient man
and i don't like being impatient...
even now: it would be pointless to merely focus my
attention on one woman...
a projected investment with Khadra that i ended
with buying her lingerie and not over-stepping
her demands to push further with 18-carat
earrings and necklace: let's be realistic...

of all the things i gave her, my bleeding heart of
poems blah blah...

point being, i just have Samuel Little and Jack the Ripper
on my mind when engaging with ***
with prostitutes... esp. when kissing them...
how could they?
**** me... not enough girls out there to ready yourself
for work in a nightclub and save up enough
dough to buy a mandolin and play it outside one
those girl's windows...

in a way i'm a loser that won...
a very limited number of pastimes occupying my mind...
reading, writing, listening to music,
cycling, walking, ***...
i replaced watching movies with the cinema of
my memory... surely if i were a bad man i wouldn't
want to remember anything from the past...
hell... if there's no afterlife i'll just relive my life
in reverse... i jump into the vehicle of memory
and unravel all that i have forgotten...
because i don't believe eternity could be spent
so idly as presented by either heaven or a hell stasis
of a realm...
i could fill out eternity given the dynamic of what
i remember and what i have forgotten
(not by choice, but by the naturally fickle selection
of memory, eroded by the pedagogy rubrics
of arithmetic and spelling, to begin with)...

i guess we get it from the hebrews,
as the stereotype goes -

i don't know how it happened -
i had a student bank account,
long after i graduated -
what is a student bank account?

2000 quid over-draft limit: interest free!
funny, isn't it?
i had that way past the expiry date,
i'd say way over fives years...

and i was titilating the -2000 quid
over a few months...
evidently some genius at the bank
noticed this, and said:
no no, you've have your little
student honemoon, time's up!

so i gets me a letter and says they'll
be reducing my expiry date to
500 quid below par -

    at nearly -2000 quid in my account,
what? what else?! panic...
so i calls them up and say:
look... i can get on the + scale,
i just need more time,
     i can't do it within your stated
authority...
nice lady, great conversation,
so she goes through the routine
questions...
   mobile phone? no.
  car? no.
    mortgage? no.
   how much do you spend on
luxury goods?
     em... i have all the "luxury" goods
i might ever need,
  take a philosophy book...
sometimes you find one that can last
you 2 ****** years to digest...

that's like picking pennies off
the pavement...

and, luckily, she said:
we'll reduce the overdraft limit by
200 pounds per month...
    last time i remember i hovered
above 800+ quid in my bank account...

obviously i have *******-of-a-drinking
habbit...
       but like now...
   i'm drinking, and tomorrow?
  i'll be drinking...
      and only in western europe is this
stigma of living with your parents...
look... mate... come here:
    jean-paul sartre (the nobel living
author for the novel nausea)?
he lived with his mother,
   had a ****-of-a-girlfriend and ******
university students...
plus he was cross-eyed...
    to ever think that i.v.f. and test-tube
babies pander this "non-existent"
disciplinary commune of "dear brothers
& sisters"....
   the current pupeteer in poland,
this pan kaczka? lives with his mummy...
he's not the president, he's not
the prime-minister... but he's playing
the one joker card in politics:
  he's probably 2 inches shorter than napoleon,
ugly as a ******* touristee mug
with the houses of parliament on it,
or a i (heart) london... whatever...
point being: he's playing the last remaming
card, it's not a joker card...
   it's the entry point of the last remaining
card: the schadenfreude card...
sorry... but this card does come into play
after certain limits are breached,
               but that's hopw ontology works.

i still remember that joke told by my glaswegian
english teacher (imagine
learning english from a pict) -
how was copper-wire invented?
               two scots arguing over a penny.

still... how i managed to get from a -2000 quid
dept and into the +, how did i manage
to ease the blow by allowing a gradual deflation
of the overdraft limit by charming
the bank lady...
      i do have to admit, one little
noughty secret... i found myself wake-akin
*****, i walked into my bank and talked
to the manager: i need you to increase my
overdraft limit, my great-grandmother has died
and i need enough money for travel expenses...

what really happened?
         oh... you know... 3 hours in a brothel...
10 quid entry, one-hundred-and-ten quid an hour...
and the perfume of bourbon everywhere...
   what?! sometimes a man has to do something
about his libido trapped in a strait-jacket...
girls don't mind...
                   i just kept minding that they
were bulgarian, and lied about being romanian
as if to imply that romanian girls
better outsource bulgarian girls in the trade...

      so this is me thinking:
you really want to argue "feminism"?
                go to a *******, see what she thinks,
namely? feminists abhor her trade,
they want to liberate them!
        the girls? far **** away from being liberated...
thrill ***... i heard one story of a friend
of her's being killed by a pundit...
      russian roulette they call it, i guess...
then this other ******* telling me:
oh, personally? i think that every woman should
try prostitution for a while...
   what's that beautician's word? poly...
                               poly-amorous?
oh hell... looks pretty...
                         does it feel "pretty" in practice?
not really...
                      there are really two
great dissatisfactions in the realm of prostitution:
1. not giving a man an ****** after
   one 1 of working the piston (sorry,
imagery and *** are always crass and laughable)
and (this will shock you)
2. actually receiving an ****** on the job...
oh boy, no. 2 is horrifying to them....
   it's not the job that debases the *******:
   it's an ****** with a pundit!
an ****** with client is probably as bad
as being ****** with an egg-beater,
          or an elephants trunk, or a horn of a rhino...
sorry... but that's how it's written...

+ lucky me, she just sighed an "ouch" -
   and said: you're only the second -
          and so out went my ***** envy:
    anyway, i was always more envious of beards;
taking notes in a sikh temple.

yeah... -2000 under par, and still i managed
to wriggle out...
      i swear one of my ancestors was
either jewish or scottish...
      smooches for that lady in the bank
that allowed me a gradual decrease in my
interest free overdraft limit.

The sun kissed the day,
tangerine smooches,
creating ocean breezes,
aquamarine reflections.

Capped white and reflecting,
as she climbed in the sky,
golden light bringing life,
from far away space.

Creating photosynthetic greens,
and bipedal dreams,
roaming and evolving,
yet destroying.

Mother nature's mistake.
trust.
trust for her creations,
to take care of her.