i actually remember when sudoku was introduced
to the west... it went down like a salt beef bagel from
that jewish restaurant on brick
                              lane after a night out drinking...

i never took to it, in the sense that
i might compete doing it...
i mean, there's this story
about the original take that
members (which included robbie
williams) had a competition
concerning: who could
******* the quickest...
      
    that sounds stiff... but then i tried
to lessen the americanism
   since **** can also mean a jamaican
sauce... so no jerking competition...
but then again i was watching
a whole lot of blaire white
videos...
              i didn't even hear the transgender
bit after a few videos
          is that an honest statement?
well.. if you told me she was transgender
would i believe you?
       maybe only until that
trainspotting scene where begbie takes
"her" to the car and finds a surprise present...
  
   i had a moment like that in real life,
picked up this thai girl in the park
took her rome, a few beers and
  michael greilsammer's je me réveille album
later (miles davis didn't work on her)
we were off to to the garden to "talk"
of birds and bees...
           and since she looked so boyish
and wore a very tight sports bra
     and how she did say she was bisexual
i didn't know what i'd find... hmm... ha ha...
luckily i found something i was compatible
with...

that's why i mention blaire white...
            i was fooled... god, but this drivel talk
about pronoun usage,
           for a heterosexual man to understand
transgender truly, in a puritan sense
he's got to be fooled...
               otherwise it's a bit like taking
your car to the mechanic to get it fixed,
but then you go back to pick it up
     and he merely converted it to a flintstone
contraption... mate... if i wanted a bicycle
and peddle, i would have asked for one!

it would also appear that you have
to have sort of conception to begin with,
          moving the whole shabang into a lesson
in grammar? that's a bit annoying...
i like surprises... otherwise it's still just
the templar crusaders and baphomet...
   or what they call the thai surprise...

don't know, never had -
                     yep, not even with a hetrosexual girl...
that bit you are apparently invited to bleach
the hair of...

but she does make the most valid point
about the whole transgender movement -
if you can't make it work, to fool a hetrosexual man
i can't be fooled... that's why
                       most homosexuals turn to
drag, because they know they can't fake it,
so at least they can be flamboyant...
   i can't believe there's so much diversity in
that ****** category, it's a bit like
watching macaws -
  
    i was at a gay party once...
  my cousin is so he invited me and i came
and there was this guy from the previous night
at a gay nightclub that i snogged...
but you wouldn't believe why i left within
5 minutes... i was talking to a woman and she
asked me if i was homophobic / if i was o.k. with it...
em... i'm here, aren't i?
             i felt this great nausea, gave my cousin
his birthday present, and told him:
sorry, i have to leave, i feel sick.
        
   otherwise this whole topic about transgender?
if it boils down to grammar then
  there's no point to someone doing a blood great job
on themselves... which is basically beyond
the point... we know homosexuals are funnier
than hetrosexuals...
     then again i don't know what the transgender
movement actually means...
      
**** it, let's explain it using chemistry and benzene,
ortho-, meta- and trans- positioning of
                 e.g. CH3 to the benzene ring...
well i was certainly transfixed because i'd kiss
that face and wouldn't knoww what to do with
what's down south...
                                  does that point toward
what's known as the judas kiss?
                       i'm jesus was a much better looking
tran- than he's depicted as...
                
but apart from that we have metaphysics and
orthography...               and yes, benzene.

how did i start writing about this? all i wanted to point
was no. 8861... and have some sort of theory
as to how do a sudoku...
     the convergence of two identical numbers?

   e.g. 8 --> |1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 9 | <-- 8

                        or that's how you zoom in
onto an incomplete square and then zoom out
     on an incomplete line...

borrowing from no. 8861

x   x   x                                       x
2   x   4                                       4
7   x   5                                       5
                                                   y
                                                   y
                                                   y
                                                   9
                                                   2
                                                   y

so the above for some reason best describes my
unerstanding of sudoku...
     to be honest this wole "poem" was only
going to be that,
     and perhaps just that - an ode to the very
authentic transgender pranksters -
            authentic... i can't stress is more:
transgender is really that begbie moment:
i understand transgender as a person capable
of fooling a hetrosexual male...
            the rest? let's just say there was an
dummy experiment happening in a chemistry lab;
to me that's the whole point of trans,
     so it would seem
that judas didn't betray jesus with a kiss...
more like a kick to the *****.

   i mean, how else not tell that story?
the most popular man in judea... and suddenly
he's not recognisable that the authorities need
                     someone to point him out with a kiss?
all the rabbis were like: where is he? where's he hiding?
can anyone recognise him?
           i can't see him for miles!
i must be ****** blind or it all suddenly turned dark
and i'm reading braille...
           as i'm sure you known they built
                     the pyramids using sticks and stones.

Rose Tyler, Bad Wolf, blonde bombshell.
Through time with the Doctor she did propel.
She loved the Doctor and he loved her too.
If it's my last chance to say it,
Rose Tyler, I--

Jack Harkness, the flirt, the man of men.
He pops up at the Doctor now and again.
They met with a lie,
Now he can't die
Forever here now and then.

Martha Jones, the doctor, the woman that heals.
Her time in the TARDIS caused all kinds of feels.
She pointed a gun to save the Doctor's skin
Yet in the end, her and Mickey did win.
All kinds of fun and all kinds of sass.
Martha Jones, one badass.

Donna Noble, ah, how does one describe thee?
Married a creeper and set the Oods free.
Through the Daleks and Rose, it seemed to end the world
Until the Doctor's DNA and her's accidentally swirled.
Of all the companions, she was a supreme member
Most important woman in the universe,
Too bad she won't remember.

Of all the companions, no one remembers Ms. Astrid Peth.
Her one and only appearance ended in death.
She stowed away on the flying Titanic
With passengers, aliens, and angels that were satanic.
Astrid wanted to travel and see the stars.
Her death seemed to add to the Doctor's scars.
He wasn't able to bring her back in the flesh
For the Doctor was the cause of her final, last breath.

Finally we come to little Amelia Pond.
Waited twelve years for the Doctor's bond.
She sat on her suitcase, face raised to the stars
Thinking of Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars.
He came back when she was supposed to marry Rory
But she still snogged the Doctor, being predatory.
It was Amy and Rory Pond in the ends
Even when the stone angels did descend.
Some mainstream Whovians say Ms. Pond's overrated,
But after all, she was the girl who waited.

Melody Pond, also known as River Song
She was fair, cunning, and strong.
Amy's daughter, but looked years older.
Amy wouldn't believe her no matter what River told her.
River Song, a time lord herself.
But even her story went to the shelf.
She was put in jail for killing a good man.
But even then, with the Doctor she ran.
The Doctor and River, hands fastened tight.
She still didn't want to let go with all of her might.
Dr. Song and the Doctor were on different tracks in time.
Hopefully, she'll be back, witty, fierce, and sublime.

The mystery. All the loose ends come to Clara Oswald.
The latest companion to be installed.
She once was a woman, mind in a machine
But now she's in the flesh, cruising the scene.
Oswin Oswald was a governess and a barmaid
Until she came back, unashamed to be afraid.
Even though she is a mystery to be solved,
Here's to our angst, Ms. Oswin Oswald.

But one day all the companions will be gone
And the Doctor will be alone again.
He will think of all the lives he's withdrawn
Hoping for a lifelong friend.
Though his intelligence, sexiness, and brilliant mind
There are no other like him, he's the last of his kind.
The man who travels around kissing strangers;
The impossible doctor meeting some painters.
Many wonder how long he can cheat the clocks
But until then, he's just a madman with a box.

i couldn't stand the heat,
spent most of the time in the shade,
everyone made fun
of the guy standing by the pool
reading a book, pretending to
be a sundial;
i was called the whiskey-man;
one night i slept outside
and by the time i woke up my glass
of brandy disappeared;
mingled with the "auctioneers"
of a good time; boy one of those
kenyan girls was hot... oomph,
she looked like oiled coal, slimy bits
and raw ***...
i know i was a tourist...
played a stupid drinking game with
two english girls, snogged one
at the end of the game, wasn't invited
back to the room for a *******,
spent hours at night looking at the tide
splashing the shore, cried at the painting
so alive all the museums and galleries
became graveyards of appreciation;
it was a holiday resort, i admit,
although one bartender asked me to do
a local tour of the place, go clubbing,
supposedly a colonial ******* i was
upon first reading;
but the heat though! god almighty, couldn't
stand the temperature,
i was literally an ice-cream cone most
of the time, took to the shades,
wrote a short story for my grandfather
about an elephant dunking his trunk into
a bottle of brandy...
one day got chatting to a scottish pair
and a russian couple,
told the scottish guy about travis' 12 memories
album,
i was originally asking for a cigarette,
so we drank and chatted about mickey mouse
politics of america...
the scottish guy eventually ran off and jumped
into the kids' shallow pool veering
on blind-drunk-happy...
another time i too jumped into a pool
with my clothes on...
god-**** this heat...
ha, hmm, those kenyan macaques were funny
esp. on prompt of being fed on the balcony...
but boy that baboon was a menace,
a real anarchist, charged in like a donkey
with meningitis and stole food...
although one baboon had massive haemorrhoids...
and given his fat pinky ***... it was even funnier to watch.
oh yeah, and this guy muhammad wanted
to take me to a crocodile sanctuary of his...
i sort of refused the invitation,
and no, i didn't go on the zoological escapade
of a safari to see the Masai tribesmen...
just gave c. g. jung's modern man in search of soul
to one of the caretakers of the resort.

After climbing off
the school bus
she grabbed the sleeve

of your coat and said
I want to talk to you
and so you stayed behind

as your sister and hers
walked on ahead
and her brothers ran off

in a game of tag
she released your sleeve
and brushed the hair

out of her eyes
what is it? you asked
walking beside her

along the side of the road
the winter afternoon darkening
what was Roland

saying to you in class?
she asked
Roland?

yes Roland
in the last lesson of maths?
you looked over

at the tall trees
becoming tall giants
as the sky began to dim

he was talking about his sister
you said
then why was he looking at me?

perhaps he finds you attractive
you replied
she slapped your arm

with her hand
don’t talk nonsense
he wouldn’t find

Marilyn Monroe attractive
if she sat
on his bony knees

she said looking at you
with her big blue eyes
you rubbed

your injured arm
playfully
he was saying his sister

had found his collection
of ***** magazines under his bed
you said

a car whizzed by
and she turned
and shouted back at it

some words her mother
would have slapped her
for saying

she sighed and said
why can’t you tell me the truth?
you stopped and stood facing her

her blue eyes gazing at you
searching yours
as if she’d left something there

on a previous occasion
he said he didn’t know
what I saw in you

her eyes enlarged
and what did you say?
she asked

in the sky over her shoulder
the moon was beginning to shine
in competition

with the weak sun
I said you snogged
pretty good

you said
she slapped your arm
and walked on

no
you called out
I was only joking

she stopped
and turned
and glared at you

I said you were the best thing
to happen to me
since God created Sundays

you’re lying
she said
all right

you said
seeing her eyes watering
I said I loved you

you said
looking at her
wondering if her hand

might slap you again
did you?
yes

and what did he say?
she asked
he just shrugged

his shoulders
and drew a picture
of Mr Parrot on the corner

of his maths book
she was silent
and looked by you

at the incoming traffic
then kissed your cheek
leaving a damp patch

like a small oasis
on a dry landscape
of your 14 year old skin

conjuring up images
her mother
would define as sin.

.metallica, manchester 2019... master to whos mastery: whos puppets to whos puppeteering... i have to admire the fact that you have to play the standards... its not like even plagiarism comes into the play, but it must be tiresome to have to continue to play the crowd favorites... no compensation for what's expected as new.... if i were stuck in the rut of replica upon replica... regurgitation upon regurgitation... doesn't this art form tire so easily... who was that poet, who went to bed crying after listening to liszt play? matthew arnold... god i'm freed... all the fame and fortune and also not enough time to make your shadow a friend... one inherited temptation is enough to succumb to facing the subsequent ones... come playing a guitar staged before a horde... or fiddling with my beard in the background without malicious intention... but the poverty of lyricism... sure... blues players and their incessant rhymes... but these modern lyrics? to hell with it: i'm no better... but how can you fathom the stamina to replay, to replay, to replay the horde's echoing boom boom mantra fantaticism? i couldn't do music... rememebering words, contonuing a course for replay of the greatest hits... even if expanding into unwritten new territory was a farce... so what... come the bad with the good and the tabloid quality... but having to "love" your work in order to erode your memory like your standard pedagogy manual... i don't want or would't want to remember my words: half if not a third is hardly worth remembering... to a verbatim suited & booted closure and an opening for poet turned entertainer... i don't see how these people cling onto their nostalgia performances... well: to please the crowd is to please the crowd... ilona (former russian "gif") reminded me when james hetfield opened his mouth: he's such a redneck with that accent... god, this russian loved how i appropriated the english shropshire accent... what was that word she called me? ah.... i was a.... yuppie! then the moscow crowd took out their cigarette lighters and we snogged... god i miss relationships, being in that state of vulnerability... i really miss being vowed to a woman and free-falling into a grace of competent trust without question... now here's me calling out the lost trill surrounding the R in both the snake-bitten english numb "R" (without the trill) and the hark of the Francians... i miss being vulnerable... which is what love feels like... being assured a safety when staging a dangerous theatre scene of... say... free-falling before the parachute... that's love: the ability to feel vulnerable... love is and never was some ******* poetic ideal... of perfecting the "art" of loving... to love was always to feel vulnerable... i really miss that... to love was to trust, it wasn't ever about spewing out amour cliché after another amour cliché... sad news being, i will (probably) ever experience that softness of the heart, always the anchor of the weight of a marble slab... never the emotions derived from the heart, forever bound to the bowels... gut-sensations and the reflexes... never a mind to compensate incompassing reflections and the expansion of time to a fixed space... i once loved... is it better to have loved than to have no loved at all? that's questionable, riddle with... is it better to have lived and died, without the knowledge of pain associated to a brain haemorrhage or with: said knowledge? any man can claim the same: it's horrifying to have to live the rest of your life without the cushion, the bed, the feathers of love where you throw yourself icarus-esque, head-first, as a vulnerable babe... shedding the wolf's mane and softening your heart to escape the rational, reflexive array of emotions derived from the bowels.

guess who's diacritical abstaining from the prose...
      kurwy codzienne
czy te kuchenne... a raczej
               zbyt?
no churrah w mnie i horongiew
       wapnia i kurczu -
i tyle to, by gadać tchu!
pięć łatwych utworów -
you made my mind up to counter...
    i said no to the niqab,
so i said yo- to the -gurt...
and let me franchise it babe....
because when i do i won't be
the Franklin as the heavy heave to a scutter
and rat bound
smartease of a Jefferson's lighbulb...
you get boring
more so with the season...
***** and the farthing: quick-change
to quicken your step,
spelled Tokyo... takes two with reminders:
now pay and wait and pastry-size to
concubine the shadow....
                        of hiding cassette and
the lung to breathe through to gorgon enterprise
of the three-headed alcatraz.
i said score ***** harry
     i said i said it twice... 7070 film...
                  i said it thrice...
i said it a fourth time...
the fifth time i was left the overs,
and america r.i.p.,
and i said: god: just let me be!
you were the 20st century fake in the project act
and it was named kevin spacey....
           and you said drive-by
bygone shoot-out... and i said: hamburger
        tattoo and other things worth
the same idea of gluing **** together...
                         and then the toad's hiccup...
rhapsody of burps...
and then that...
  and then i want to be: martin luther king jr.
and a national holiday icon,
and when i want it... and i gag for it....
and then i die for it...
   and then i hate dying for it.... and
so i earn my living as a plumber....
    and then the nation goes for iraq...
and then i am president and face a q & a...
and i'm like: happy are those
who come with applause...
    because i'm the sole one battered with
with the qualm that might translate
as america bound...
well ye-ha! aren't we the lucky living *******!
then i'm about to pludge-****-and-poach-the-*******-yankees
into a question of: a horn brigade to toll the folding bridge;
scatter skew the next new coercion for a parade...
infantile french be the said: long gone...
germanic kinder less a rhyme,
and more a gas... just gaß... or governor:
that should have been gaś or gaš... but then you're
so ******* boring, it makes sense that you're rič...
because you didn't actually get that part...
to be: clint the runner in western and not
***** 'arry...
say you laugh, you don't say clint eastwood
when you actaully watch al pacino in
dog day afternoon... and 1970s america makes
sense...
             and you won't be able to replay
1960s america... because you can't... and it makes
sense why it all feels filthy and dry these days....
that you believe in recitation as you might
believe in the word regurgitate....
and all you want is horror and a.i.,
    and you will never wake from that dream again...
because there were those not lazing in learning
english, that you were left, so glutton coerced
into learning more anagram of english than french
wasn't...
and sure: you created these games of a language
for the sole reason that you wanted to avoid learning
french or german...
you created games from language
because you felt superior... and you created
these games from language because you said
it wasn't worth saying anything in french...
LAZY, OBSOLETE, MOTHER... *******!
but i say: it would have been easier to learn
german than to invoke the game of anagram...
   but then again... who am i to judge?
              who cares, when there are over a billion
chinese and we are but a case of ****
in asking for the perfumed number?
             i say thank god for the indus and the chinese
with their billionth marking...
    it makes no matter if i'm white
and speak english or german or swede or *******...
     it took just one of us to be as lazy as we were
to leave the rest of us happy in tuning toward
becoming extinct. ha ha... ha ha ha ha ha ha!
well, d'uh! you ******* dodo!

On Christmas Eve in the 1970's everyone got ******.
At office parties random couples paired off and snogged.
Bus drivers waved their passengers through,
they didn't want your money.
Even they were ******.
Probably the coppers had a few
down at the station.
Glass of sherry anyone?

If you had one year of love,
and then you had to say adios,
should you be glad or morose?

Sure, if it ends, it’s not what I’d hoped,
we just weren’t destined to be betrothed.

We had fun, we were close and jocose,
we snogged until we practically choked,
and we did ALL the fun things that were gross,
but our forte was that we felt safe, I suppose.

Now, I’m not saying it’s over, but I tend to diagnose things,
and while I wouldn’t say that we love overdosed,
I would guess that we’ve shared more love than most.

I rolled over and the sun skulked through the curtain,
That ****** gap, I knew it would be a burden,
With one eye open I stretched, and reached the ash tray,
My last cigarette, "I might quit today,"
Checking the time,
Quarter past nine,
And again I'm late for work.

Head thumping and regrets from last night,
Makeup down my face, mmm what a sight,
Who was that guy? He's gone anyway,
Probably picked him up on the way,
Jumping out of bed,
Smoke clouding round my head,
I dragged myself to the bathroom.

I promise myself everyday is a new one,
Sitting on the toilet, what have I done?
I dread to check my texts and call log,
I wonder how many people I snogged,
I jump in the shower,
It's now half past the hour,
Shall I just call in sick?

It simply isn't an option,
I need to get up and function,
But everything is a struggle,
I wonder if there's any ***** left I can smuggle,
One more for the day,
I'm not an alcoholic by the way,
It's just a little assistance.

In case you were wondering, I only went,
Out twice this week, all my money is spent,
You can't blame a girl for having some fun,
After all, I worked hard for my sum,
Anyway, I better be gone,
Work have been ringing my phone,
I guess I'll see you next time.

hmm...
    people read you
in the same way as you appear
to them...
i was wished a good weekend,
like:
   i walked into his parlour
for a haircut and beard-trim
as if i was about to head
into London for a one-night-stand...
o.k. edward scissor hands...
i just wanted to walk
into a supermarket
to freak out the female cashiers...
and buy a bottle of whiskey
and some pepsi,
and be served by a male
cashier...
   and not have to say:
goodnight first,
but be wished goodnight,
with a sir, attached...
  writing a novel...
is something akin to a life,
in the modern sense
of the biography of Bukowski,
i will never, ever
want to live out,
for a necessity to keep up
with pandering others...
who would not quicken
a diet using a corset:
did i make it to a nightclub,
"feeling special",
finding myself among
the beautiful people
at some dead end nocturnal
London groupie event
of Bloc Party making
an appearance?
  forgot to sniff coke,
snogged a Finnish girl...
   once upon a time
a distant past and a space
that occupies my mind:
    she started snogging me
even though she made it
a curiosity while i wore
      an EisenKreuz t-shirt
with the motto...
  and i said: to her argument:
it's just fashion...
'ere goes the play
on the collateral...
  and loaning collateral status
to jews...
      what ever, war,
was, ever, a war,
   from the genesis of
world war two?
     for me?
   the h'american war in
vietnam is a proxy war...
and, if there any "collateral":
i have the hebrew collateral...
which explains why the state
of israel could stage so many
proxy wars, which became
a patent project...
in the latest project?
the war in iraq...
   i know what the feral me looks
like, with an unpekpt beard,
and a hair-cut-overgrown
with only the worth
of hiding under a hood...
avoiding people by daylight,
scuttling like a rat into
the night for the ms. amber perfume...
at 50cl of whiskey:
i guess i'll sleep o.k.,
but we have our ultimate
collateral... the jews even
have a name for collateral...
the holocaust...
all the russians that died:
m'eh... some number...
hence?
  subsequent wars working
from the base collateral:
have no collateral...
ergo?
          subsequent wars
are proxy...
****... i started to call them
wars: in the dimension
of the oxymoron...
  
    when whatever war
is now proxy, by "definition"...
can only morph
into a:
      bellum pre praxis
   (war by practice -
well... let's just pray
to god the non-existing
almighty that terrorism
doesn't become a habitual
effort akin
   to home-making
            and baking cookies!)

different ******* ball-game...
or, baldie's game...
or whatever you want
to call:
   where the ****** with
the afro?

50cl of whiskey:
enough to write:
and hope for a k.o.
in the "drinking game"
of trying to fall asleep,
to fit in 6 hours
in a game of being
able to stay awake for
     60 hours...
with 2 hour interludes in
the circa 48 hour period...
  
for the exclusive right
of the collateral status,
holocaust,
   the rest are:
    tombstone and never
to scoop a single epitaph
of 1 per 10,000
or more...
      but that's
also an anaesthetic...
given that,
all wars...
working from the collateral
plateau...
of the collateral
affected...
   all subsequent wars
are proxy...
the last war
  of a people against
a people against
anything against
the moon-landing
congregation of
the new church
of the new priests...

         and of those:
with very, or little,
poetic extension beyond
mere nuance,
namely...
        the thesaurus...
the new bible
of the practice of applying
jurispridence...
just juggle
   a thesaurus access...
like: words were apples...
and apples...
   were not...
                pears...
congregation:
fruits that arrive
in autumn on the branch.

   - and now, by the only
dictum of law:
pontius pilate,
   only by the law
and the washed hands...
by now...
it takes more than just
washing the hands,
it implies washing the tongue
by having someone
to talk for you...

of the minority audacity in England,
of whom i am also,
part of...
        i guess:
i can only regurgitate
the English tongue back
to the natives, and write:
what they want to hear,
but, rarely allow themselves
to implement...
with the lost verocity
              of implementation...

point being:
would i trust a ****** english
hairdresser with my hair?
perhaps...
but with my beard?
not a chance in hell...
         slur...
god...
like i already said:
i already felt more free being
hand-cuffed
in an alley,
being screamed at by a police-officer
for ******* in an alleyway
on Romford's Friday night...
i felt more free...
being hand-cuffed...
and then, when being
asked
to get up from my knees...
in a pseudo-turkish-akimbo
saying: NO...
  than attempting this
"should-i-care"
mental gymnastics of
the sensitivity of people...
who never punched themselves
in the face,
or stubbed-out
cigarettes on their clenched
hands on the tips of their knuckles.

coming from a person
who laughs while punching himself
in the face to the point
of giving himself a black eye,
with no gloves,
with no boxing ring,
with no eager audience...
who puts out cigarettes
on the end-tips of
a fist of his knuckles
enjoying the ingestion
of a rarity of pain...
   a comment...
              on something akin to this...
sometimes the only emotions
are the cheap ones...
the most insect-esque...
  which relieves me from
writing grand
               Tolstoy literature.

there's actually
                             a concept of money,
hindering the affair
of two naked bodies entrenched
in prostitution?
   like i buy a hammer and
pretend it's
      a ******* *****-driver?
or did i miss the point
                      that genitals are
beside the point?
                  hell, not many can
claim to have
snogged prostitutes and listened to
them talking about their children...
    i didn't expect that either...
     a "slave" having
her feet kissed by that odd-e-eating
connatation of a slav...
  germanic just shy of germs,
                 no?
sometimes you start
to build up this...
ratty-wanting-to-nibble-at-something
itch...
   teeth get all itchy...
there is never a concern for
relief...
        ****'s sake:
    even teutonic monks
   of marienburg frequented
a public house...
                      the sort of: "relief"
inclusive of ***** and latex
    usage?
            too drunk to play the sober
cardinal...
              sorry, there are rules,
and married men and men who only
dated over cheap coffee
don't know the necessary toying
with a leash of a sleeping
monster when
               ... having that hour
        of bypassing social constraints...
talk **** all they want,
but if they never
     became lost in an hour with
               paying for the least?
          kissing is the new oral ***,
  apparently, from where i'm sitting...
oh don't worry,
    she'll be more
comfortable spending the 110 quid
i gave her than i would fathom
   in continuing a collection of books...
but men who've never
been...
            can speak **** all
  for the next drunken sailor feeling
no need to make a concern for:
    the practices of anchoring in Amsterdam...
  it's a relationship without
   an exact explanation:
   since there is no heartly investment...
but...
  apart from the odd handshake...
   it's nice to lie ****-naked next to someone
      and listen to prokofiev;
                       i still prefer händel though,
               it's like an úber fetish...  
church-bells ringing at midnight
                                     sort of: tickly...
      now, dating?
   unfathomable territory...
                did that once, speed dating
at university...
      taking a **** somehow compensates
for extracting more pleasure from
   such experiences to later
         compensate with comparison...
                           or vacuuming drunk...
short-cuts...
                              or at least
                          a tin-can for a heart...
because there's
   a morality for not paying for
               whiskey in a supermarket?
            so what's the "moral" conundrum
   of not ******?
           i'm too shallow
   and stopped liking the hide-and-seek
         game of maturity to mind
   what us, rats, feed on.
             last time i checked:
               poles are equivalent to rats,
****-****-*******...
                                     nibble: fist...
since it's hardly going to be
identity politics:
           kiedy kurwa przemawiam, tym:
                          co, żre!
romanian *****?
   as provided by the turks?
                                quiet a luxury...
i'm pretty sure the spanish
italian / greek fantasy has
                      these girls covered;
well, what?
                not anything akin to oops?
- you should find her out
though...
   the one i lost my virginity to...
    isabelle...
             third year psychology
exchange student...
                           from grenoble...
         dry pit...
                                     afterwards...
got tired of sign language
    imitating deaf
   and angel with my replica of ****.

so that's what...
slayer,
the corrs...
      daft punk...
   garmarna...
           sabrina
benaim...
   or...
i just hate
being
thought
of as a child...
infantile...
while
in your
seriousness
of adulthood
you hid
in your shadow
a *******
priest...
and you
said:
yummy...
while...
**** me...
what isn't
to like?
i snogged
a girl
during a tool
gig
in glasgow
in 2006...
i now listen
to you lied
by the same
band...
i want
to care...
but...
i will never
have
enough will
to possess a
need to...
have to;
god isn't
something
related
to something
my protestsant
christian self
might want...
it is, all that...
that is,
and at the same time,
all that i would
never wish upon either
me, or my own worst
enemy...
but...  
    it is what it is...
    you want
to remain intact,
beginning
with the baptism
of cutting
the Achilles heel
tendon
to hear some
****** attempt
to run?
                     words...
plain...
         all i ever wanted
was to...
******* guide
the steering-wheel
of a ******* bus...
  remorse?
  yeah...
i wish that too...
light-bulb moment...
what?!
      remorse?
     a psychologist's take
on... 40: and...
      not allowing
oneself a mea culpa?
yeah...
how, does, that, feel?!
dunno...
what's the difference
between
a heart as a sponge
and a heart as a stone?

For Tracy

I wish I had the *****
To say this to your face
But I'm all over the place
Maybe someone will find my diary
Rip out the pages
And say these words to you
In a nicer accent than mine
But you'll know it’s me

That day after we left school
And I got inebriated
In that club (CIU affiliated)
You walked out, arm in arm
With Tony the ****
And all I could do
To show my hurt
Was sick down my shirt

At Jackie and Teds reception
In the Golden Lion
I saw you looking at me
With that smile
You kept for children
And catalogue men
I didn't have the *****
They still ain't dropped
After all these years baby
After all these years
But if they did I wouldn't have stopped

So hear me now baby
Through his posh inflection
The plans I had for us
You need to hear of the direction
We were headed
The dreams I dreamt for us
I mourn the time we snogged
In the alley near the allotments
Where the drudgery of life
Could not get through to us
If the moon had changed its cycle
I'd have met your ******

That bank holiday weekend
Just after the storm
I had my Uncle Bobs van
A stereo to die for,
No tax, (it was applied for)
One windscreen wiper
But three good tyres
And I knew you were an optimist

The only thing that stood
Between the Sheppey Isle
And our bliss
Was a country mile
The A13, my hesitancy
And ability to miss or miss
That caravan was ours
For three whole days
I was flush with cash
Seventy two pounds sterling
In coins
We could have been King and Queen

The boot was well stocked
With 2 bottles of Polish *****
From the **** shop
And a pocket full of 10 mil Vallies
I nicked from your Mum
At that knees-up
When your grand-dad died
I could have held your perfect hand
And crushed your tiny fingers
If you had lied
About your love for me
Which you would have only done
To save your heart from breaking

You have always been my hero
You shat on the swings
And did other things
That no-one dared
But you never
Got smaller
Unlike
Me

So when you hear his posh voice
Think of me
Think of the caravan
Think of Leysdown
Then look down at the fallen chair
Look up at my limp body
Do what I never could

And cry your ******* heart out