Section 17 Row H seats 11 and 12
Almost every home game does he see
A grey haired man with a clip board sits
Two seats over and one down from me
He's a scout for the bigs, Comes most games to watch
Can't watch as a fan anymore
They know he made it, was up with the Bruins
Played defence with Old Number Four
He watches intently for five minutes or so
Just enough to watch each kid skate twice
Then he drinks down his coffee all in one gulp
and then he returns his eyes to the ice
The Scout, we will call him, for lack of a name
Has seen kids who've got game disappear
They find out he's watching, they get all uptight
And they can't play 'cause they're all tense with fear

I watched for four games, got his routine down pat
Watched him arrive and watch the kids skate
He'd go down in the corner and stand by the glass
Watching close through the plexiglass plate
He stayed away from the coaches, the players as well
And the parents, he'd avoid like the plague
If one ever stopped him, and asked "How's my boy"
He'd smile, and give an answer so vague
His career ended early with a stick to the head
Almost killed him, but, he was too mean
His left the game early, with Wayne Maki to blame
The Scout, is Edward "Ted" Green


Each season he'd sit, watching game after game
In arenas all over the land
Some kids he'd notice, he did not come to watch
They were just something that wasn't planned
He'd come into town to watch a kid who could score
And go home with two names on his list
One a defence man, and the goalie as well
But, the scorer, couldn't skate and got missed
Ted, would watch and make his reports on kids
Some were right, and the kid would go pro
He may be a star in the minors right now
But, the bigs...well, fate only knows

He'd listen to parents and coaches talk of the boys
Saying "My son's the next Bobby Orr"
Ted would chuckle a little and not say a word
He knew the kid would be heard from no more
Putting pressure like that on a young players back
Is like saying, "My boy will be God"
From then on it's never, the talented kid
I'ts the boy cursed with Orr's lightning rod
Many young players get compared to the best
But to say it out loud is a curse
You put a red dot on the young players back
He may as well leave in a hearse

Ted's seen them all, coaches, players and bums
Played when the game was real tough
They  had lighter equipment, not kevlar like now
and Ted, as we know liked it rough
His scratches and scribbles on the page tell a lot
But to the untrained they look like a mess
A pharmacy student couldn't read what he wrote
Nor a court stenographer I guess
He's a spotter of talent with stories to tell
More of them about kids who fell short
Most of them cursed with the "My kids the next..."
and the name of the best in the sport

Two Hundred and Ten games he watches each year
Most times he's gone early on
He's sees what he needs and then he packs up his stuff
And by the end of the first, Ted is gone
He's off on the road to another ice rink
To sit and watch on the hard seats, so cold
To listen as parents and coaches again
Talk of greatness, it's all gotten old
Terrible Ted has a warriors soul
And his grey hair is thinner but, curly
He has ice in his veins and a stick through his heart
Too bad his playing time ended too early.

My dad would always warn me to be careful when falling in love;
I fall too quickly for my own good.

So on the days leading up to the moment you arrived,
I made sure I steadied my footing,
readying myself for the moment I would.
I could tell I was going to.
I wanted to be prepared.

But as I stood in that airport, my knees were already trembling.
It seemed as though the moment I saw you coming down that escalator,
I lost my footing.
All of a sudden everything around me had disappeared.
All at once, I was falling.

I wondered if skydiving rivaled that thrill, and the fear.
My heart never stopped pounding.

When we got back to the car,
I kept staring at you as though you'd vanish.
My mouth grew dry with dread.
I worried I would wake any moment and all of this would have been nothing but a dream.
But I didn't, and you remained.

We stepped into my room and everything blurred.
I heard nothing but the air rushing by me as I fell harder each moment.
I turned to you, begging for clarity, and was met with a kiss.
For a moment, I could see again.
I warned you I was petrified.
You held me.

I saw the pieces of me I had lost when falling in the past come hurtling towards me as I fell.
When I woke up to you, your chestnut irises were still closed,
yet your breathing stabilized my rugged heart rate.
I was completely unaware of where the ground was,
or how hard I'd hit it,
but I savored the sight as though it were still all just a dream.

Each and every moment with you,
I feared the outcome.
I prepared myself with every aching hour for the impact.
My breathing was so unsteady, I felt on the verge of collapsing.
I closed my eyes. I couldn't let myself see what was coming.

As we sat on my bed, and you held me in your arms,
you begged me to open up.
You insisted I open my eyes,
and I fought tears as our breathing synchronized.
I could see the ground now.
The panic clawed its way out of my heart, up my throat,
and I felt my body shake as the words finally spilled out.

I braced myself.
I winced, expecting the pain.
I had anticipated every bit of me to shatter.
I was ready for there to be nothing left of me to break.

But I didn't break.

I could tell the world around me was still again,
but I wasn't on the ground.
I was not broken.
I was pieced back together, carefully.

You kissed me, breathing into me the life I thought I'd given up.
I finally opened my eyes, and as my vision focused,
there sat every piece of me I thought I had thrown away for each and every heartbreak before.
The parts of me that I had lost so long ago, that I assumed nobody would miss or remember,
sat upright, polished, and presented like precious gems.
The feeling in my body returned,
and I turned to those perfect orbs in disbelief--

you caught me.

You never let me go.

It was then that I realized that all the while I had readied myself to fall,
I had already spent my life preparing my heart for you.

So when my dad reminds me to be careful this time, I'll let him know:

I was, but I never needed to be.
You were right here all along,
waiting to catch me.

I'm not benching 290 for nothing
It's easier than cutting cake
More natural than breathing
Yet recently my shoulders
Are bearing to much
Unloaded all at one time
I'm caving in from head to toe
I don't need a spotter
I need old friends
The ones I turned to
When times got rough
When weights were over bearing
When I just wanted to rack the weight
Take a shower and drink a powerade
Yet they're gone
Nowhere to be found
Guess I'm all alone again
Suffocating tonight between the weight
And my blood stained pillow

Thirty floors up, rifle in hand
windows blown out, a view of the land
she sighs... eight years of war, no end in sight
darkness prevails, gunshots in the night.
she's still there, provisions nearby
listening for the enemy's cry
she's cleaned her rifle a thousand times
two hundred tick marks, etched in fine lines
one down, an army to go.
she prayed to god that the flash wouldn't show.

this city's been dead for over a year
yet theres still so many who cower in fear
of her fifty cal blast in the dead of the night.
the enemy falls, no more need for fright
shes been here for nearly a year,
ten thousand rounds and an airdrop every moon
with a note that says the war could end soon
the food is bad but you hardly notice
the company's good, after all theyre the closest.
her spotter, a man, was all she had now
he swore he'd protect her no matter how
theyd been lovers, and friends even too
after all... it gave them something to do
a single shot rips through the night
tearing apart the enemy on the right
one more down, an army to go.
she prayed that the flash wouldn't show

she looked through the scope of her closest ally
the fifty cal's sights perfect to her eye
watching for movement, always alert.
as she felt his hand slip beneath her shirt.
she grinned a little as he crept towards her neck
shivering tingles made her a wreck
as she lie in prone, watching the town
glad to have this man around
"wait" she whispers, a target in sight
she lines up the shot and it echoes tonight.
one more down, an army to go.
she prayed that the flash wouldn't show.

she sigh's again, back to work.
watching wherever shadows lurk.
a flurry of shots rips through the air
straight past her face, singeing her hair
the flash gave him away, as he fired unaware
that he'd woken a ****** coaxed out of her lair
one more down, an army to go.
she prayed again that the flash wouldn't show.

the letters stopped coming, but the packages came
she knew what it meant, but everything's the same
this is life for her now, nothing will change
the war will go on, its nothing strange
theres five hundred marks on the .50 so far
theres more in their army, wherever they are
one more down, an army to go
she prays ever still that the flash wont show.

fifteen years later, its been days since a ****
everything was silent, all was still
instead of a package, a chopper came in
set down on the building with the ****** within
the rifle now had a thousand marks on its frame
almost all of them white, one red streak bright as a flame
she packed up her gear, the rifle and ammo
wiped off the dirt on her old urban camo
she made her way up, the general awaits
wondering what happened, her spotter's fate.
the one red streak, the mark of her friend
she was there, but he wasn't in the end.
driven insane by the constant fight
she'd put him out of his misery one night.
she said not a word as she boarded the ride
one single tear fell, with no attempt to hide the pain inside
one more down, no army to go
she prayed no more that the flash would show.
(epilogue)
her beloved fifty cal, now hung on her wall
rewarded to her for answering duty's call
that one red mark overshadowed the rest
he'd stuck with her so far, he'd done his best.
she was the best, the greatest marksman of all time
the dreams never ceased, the memories never ended
the death of her beloved, and the years she'd spent with
never left her, nor did she want them to
she got a call one day, she had a job to do.
the rifle came down from its spot on the wall
the time came again to answer the call
one more down, an army to go
she prayed once more that the flash wouldn't show

“Everybody has won, and all must have prizes.”- Alice in Wonderland

“Everyone knows it’s a race, but no one’s sure of the finish line.”
        -Dean Young, “Whale Watch”

1a
Children rarely listen to any armchair advice from their immediate family, relatives they commonly have contact with or anyone they haven’t known for more than a couple years because in kindergarten or day care they often got gold stars just for showing up… Little glittering prizes plastered on poster boards in elementary school classrooms regardless of grades or mistakes…


1b
On the windy day when you lower the green jet-ski instead of the good one, race it to the north end, out of the safety of the bay, into the choppy waters, you’ll get bullied by the wave’s splash like the cattails of a whip. The lake will overwhelm you; you’ll inhale some of the water,  a sharp pain will course through your body as you try to breathe those short shallow breaths, which you will force yourself to do as seldom as possible. You will cough and keel over on the craft; It’s not uncommon to spit up blood; you will have to return to the dock and raise the jet-ski back onto the boatlift.  You will stub your toe on the cracks in the planking, stumble and get a splinter in the ball of your foot heading towards the deck but won’t notice. All feeling numbs against water trapped inside your lungs.


1c
Jackie Paper’s mother made him a hotdog with potato chips and served it to him on a plastic plate outside so he could enjoy it on the newly refinished deck while he watched the schooners and speedboats, stingray’s and ski-nautique’s jet in and out of the bay. He didn’t wait five minutes after he finished to fly from the deck onto the dock into the water where he free styled too far and got a cramp. His mother almost lost a son that day.



2a
If wet some recommend running around the shore of the lake until the air has thoroughly dried you off. Listening to the gulls dive and racing through the varying levels of grass on the neighbors’ unkempt lawns, in between the oaks and elms, keeping ever mindful the sticks and stones and acorns that litter the ground in lieu of stubbed toes or splinters. You will most likely fail, but you will get dry.


2b
When you **** your big toe on the zebra mussels while wading in the shallows, near the seawall beside the dock, trying to catch crayfish and minnows darting between the stones underneath the water, and the blood doesn’t stop flowing for 10 minutes and the H2O2 bubbles burgundy on the decks maple woodwork, instead of that off white color it usually bubbles, and stings something awful, don’t be a little ***** about it.  It’s your own fault for leaving your aqua-socks on the green marbled tiles in the foyer closet next to the bathroom; where you changed into your bathing suit and got the bottle of peroxide.


2c
Last winter Christopher Robbins drove his red pickup on the ice (near the island, towards the North end, where even when it’s been freezing for weeks the frozen water seldom exceeds six inches in thickness) at night and fell through.  He felt the cold water enter his lungs.  Although it was snowing and no one had noticed he survived; it took him the whole of an hour to reach the nearest house and call home; he lost his truck and suffered from severe hypothermia and acute pneumonia. At the hospital it was determined that while there was ample evidence of the early onset of frostbite in his extremities, amputation would not be necessary.


3a
While sitting Indian style on the dock next to your friends, settled on the plastic furniture, sipping whiskey and beer, comparing scars assume, no matter whose company you’re in, that yours are the smallest. Those cigarette burns running down the length of your right forearm are self-inflicted and old- reminders that you haven’t had to force yourself to breathe in quite some time.

3b
When you jump off the end of the dock you’ll forget to keep your knees loose because you were running on the wooden planks trying to avoid the white weather worn and dirtied dock chairs and worrying about getting a splinter. The water is inviting but during the summer the depth is only three feet four inches. You will roll your ankle at the very least and probably sprain it because, Like an *******, you locked your knees and jumped without looking.


3c
Two summers ago Alice was tubing behind a blue Crown Royal when she hit the wake at an awkward angle and flew head first into the water in the bay a few hundred feet off the dock at dusk. The spotter and driver simply weren’t watching and the wave-runner didn’t see her due to the advancing darkness.  She cracked her head open on the bottom of its hull; swallowed water.  She needed 70 stitches and several staples but Alice made a full recovery.


4
Mothers often tell their children to should chew their food 40 times before swallowing to aid digestion and to wait a full half hour after eating before engaging in physical activity. Especially swimming.


5
When you’re at the lake house this summer skipping stones swimming and running on the dock remember not to listen to any advice.  

If this were a race to get dry you’d be much closer to first than last.

The internal bleeding eventually stops.  The splinters all get pulled out, staples and stitches are removed, lacerations heal and the feeling returns to the fingers and toes.

The water eventually drains from the lungs and only the scars remain:

Gold stars on poster boards;

because everybody has won, and all must have prizes.

"You're always moving forward.
Just sometimes, the road gets bumpy as ****."
The road may get bumpy,
but I'm ever so clumsy.
Give me a spotter
otherwise I may break
something along the way.
I'm not saying I need to be saved,
I just need someone
to make sure I'm okay.

I have a college degree,
no money,
an idea in my head,
and that is all I can see.
Make money, be happy,
made out to be,
the simplest thing.
But when dropped like a fish out of water,
into the so called social society,
without you I am a lifter with no spotter,
and the cure to my sobriety.
So let us see if I can swim to shore,
and get the breath of fresh water,
and you can be there like you swore,
to save me from the slaughter.
You will be my anchor to hold me under.

The wind always ****** me off. Tossing my hair from side to side, and usually on the opposite side the ship is swaying. Always so nauseating. Leaned against the railing I watch my ship mates joke, rough house, and drink. I would describe them as quaint, but Neptune forbid they hear me and I have to explain what another word means. Illiterate ******* . I gave one of them a dictionary one time in hopes they would be inspired. They returned it to me two days later with all the words about *** and female organs underlined and circled. Why do I have to be stuck with these people? Brain cells keep committing suicide every time one of these chumps rabble something to me.

**** it all, here comes one. Just go away, ****. ****, what could he possibly want. Maybe if I lean back now I can just fall into the water and drown. The wind gives me another fist up my nostril by blowing his stench my way. "We be landin' soon! Ye comin' wit us dis time or are ye gunna stay behind and work on your fancy doctor voodoo or trace your ***** in one of your books to **** it to lata?" They all start laughing and whoopin. "Well I need some things, and I can't trust you idiots to bring me anything back besides rotted meat and disgusting women! So I guess I have to get off the boat this time." He made some typical fairy joke toward me and went back to drinking with the others.

The spotter cried his typical thing about seeing land, as if we didn't have eyes to see that massive hunk of blot that isn't water coming toward us. Maybe this time I can get "lost" and never board this ship again. I don't care where I go or do. After she left, it doesn't matter. If I could find some decently witted science wiser, I'd give them my journals and let my soul free from this cursed rock. Until then, my studies are far too important to be lost to these mongrels.

On a brighter note, the island looked to be a dense tropical stage type of island. Perfect! My greatest chance to find some herbs in quite some time. Maybe they will even have a wild large cat these guys can fight. With any luck, it would eat them all then die choking one of their pieces of jewelry or **** it from their various ****** diseases. That would just be heaven. Rid me of these animals and I could get some ingredients from the majestic beast's corpse. Their eyes and blood are good for various mixes. My thought is disrupted by the sweet smell of the isle on the breeze. Sweet sweet hibiscus, we came just at the right time of year. My leg ticks on the ground with excitement. Moments like these make me forget all my misery, the rush of progress. The high of walking back with sacks full of goodies. Rushing to my mortar and pestle. Thank you, Neptune for surfacing such a wonderful place.

The captain's door kicks open as we pull up to shore. "Alright me hearties! Time to do what we do best. Let's go find some meat to eat and some meat to poke!" A cheer from crew erupted. I caught the last boat going to shore. I brought every empty sack and a few various journals to record. Each stroke of the paddle fills me with a little more glee. We all land on shore, but there is a bit of wildness in the air. None of the crew seems to notice. No birds in the area flying by or perched. A pathway of large trees are knocked down. I point out to the captain what I have observed. He gets the wild look in his eye and points over to the path. "This way, boys! We got something big to ****!"

Walking behind the group as I scribble doodles and notes in my journal. A lot of the trees that are downed have large slashes in them. Every now and then we come across and splat of blood or some feathers. The feathers are quite large and colourful. Ahead we can see a clearing to what looks like a cliff range. The lush green ground is now leading into red clay. Large talon prints are starting to appear. The captain leads us in the direction of the prints. As we go further, decomposing carcasses and skeletons litter the path.

Never in a hundred life times would I be prepared for what we were about to see. At the edge of the cliff lies a giant nest, and in it was a pure terror. It's back had more colours then I even fathomed were in existence. It's tail feather alone was larger than our ship. The crew seemed genuinely disturbed. "What the ******* is that?!" yelled one of the crew members. The behemoth was instantly awoken. It stretched it wings and stood up in its nest. The bird turned around and faced us. Holy ******* ****, this thing was some sort of massive giant macaw. Being the size it is, I doubt it eats the kind of pleasant things its cousins consume.

To compensate for being woke up, it looked as if it was going to make a quick meal out of us. This is perfect! Maybe all these idiots will get butchered and I can just slide away. I looked over to the captain, and his eyes were over flowing with wildness. With a saber and flintlock ready, he ordered the charge. With mighty yells they all rush the bird. The giant ***** its wings and uses the gust to blow down the crew. It hops into the air and comes down crushing several members under its blood stained talons. Even with dried, caked clay I could feel the vibrations from his force. The captain takes aim with his flintlock and nails the bird in the left eye. The bird let out a large screech before pecking down and reducing more crew members to a pile of protein and bone.

At this point in the battle, there are only thirteen of us left. ****, that is an unlucky number. Are they going to fluke this and **** that thing? ******* it, I don't want to eat bird for the next few months. I continue to doodle the beast as the battle rages. A quick swipe from his talons eviscerates a few more members. The crew has done nothing more than leave a few cuts on the beast's legs and a few bullets lodged in his plumage. The bird surges into the air in a rage. He quickly snatches up 3 members in each talon and tosses them off the cliffs. Five of us remain including the captain. Swooping down and gobbling up two more members, the captain doesn't even begin to bat an eye. There are only two fighters left. The captain is climbing up the leg of the bird as the last crew member gets pulled apart by the bird. The bird not noticing the captain scaling his back hops toward me. It turns its head so its unwounded eye can see me. The head snaps back to forward face and hops toward me.

The captain is now on top of the beast's head, perfect. I reach my satchel and pull out two full glass bottles. A loud squawk comes from the bird as it prepares to eat to me. I quickly pitch one of the bottles at the head of the bird. The glass cracks on its head and liquid goes all over the bird and the captain. Smoke begins to roll off of them as their flesh drips off their bone. Realizing I won't need the second bottle, I put it away and sit down as the bird's nerves twitch out its last moments of life. What is left of the captain is dripping down the bird. The corpse of my saviour collapses to the side.

Finally, as I deserve to be, I am alone. Alone on a giant island of who knows what else, but for the first time since she left me; I'm smiling. I can work and research in peace, and with any luck someone of worth will discover my remains years later and find my journals. I am left with what I was born with. Nothing, but what lies between ears. I both thank and apologize to you mighty fowl. My all the souls scattered on this island be comforted by my joy.

Loaf with dignity
and stretch out with long elegance
Rest with intentionality
and stop with full confidence

Pit stop with tenacity
and pause with perfect poise
Lie with all honesty
shut out the demanding noise
and soak in the inner stillness -

for your rest is essential before activity
your meditation before mobility
your self before any sway
over the crowd's frenetic insensitivity.

And oh, the clouds!

Look,
you have the clouds!

Christ is actually a Freemason,
I am busy tree-chasin'.
An alligator is flying through the water,
Sin is flying through a thief's spotter.
Clair is flying Bush's stealth bombers.

Italy's Capri admirably fits the bill as an enchanted island,
Nestled in the Bay of Naples, it's apt to call it wonderland,
It is famous as a coastal resort and a celebrated beauty spot,
Little wonder of it being touristy and a location often sought

The isle is seriously beautiful, sans any blemish in its splendor,
So little room for any shortcoming, chances of which are slender,
Breathtaking views from any angle makes Capri appear so scenic,
Futile to draw comparison to any other isle that is so panoramic

Capri is known as the isle of the sirens in Greek mythology,
It has very little to do though with any aspect of theology,
Long considered a preserve of celebrities and the super-rich,
The small precipitous island is a must-visit travel agent's sales pitch

Accessible only by ferry or hydrofoil from Naples and its surrounds,
The idyllic isle with sheer cliffs and dazzling seascapes visually astounds,
Steep cliffs rise majestically from an almost impossibly blue sea,
That the isle has that tangible deluxe feel, is for all to see

The island has a mythical charm with its jaw-dropping natural beauty,
Stunning landscapes from rocky caves to the horizon's edge lend to the popularity,
Shimmering sea views, secluded grottos lure visitors in droves to be on board,
Amazing cuisine, world-class shopping are bells and whistles; lest you get bored

Blue Grotto is an oceanic cave at the water's edge with an opening to the sea,
Optical effects created by sunlight bouncing on the cave walls, is a sight to see,
Water lit turquoise hues from below, by the sun, creates a magical atmosphere,
Shimmering cobalt-blue light images beckons us to a virtual optical stratosphere

Through the water on the floor of the cave, Roman remains are clearly visible,
Supposedly used as a bathing place by Emperor Tiberius, a reason nigh plausible,
This lagoon was probably a Roman villa with statues decorating the whole floor,
Other entrances to the grotto were created to improve irrigation, per Greek folklore

Capri's standout are three rocky peaks emerging from the azure blue water,
Called the Faraglioni, the limestone stacks are discernible to any spotter,
Formed by erosion, separated by water thro' collapse of solid land mass,
Emerging as steep rocks rising out of the sea, surprisingly not as a morass

La Piazzetta, aka chiazza, is a bustling diminutive square in the heart of Capri,
Table settings of the handful of cafes are meant for one to be carefree,
The colorful clock tower chimes every quarter hour throughout the day,
With thronging crowds at all times, little surprise why the place holds sway

Post ferry drop-off at Marina Grande, a road trip from Capri to Anacapri is a must,
Brace yourselves for a 3-km. stretch of hairpin bends en route in the mini bus,
On the slopes of Mount Solaro and at a higher elevation than Capri,
The more authentic side of the island and less crowded, is Anacapri

Piazza Vittoria in Anacapri town is the bustling bus stop square where one alights,
Sauntering thro' colorful bougainvillea, geranium festooned lanes is sheer delight,
Behold a mix of Neapolitan tailor shops, artisan shoemakers and souvenir shops,
Enjoy the aerial whiff of the town's lemon groves pervading everywhere, nonstop

Museum of Villa San Michele is a building articulating at various levels,
Ancient artifacts, Roman paving, marble columns are sights that revel,
An elevated garden with granite Sphinx and Greek tomb is a perfect setting,
For a sweeping view of the Bay of Naples below, that looks so enchanting

Continuing downhill, the Church of Santa Sofia is the pride of the town,
The adjoining Piazza Armando Diaz bustling with activity is a place of its own,
Locals chatting and reading newspapers presents such a wonderful sight,
Seated on hand painted majolica benches, as if conveying life is so bright

A visit to Capri is incomplete without tasting the famed Caprese salad,
The taste is so exquisite that one tends to break into a ballad,
Tomatoes, milky mozzarella, aromatic basil leaves are the sole ingredients,
A drizzle of sharply flavored olive oil does little to serve as an impediment

Restaurants abound the lanes with crowds' incessant chatter,
Panino Caprese being made in a jiffy is no laughing matter,
So popular is the salad that it can be found on every menu,
Strolling along past excited visitors, makes for the perfect milieu

It is with a heavy heart that you ferry back to mainland at the trip's end,
While enjoying the panoramic stunning views again, as if there's no end,
It is not without reason that Capri's famed "cliff beauty" is so majestic,
The only describable feeling of the experience is that it is "ecstatic"!

To speak with movement,
as if our words were water.
All the hours you've spent
as the plotter;
the spotter of splits,
hiccups and missed bits
of info that slipped
out of sight
while we were
dancing.

Every spark flying from fires,
every dark moment conspired,  
by those discerning,
rising higher
in the burning
of books,
last looks,
and the things you took,
so as to
give them back again.

Drop your guns
but don't run.
Keep your feet
met with the deep
feelings that keep
you tethered
together.

Love like drums
is humming
inside empty buildings
with broken windows,
waiting.

I rack it up
Hype myself up in the mirror
Hearts beating out of my chest
I lay down
Place my hands just right

    I'll take it all alone right
I push with everything
Its unhinged now
   All in the air now

Its too much
I feel it
I ****** up
Where's my ******* spotter
My elbows are gonna buckle

I just chuckle
Sometimes I forget
You don't get one in life
Come in alone
Go out alone

I would value you
I know you must have hard that a lot
and have grown accustomed
to it not being true

I know that trust is like a spotter
at the bottom of a ladder
and that you've been climbing Everest
and not the wall to a roof
so the comparison isn't apt
No I don't know anything you
and so my words ring hollower
than an Oak tree on a dry summers day

I would value you
not as price on a tag
but as a bird on a nest
because your presence makes being here
worthwhile
and when you're keen to fly away
please heed my plea that's true
I Promise I would value you

It Would Be a Cold Day in Hell
by Mutasem Amayreh

You heard my story
Tongue-tied
My crowning glory
In a World-wide
Eye-folded
Yet in a cottage
tied
One day
The owner scolded
The bushy eyebrows
Frowned
On the scent of treason
Yelped the hound
During the peak season
Different colored Inks spilled
One iota of sound reason
The Mantle it pilled
What follow that I
detest
While sight-blinded
Began the Rorschach test
The process, long-winded
I didn’t hesitate
That one-sided picture
Of the issue
Started to imitate
Composed a tissue
of lies
Didn’t freak
Cut my ties
Promised Ink won’t leak
Believed the wiseacre
That talent spotter
Never become a risk-taker
But a life-long voter.

Space is black, so as too it why can't you win a race.

Face it winning, is my honor you are like gum sticky and silly only filled with envy for you will never become a winning.

Know, I was just kidding your "OK" at getting second place, when im looking back your head bagging to my style.

Slow down pal forward, only no slow motion because as is sacred gemetic shapes  see to it I'm the out line of gold.

So yes you now can behold, you are a silver me is of gold so be better next time and don't forget to become bold.

Cuz heating thang's up is my cup of gold low and bewilder of change and flow.

So, watch out as spring become's of snow and your feet get stuck in the soggy cold.

I will laugh, with glee as you become of fever you should have wore a coat you dreamer.

Im, a thinker slaying reason of flaws we shall talk of winning.

Winner winner points on board is the defender.

Loser loser you are sad and clueless.

The options where not fixes as to your believing them to be.

When we raced im a spotter of flaws.

Calcated your movements and pace.

Sure too glance, before the race to Duluth your out looks at 1st.

Now you seem, to think back nodding do you understand it was my plain at hand.

Not to say I cheated using methods unknow for my win.

I just Foget basic Principles of thought and see all points of reference.

Sent to fight as part of a ****** team
Viet Kong are awfully mean
They made hidden door traps
Made my buddies' bones snap

The spotter is with me on this day
I'm going to make the Viet Kong pay
A ******'s duty it is to ****

I won't do it this time
Our Father in heaven gave me a sign

He is not the enemy
They will not push me to a sin
The greatest enemy you will ever face
Lies within

You need to get stronger on your own.*
How?
Even body builders need a spotter.
Someone to take the pressure off when the weight just gets to be too much and threatens to crush them.
Help me, please, I can't hold my own anymore and every second I'm doing all I can to keep from letting my strained fingers slip.
But I can't bear this much alone, and when I inevitably let it fall upon me don't ask why I was so weak.

Trot trot goes the jolly young trotter
Who runs down the beach with the help of her spotter
And *** *** goes the silly putty potter
Who pots all his pots with the help of his daughter

The young trotting trotter and the silly putty potter
Are the two proud parents of the little darling daughter
The sibling of the daughter is the sure stepping spotter
He runs down the beach keeping an eye on Ma trotter.

My husband headed out
With chain saw, maul, and wedges.
I accompanied him as his spotter,
Just in case.

He cut down two trees in fifteen minutes.
After they fell, he made his way to a third one:
An oak,
dying on the embankment,
bowing downward.

I looked to the now thinned crown of the tree,
Noticed a few leaves attached to thin branches.
Some were still green.
The tree was not ready to let go
And I told my husband so.

Two hours later, the tree was still not down.
My husband practically killing himself to make it fall,
Pounding in wedges that would pop out.

And me, I was standing above it all,
Tasked to check the tree for any directional movement:
Right, left, straight on.

This one would not be moved or dispatched in fifteen minutes.
It was still on the edge of living.
Of remembering—
That drought of 1989 when its roots ****** up any droplet of moisture;
That winter of 1996, snow and ice almost bringing it down;
And the beautiful year of a warm winter and a temperate summer.

But then—from the top down—it felt
Something coming on, invading it—what it did not know.

Now, the choice.
To hang on.
To let go.

My husband stopped pounding and made another cut.
The choice—taken away.

I. Yesterday's scraps: many more happy beginnings

i didn't travel to the brothel for revenge:
tonight, of all nights...
no... i travelled to the brothel for a lesson...
a lesson in creating a jealous woman...
a miniature Frankenstein... monster...
after all: what is a male monster?
one denied love...
and what is a female monster?
one denied feeling jealous!
a man might long for love...
but a woman? she longs for jealousy!

i'm still learning...
i was promised an entire night with Khadra?
Khedra? Khadija last night...
if she works a 0-hour contract:
she can choose! she chose otherwise...
obviously i was going to pamper myself:
extra-special tonight:
who has the reins?! me, or you?

and? i was going to choose her "competition"
to boot! because there's one way of making
promises: keeping them...
and there's another... being a whining demand
of self-sabotage...

no! i didn't go to the brothel to enact revenge!
of course i wasn't going to sleep with her:
she promised me that she would give herself
up for the night!
she didn't! ergo? i'm going to sleep with
her competition, her "competition"...

she actually can't have anyone competing with
her... since all the others are "Irish"
i.e. double-sure... pills and  ******...
but i have to admit...
it was the first time that i've been with a girl
who wanted the lights turned down: low...
low... low... almost ******* in the dark...
she asked me for permission
to snort a line of *******: she asked me...
would i want some? no... sorry...

she brought a glass of ***** with her
and a nervous laugh...
a cigarette too... and the most precious
peaches' worth of *******...
and an *** the worth and size
of a watermelon...

i didn't go to the brothel to ******...
climaxing is sometimes pointless:
esp. when you're trying to send a nagging message
of biting someone else's neck:
negging...

i knew i was going to fail the test
of both hard-on and *******...
i drank too much cider...
too much weak cider...
my **** started yawning:
i had to return to the public toilet:
****-break from American Pie:
i did have to lay a membrane of toilet
paper around the rim of the toilet seat...
before sitting down...

i squeezed out a decent loaf befitting an
Anne the Anorexic...
just after stopping by some Pakistani stoners...
asking them for a drag of their doofie...

i need to ****.....

II. The Proper Verse

i adore nights such as this one about to unfold,
i have taken only a few sips of my whiskey and i already
know what i'm going to write:
usually it's the opposite, i have to drink enough
for a cognitive blitzkrieg in the vein of how Nietzsche
described it: that a thought or an idea
comes somewhere from "elsewhere" from outside
is conjured out of thin air: a spontaneous combustion...
it implodes then explodes into writing
whereby even listening to music is not necessary...
although: i'm sort of nostalgic-happy when it comes
to my choice in younger years...
i.e. either collect the oeuvre of Led Zeppelin or
Black Sabbath... obviously i chose the former
and regretted it when i listened to Vol. 4 and heard
Solitude for the first time and only regretted it
because it was so cool to play that song on guitar
in my ex-girlfriend's parents' house when it was only
me and her younger sister...
yep... my secret crush: love at first sight...
when it was all wrong: i was 17 and she was 14...
when it was all wrong... but not as wrong if i were
to say: i was 36 and she was 14...
     i get the whole ****** element but then again
i don't: i mean... i inherited a large stamp collection
from my late grandfather... so that would make me
a philatelist rather than a lepidopterist...
ergo... it's a teenage thing, there aren't as many
restrictions of taboo when you're that young...
    and i don't think there's anything remotely allied
to an "evil thought": there's just thought...
but anyway i was playing Solitude on her father's guitar
and... believe... that song... on the guitar alone...
in a large house that's usually mental (ex-girlfriend,
mom, dad, two brothers and Priya and some guests round)
this song on guitar where there's only you
and your former secret crush... it's haunting...
   she thought i was playing some blues...
i should have corrected her by playing some blues...
but i didn't... the kitchen was in a mess from the previous
night so i told her i'd help her out:
i cleaned the dishes while she dried them...
     after that i left... keeping my secret love a persisted
secrecy... so much so... that after several years
and several ****** women later... it vanished...
as did my idiotic youth...
                   but what the hell am i saying?!
i didn't sit down to write about that, then again:
digression is a very cool instrument of narration...
i learned it from my English teacher: Syr Tomas BOONCE!

last night... i ate too much during the day...
i rarely do... but recently i've had this unstoppable urge
for dairy foodstuffs... cheese... kefir...
yoghurt... milk.... cheese... kefir...
backwards and forwards... i know i'm actually craving water
(well, "me", i.e. my body)
but instead i want dairy foodstuffs...
mind you: all dairy products have more protein
in them than actual meat... i could never be a vegetarian...
proteins from beans is not the same...
another mind you: i don't know why
In the Evening didn't make to Led Zeppelin's greatest
hits album (well, at least the one i had
back in the day) but D'yer Mak'er did...
i owned the album the song's on...
but it only came to my attention after watching
Sharp Objects starring Amy Adams...
that show was a BELTER...

so i traded in my "emergency" €90 for...
ah ****... the Indian on Villiers St would have
given me £72... but i wanted to double check...
went to the currency exchange in Romford's Liberty
Shopping Mall... **** it... i'm not going back
to Charing Cross so i can get the 72 quid...
i settled for being 8 quid short...

and as i was sitting there in the garden after dinner
with a bottle of cider in my hand...
should i go today? should i?
only yesterday Khedra dismissed her wild plan of
inviting me to her house for a night of Trojan
fun of me pretending to be the 300 and "gang ******"
her solo... well... hence the "...":
     because it would be ******* her brains out for
the whole night, as it once happened with Ilona
in St. Petersburg all those years ago...
     i miss that night... i remember asking her...
so... how many contractions of O-spasms have you
been through? 7? each for every of my heads...
a nice rounded number: doesn't mean that an even number
would be any better than the 7ΓL
(eh! who the hell said that our modern numbers
came from either India and are morphed Arabic numerals)...
**** me... the Romans used letters as numbers
IX + XI = **... we already had letters in the form
of our letters... whether Greek or Roman...
Bb = 86... P = 9 I = 1 S = 5, 2 = Z...
sure thing: with "hindsight"... well whatever history
dictates: i'm not going to bother regurgitating...
with fake news and propaganda: there must be...
NEW TRUTHS... self-made truths to bring some sanity
to the individual not swayed by any external *******...

i knew it was going to be a bad idea...
but i went anyway...
i knew i would come across (i need the German in
naming this noun compound, i.e. state of being)
nebeldenken: fog thinking... nebligdenken:
foggy thinking...
and oddly enough... or rather: hardly oddly... i did...
foggy thinking is what some "experts" would enter
the scene and prescribe a man some chemical solutions
concerning a man's phallus not working...
well... rising... and only lasting for a few minutes...
i don't call it an erectile dysfunction...
it's more complicated than that...
******* oversimplified ***... oversimplified and
made it crude and rude...
i sometimes watch some vintage Italian movies
that would have been broadcast in erotica cinemas...
my god... back then people used to be so classy when
it came to ***... and gentler... none of this modern
trash... yeah... modern ******* is trash...
it feels infiltrated by homosexual acceptance...
         too much **** and not enough sensual *******...
on both sides of the *** "debate"...
i'm so happy that no one has asked me to penetrate
them anally... either man or woman...
because, honestly? if i think about the joys of having
a fire-******* from sitting on the toilet oozing out
durchfall... thoughts of waterfalls... everything coming
out: but certainly nothing going in...
(and the German spelling is easier...
that H-surd is awfully off-putting in the English spelling)

****: that Black Sabbath song Solitude wasn't on
Vol 4 but on Master of Reality... d'uh!

i should have waited for some other day...
i get paid on the 1st of each month and thanks to ol' Lizzie
dying... i'm looking at a "spontaneous" extra
£500 to boot... thank you Lizzie...
i know there was the whole black armband affair
and what not... but this time round i was thinking
about the money: although i love crowd-control,
esp. if i'm a supervisor and i have at least 4 licensed
security guards under my control and 5 unlicensed
stewards and a TfL worker from the tube station
and some police officers to manage the crowd...
i have to admit: Wednesday 14th was a ****-show
on Villiers St... people were so ******* annoying
that Charing Cross St. put in place what they use
during New Year's Eve... not straight down Villiers St.
but up to Adam St and full circle:
half the crowd heading to the Embankment St.
half to Charing Cross... thankfully i only had one
guy jump the barriers... a complete ****-show:
the wrong B plan... thankfully... come the actually
event of the state funeral...
       19th of September went: think of a warm slice
of toast and some butter... think of silk...
the two teams of my fellow supervisors in that one-way
traffic system only had one burst of people...
about 40 of them... they did **** all throughout the whole
day... i managed all the traffic... it was splendid...
basically: 40+ people were not needed...
i supervised the whole affair of people getting home
safely with... about 10 people: that's me included...
and a few barriers...

oh to hell with being felt loved by a woman!
there's no greater curse on a man than a woman's love...
puppy love... yuck...
a man needs to feel useful! used!
useful! a man needs to feed off and feed responsibility:
authority... man thrives on competence...
not complacence...
a woman's love is no more for me that me
adoring the first bloom of Magnolia come the earliest
telltale signs of Spring...
a woman's love is sickly-sweet... it wears a Thespian's
mask and with that comes the whole entourage of
disappoints and hell's furies...
i would swap a woman's love for a cat's love
every single time...
just like the story of Esau and Jacob...
a bowl of porridge chosen by Esau instead of a birthright...
then again: them two being twins...
is a woman's love for a man a bowl of lentils
or is it a birthright? from what i've heard and seen:
men are not given a birthright to be loved by a woman...
a woman is very much Esau's choice:
i'll take the broth... have my tummy full...
instead of striving for the role of patriarch...
i don't believe in the love of women:
i do believe in a love for women...
like i believe there isn't a vegetarian diet and the like...
there is only the seasonal diet...
fruits during summer... vegetables in the wintry months...
like the elders used to eat...
but love from a woman is a curse, not a blessing...
it's a jealous irrational love... it's Pandora's quest for:
suppose woman were to be endowed with a Faustian
thirst for knowledge... Pandora is the antithesis of Faust...
a Faustian curiosity is not akin to Pandora's curiosity...

i knew it was going to be a bad idea to go the brothel...
everything was wrong (but believe me....
that evened out sooner rather than later)...
usually i need to be a complete donkey of exhaustion
having finished a 12 hour shift before i can stomach
more physical strain of pleasing a woman...
i know my body better than i know my self...
i do know my reflexive: myself...
but the reflective: my self is still an ongoing project...
it all depends on how my thinking mingles
with that fickle creature of memory...
let's face it: who chooses what you can and cannot
remember? i don't mean that erosive substance
we are all subjected to via pedagogy, i.e. schooling:
whether it be 2 + 2 = 4 or a, b, c, d, e, f, g...
or the Battle of Hastings, the year 1066...

what man in his right mind would be appeased by
monogamy, that sacred egalitarian model conjured
up by man for fellow man,
so that all might have their fill, where is it now?!
there are no traces of it... the same men than conjured
up this model have passed away and gave
any if not all authority to the whims of women!
now? women are toying with the affairs of what
was once a noble admiration for the spectacular
consistency of swans...
so we've been told: don't admire the swans...
don't look up at swans: look down on monkey!
for me there are only two basic maxims that can
be extracted from Darwinism:

a. nature abhors a vacuum...
b. everything is useful / used...

nature doesn't provide either excess or a less...
well... it does: those 7 lean years
and those 7 years of excess... but nature is no mother...
it's not feminine: nature is asexual in that
it's an equilibrium... (7/7? Joseph's interpretation
of the Pharaoh's dream)...

i know my body: i will never know my self
in so far as i also know myself...

mein gott! it's only half past ten and i'll be finished
by around 12am... i'll have at least half an hour
of enjoying drinking and listening to music
and i'll switch off my workaholic-alcoholic
modus operandi and just drink and smoke and think
about having ***...

i knew it was a bad idea... i started drinking too early:
i was rested...
the bladder was going to be a massive obstacle...
a full bladder and an ******* are always in conflict...
i should know: ******* with my still intact
******* is a bit like a woman *******
using a shower head to trickle-up-a-tease of water
into her ******* regions... i still don't understand
why non-Jews are circumcised in North America:
it's barbarism... MGM...
male genital mutilation: a sword has a sheath...
that sheath is used for *******...
you take the sword out of its sheath... i.e. you pull
the ******* back... hey presto!
you're circumcised: no need for a kippah...
or a monk's tonsure... or for that matter...
a promise from a woman with her ******* NIQAB...
that should be white in colour... at least!
and be made from linen! breathable material...
"breathable": material that might allow air through...

i don't care if they keep wearing those
NINJA-PARACHUTES (better than Boris calling
them postbox attire)... right now girls in Iran
as shaving their heads and growing moustaches...
something is clearly up in the world of Islam...
like i mentioned already... i need a second schism in Islam...
i need it to happen in the Turkish "quarter"...
how else to fight all the prior years of terrorism?
attack Islam with ideas of reform...
that's the only attack... oh two-*****-shaken
while dropped into a ******* Mojito...
sure... a **** that gives off whiffs of mint-scentedness
is fair enough by me... but you're not going
to deter ZEE MUZLIMS by going after the Hydra
of chopping one head and waiting for another to sprout!
you go to the source!
you try to improve on: "PBUM" Muhammad's first try...
revision: not revolution... Islam can be revised...
but not with the Saudis and the ******* Pakistanis...
you aim for the fringes... the cosmopolitan Islam
with a richer past than the one dictated by
the conquests of the Arabs...
Turks are a fine example... the Persians another...
****'ite Islam allows for more... ah crap...
too many vowels... i always have a problem spelling this word:
just like the Anglo-Sphere speaks of ****** words
having too many consonants the same is true for
this word: too many vowels... i'm not even going
to try... i'll "cheat", use a search engine...
man-u-vre-ah-bi-lity...
                        maneuve­rability! ah... that's the one!

on a side note...
    it's true what "they" say...
bragging rights... and consistency...
some people amass a great following...
a great following breeds many comments...
i'm pretty sure that's an indicator of low quality content...
why is it low quality content?
it amasses many comments...
me? i don't have a fervent crowd... neither did
Pythagoras or Hey-Zeus... what could 13 men do
in order for a sight like that of St. Paul's Cathedral
take? competence? fervor? determination?
certainly not mediocracy...
                i still don't understand the Pythagorean
fetish for beans... high fibre high protein...
i mean... can you imagine to sit through one of his
TRIANGLE LECTURES having to stay silent,
but unable: filled with the dread of irritable bowel movements
(due to the fibre) trying to keep in a **** / farts?!
i like my audience, they must like me...
since... they hardly ever bother me...
and as long as i spew regular material...
i might as well leave a disclaimer:
hey bro! her sis! buy a book! try getting to the author
directly! you think that writing a comment
on a copy of a book you just bought
will help?
   not since the advent of the printing press has
there been a chance for the atomised man to bypass
certain restrictions... back then it was the Churches
and the solo-book project for the illiterate man...
now? editors of printing houses have: **** all on me...
i'm bypassing them... i'm not looking at the sales:
i'm looking for hungry minds... curious / sceptical
minds... why would i think, ****: dare me "think" about
this prospect of waiting for some acceptance of an editor
of low or no TASTE?! ha ha... ah ha ha!

i love nights like this... you get caught up in many surprises:
on the one hand by your own mind,
but at times by nature itself: it has "suddenly"
started trickling the most gentle rain...
if there could be a rain song: a most soothing song
of praise for the night... rain always makes more sense
during the night than during the day...
just as the horror movie genre:
the horror movie genre abused the night...
a proper horror movie?
oh... it happens during the daytime...
   Carnage Park (2016): please don't disturb the night
with all of night's allure... people are sleeping,
foxes are roaming: shh!
sha shtil, makh nit keyn gerider
der rebe geyt shoyn tantsn vider...

**** me: so much already written and i'm yet to make
my most truthful testimony!
release me! make me make it! i'll give you all
the oaths and still not utter your name!
lodge me between the combat between
King David and King Solomon...
i would gladly pay to see that combat of cognitive
ability!
each and every man will sing a psalm...
but live up to the wise expectations of what a king
observes?! and make them categorical imperatives
like a shopping list for turnips and carrots?
hardly any...
thank god i'm not a lyricist...
i prefer words to be dealt with in the medium
of the digestive process of thought:
than a life-experience enacting:
let's face it... most: if not some... of these supposed
"wisdoms" are false by the nature of the person
uttering them...
a king's choosiest appetites
are not on a pauper's menu...
back in Victorian times oysters used to be the food
of / for the poor... look how oysters have
been elevated...
but oysters are not my Aphrodisiac... nor is chocolate...
physical exertion is... as is tiredness...
as is cider... as is tobacco... as is a little glug glug
of whiskey...

i think long gone are the days of keeping aa woman's
integrity in place for curbing a man's desires
and unfiltered "having"...

i think i'm reaching some variation of a crescendo...
i must be... if i switched "moods" with my song of choice...

i didn't go to the brothel to punish Khedra...
she promised me a one night SPECTACULAR...
i didn't get it...
i was simply lashing out against her to
disappointing me...
i was like: weren't you supposed to spend
this night with me?
her "best" excuse was: the brothel was missing
women....
right... fair enough...
E-NUFF... don't ask me how English language:
that globalist witch of a tongue works:
of all the Empires in the world...
only two imploded: the English Imperium
and the Soviet... the latter... less gradually
than the formerly...
you do know that there were plenty of peoples
living in between the Germans and the Russians
on the "event horizon" of the geographic "debate"...
i was forever CYNICAL about
a story akin to the "****** birth":
let's just pretend fostering a ******* was
much less an adventurous route for a woman to
keep...
ugh! you peoples keep too many vowel en-routes!
too many vowels!
no wonder your people are still scribbling
graffiti on brick walls:
you are half-literate!

      insult me: expect an insult back!
what's that "*******" in Shakesperean?
you bite your thumb at me, sir?
what does it look like?
if you have a rabbit's worth of front teeth on the ready...
you lodge them between the fingernail
of the thumb and the thumb itself...
then you pretend you bite down...
while flicking your thumb forward...
until you hear a "click"...
yes... i am biting my "thumb down" on you sir....
the mediocracy of lost expectations...

oh, but the event? i knew i shouldn't have...
i was drinking too much before it even started...
12 hour shift... one bottle of cider... a walkabout...
a glug or two of either whiskey or brandy...
i'm dehydrated enough to have my ****
lubricated by the glorious spat-spit-on of a woman's
mouth...
i was going to be deflated balloon of a man
tonight... i'd get a ****-blocker...
given my adventures with Khedra if i didn't
chose her...

prior to i was wandering trying to empty my vowels...
sorry... my bowels...
it's always that affair with the little *****...
ugh... i'm nervous... i know she's nervous...
cider... moon.... cigarettes...
the echo of footsteps...
but i drank too much...
i was out of place to perform....
i stumbled across two Pakistanis smoking marijuana...
walked past them... walked back...
i implored them: who's your seller?
they wouldn't disclose... can i try some?
more than willing: it's good to make "friends" in the night...
i took one ****... i told them: don't worry...
i'm not some undercover copper...
i did hope they might think i'm some MAFIA
quality-tester...
that my role was aligned to the MAFIA:
walking around testing the stuff being sold...
like i told them... 10 years ago...
these Vietnamese punks were selling the herb
lined with fibreglass!

i told them: make sure you get your "herb" from an Afghan...
i took one poke at the joint to see if it was
alright... they offered to give me the whole "thing"
up... i was like... n'ah mate...
i just want to **** on the quality:
nothing has changed since my marijuana-psychosis
over 10 years ago... it was still the same concentrated
potency... it made me caffeine high for a while
from an alcohol stupor... but nothing
per usual transcendental magnimonity...
basically ****: basically trying to sniff wet toilet paper
crap of "green"...
regurgitating snot...
mind you... they were playing pirates...
with a green light that might blind airline pilots....
as you do... smoking the herb and not thinking much...

but i wasn't an undercover police officer testing them...
i was a quality surveyor of what's being sold...
high minds think high "things"...

oh, but once in the brothel? i knew i was walking with
a limp ****! i knew that once i showered her
gifts of lingerie i'd ha ve a ****-blocker in place!
hey presto! a ****-blocker!

imagine sitting opposite three women.....
funny "thing"... being:
YOU ****** ALL THREE OF THEM...
now... CHOOOSE A "FAVOURITE"...
pardon the Judgement if Paris!
me in a brothel:
of all the women...
among the ****** it is the hardest to chose from!

i didn't terribly punish her...
not by whip or a scalding tongue...
i love her...
chocolate.... i hate chocolate....
by this brazen tinge of brown...

choke on TATE- CHICKEN
Britain my LAST ***...
with the Lilies dies my bride...
             aren't we equal to serve the crown
she was such a beautiful *** to ****,,,
lest we don't remember...
she was a granny "second to last"...
first... first comes the state...
somehow the latter affairs of  familial ties.

- imagine... sitting across a room with three women
you already ******...
choose! huh?!
choose! you have but one favorite....
and two "left-behinds"....

leave a woman sweating all over her body...
sweating...
pass on a *******...
three women: all of whom you ******...
choose...
sweat all over her body:
her pretending to ride
you on the corner of the bed... OTT...

but there's also something equally satisfying...
it's only shared between men...
working with Emmie at the Ice Rink...
i'd say we're on par... looks wise, dimension wise...
she must be a stunning 5ft11
me being a 6ft2 220pounder
and she too is a... HEALTHY specimen...
she's not obese or anything... she just reminds me
of Alison Taylor... she's a big girl for a big... boy...
i have to admit... i couldn't stop eyeing her up...
and i'm guessing these two guys i know: knew: know...
whatever... started chatting with me...
but kept on looking at Emmie as if we weren't
simply working together: but we were dating...
there was no jealousy in their eyes
there was more... a natural state of affairs...
they gave off vibes akin to: wow! nature has balanced
itself out! this guy has found someone compatible
with him!...

**** me... she's already updated her profile picture
on WhatsApp like 3 times already...
fickle creature that's memory: snd finicker creature
that's woman to boot!

she's a gorgeous Dagenham exemplification of
what an English girl ought to be...

then again: Marie... sure limp **** and all...
but i only had a limp biscuit of a hard-on after i refused
Khedra a bedding... well: i thought i was punishing
her for refusing my Spartan night of frolicking...
instead... i switched off when she brought in
a random punter into the room next to us...
in the way she started "moaning" i knew she wasn't
getting her usual pleasures...
that's when i switched off, shut down...
Marie had already dimmed the lights so **** low
she even called it a phantom illumination...
that's the first time i rekindled the time i slept
with that Spanish wild-one Tamara...
all that cocoon *** steaming under the bedsheets
afraid of beauty and nakedness:
her living arrangements didn't help either...
i was turned off by her living with three homosexuals...

there are only two ways a woman can get
bad dating advice:
1. from other women...
2. from homosexuals...
mind you, i have nothing against buggery...
i've kissed several men in my passing this mortal
wound of flesh... tonguing etc.
but...

we weren't actually engaged in much backwards
and forwards piston action's worth of
lubrication... i was sitting on the edge of the bed
and i just tucked her in into my arm's girth...

i just chose the right sort of music...
OTT... Jack's Cheese and Bread Snack...
bingo! i was caressing her thoroughly... inner thighs...
outer thigs... tickling behind the ears...
kissing the back of her neck... biting her shoulders...
massaging her *******... esp. around the *******...
poking and pinching her *******...
waiting for them to become *****... plagiarising
her hands... horribly since they were three-quarters
of my size... detailing the curvatures of both
knees and elbows...
      i knew she was nervous... she was like a tiny little
mouse unable to contract pleasure vocally...
with onomatopoeias...
a nervous giggle... here and there...
plus she had to sniff a line of ******* and down
a shot of ***** to get over her inhibitions....
the dimmed lights... which: to be honest...
exfoliated her nakedness into a lily's tease of attempted
suicide...
oh **** me... my father bought some lilies for
my mother the other day...
to the agony of her discomfort...
that's when i decided: they die... which they will...
and seeing them as they are...
they'll stage me a Philip contra Elizabeth timeline...
if one goes... the other will soon follow...

how will i dictate my fate against fate itself?
well... i won't to a Curt Kobain shotgun stunt...
i'll but loads and loads of lilies...
i'll shut the windows and the doors...
insulate myself in a limited amount of oxygen...
place the lilies near me...
loads and loads of lilies...
i'll smoke some marijuana... i'll drink plenty
of whiskey... and then... i'll... i'll fall asleep...
and never wake up! hey presto! problem solved!
mortality best cared for!

i still can't forget how she sweat all over...
she even asked me: am i hot or is it hot in here?
i replied: no... it's only you...
even with a limp ******* **** i could make a woman
sweat from all her pores...
that's almost better than giving a woman
an ******... that's me and that itchy-numbing
on my fingertips whenever i shared my property
with neighbours letting them play my Nintendo...
itchy-numbing of the fingertips... itchy-*******-numbing!

come to think of it... if i'm serious about becoming
a teacher... this was by far the best way to start:
crowd-control, public security...
if i can deal with a bunch of drunk RETARDS
then i could harness the same sense of authority
over children... better still: i have an inquisitive mind...
i'd just be doubly inquisitive about them
being either not inquisitive or stale...

maybe that'a why i enjoy PAREIDOLIA so much...
esp. come the night and the moon
and the clouds... i revel in this "****"...
perhaps that's why i abhor crossword puzzles
and that's the reason why i write with wry intent
on morphing nouns into misnomers...
i'll deliberately call a table a chair and a chair a table...
for gimmicks' sake to craft an antithesis
of Descartes sitting at his desk
pretending not to do some telepathy...

Herr ******* Cogito... Zbigniew Herbert to boot!
i drink because i'm enough of sound mind
and have tasted insanity to know:
when the great wrath of the godly wind comes:
you just **** back...
****: that's a cunning word in my mother tongue:
it's not burping via your ****...
it actually means: LUCK... you have ****...
you have luck...

Jack's Cheese and Bread Snack...
and how she insinuated ***... sweating... sweating
through all her pores...
i'm ******* losing my mind all over again:
but at least this time round it's not to something
abstract: a priori... this is all a posteriori
fervour...
i've been here before...
   i'm sure of it...
the mammal that came from an amphibian form
to this gesticulating skeleton...
i admired forg: ha ha... frog tadpoles...
their wriggling ways gave me insight into
how my handwriting would turn out...

like my grandfather said: chicken-scratching...
i'd tatoo his words onto my body if i had
the audacity to give sacrilege of body
as a gift to the gods...

how she sweated... my god... i've seen plenty
of *******... but none of the flicks compared
to that, THAT experience...
******* is ****... *** is too personal to be
exploited in such a way as to turn man
into thinking he's a ******* Duracell Bunny...
switch on... switch off...
you need to be in a "mood" to get a hard-on...
and just as quickly you can turn-off...

i know why i turned off...
but i also turned on a second gear...
i turned off because i declined Khedra...
and i turned off because i heard Khedra in the next
room not being pleasured in the way i would
have pleasured her...
and this... and that... and the "other"...
plus she's a petite creature and i wanted
to feel someone compatible to: my, SIZE...
i wanted a big girl with big floral patterns of *******
that i could massage...
i gave away my hands for her sweating
all over her body doing the bare minimum
of listening to the song of my choosing...
as we shared a cigarette...
as i kneeled before her...
because... let's face it...
i'll **** on the cross before i kneel before it...
it's the antithesis of the inborn ontology of man...
the first anti-Christian lesson i taught myself?
the cheek "thing"... reek!
someone slaps you? you slap them back!

ROSJA SIĘ MOBILIZUJE: JAM ZA!
and so they should be...
this infernal cognitive-parasite "creature" of western
conjuring is not ******* welcome in either Russia
or the Orient... it's not a serpent...
it's a ******* tapeworm!

me? i'll be ******* Eastern Women till the sun
never ******* comes... Romanian,
Bulgarian, Turkish...
sure... i'll make it a personal fetish of mine
to think of any fuckable English girls...
once they're done playing victim and succumbing
to the "egalitarian anti-racism" while
getting soaked in gasoline by Pakistani ****-gangs...
maybe then...
until then... no, thank, you!

well... brutal times require brutal measures...
and a kind, heart...
a heart the size of a pebble... and just as tough...
what?! just because the VESTERN VOLD
had a hard-on while failing in both Irq... I-RAQ...
Afgantisan... lobbied the indefinite migration
via the collapse of Libya... that... Russia... RUSSIA!
would ******* bow down to these *******
loony tunes?!

Dear Uncle (Ras)Putin... blah blah...
France's testing of their nukes in the Polynesia...
GOD-ZILLA!
   GOD... ZILLA!
                    i don't care whether or not i'm on
the right side of history: sure as **** i'm on the right
side of *******... and i like to ****:
which is why i'm not a train-spotter or a stamp-collector...
or someone who dabbles in LEGO and putting
together a replica of Optimus Prime...
just give me **** and i'll be happy-camper like
it might be a bowel of oysters...
oysters... mmm hmmm... oysters & ****...
i love oysters... i love ****...
i love naked sweating bodies...

i love the smell of hair... esp. unwashed hair...
it's so solipsistic... like farting in a crowded space...
the taste of keratin borrowed from biting nails...

you that feeling when you smell: weakness?!
i'm guessing the Islamists have had enough scent of it...
they figured out: what's the point?!
they're already implosive... they'll destroy themselves...
there's absolutely no need to attack them...
Muhammad asked Ahmed:
want to throw this tennis ball against a brick wall?
i throw, you catch... you throw... i catch...
how's that? Ahmed replied to Muhammad...
sounds... dandy... let's play.

because, that's, what, it, *******, is...
all that's "western" is RIPE for the taking...
i won't even blink when i see it desecrated...
i'll be the Poet of the Coliseum...
watching it all unfold...
i mean: i was scolded for not being confident in my
youth... now that i've aged:
oh... lucky me... guess who's also lacking
in confidence... all of the women...
will i go out of my way to try and...
no no... i don't have a car... i don't have a fixed hour
paid work contract... i don't have a house...
no no no, no no no, no... exactly!
so if i don't have x, y & z... why bother?

to the promised land of the brothel!
and even there, there are some without the slightest dignity
of being pleasured: of having confidence...
but... i've already paid: so i can work with that...
i'll gladly unravel those timid beauties into
******* floral killers of a Lily!

oh well... c'est la vie... comme ci comme ça...
some people learn to live with
a ******* hernia... or athritis...
i can live with this... i know why i'm single...
most women could not handle me...
actually: i don't think even my mother believes
she can handle me... i know why i'm single...
i'm the selfless ****-wit that wants
too many women... and occasionally... on a sly...
a man... i can live with that...
sure... from time to time i reopen an old wound
from my teenage days or romanticism and idealism...
oh! wouldn't it be great! to have a sole woman for one's
"solipsism" to destroy?! yeah...
that would be grand!                          in theory.

dearest mistress of memory: leave me be!
stop youe hanging around: let me get on with my life!
just you and only you... one faceless woman
after another...
i have plenty! i have about at least 10 on the go...
i'm deciding which one is warmer than
the others... and which is more jelous than the other...
i'll talk to one... i'll tease another...
i'll **** the third proper silly...
i'll settle for the one with the child
to not think of womanhood to begin with:
rather than behind...

i still can't escape the feeling of gratification
making her sweat all over her body by simply
having learned the geography of a woman's body...
made of ice: apparently...
mein gott... what a wonder to behold...
in my hands oranges... in her hands watermelons...
a spider of a hand crawling atop another spider
of a hand that was hers...
such tender aspects of the FLESH...
like stripped culminations of the pig rediscovered
on a woman's body...
i forgot who i was...
a butcher?! a sadist?! a wizard?!
i must have exemplified myself as "someone"
if she still felt nervous
after snorting a line of ******* and downing
a decent glug of *****... pretending to laugh: nervously...

i should have been told much earlier on
that most women have a very limited sense of self and space...
for that natter time too:
most women have zero to no self-esteem...
if you asked a 20 year old me what the "problem" was...
i'd tell you: oh! all these girls! hive minded high-brow
they're pompous *******... finicky...
walking a a pair of ******* on a leash without either ****
or dog!
but now?! mein gott!
strange... how things change...
they are so... limited...
they have become so timid... so... fresh...
they're the fresh flesh on a leash...
and still: they don't think they are...
i don't like suspect packages....
these women aren't...

i don't want to end writing this poem...
today is the 23rd... i get paid on the 1st...
i'm already practicing my plumbing with take-two!
take-three! sessions of a hard-on...
lucky a man with very little hobbies...
all i think about it *******...
even ******* turns me off: finally!
it's unrealistic! far from ever it being so...

the mind sometimes overpowers
the body in the same way that the body sometimes
overpowers the mind...
i switched off... this time round...
but it's hard... you sit down in the ante-chamber
with three women...
problem being: YOU ****** ALL THREE OF THEM...
and there's one favourite among them...
she promised you a Spartan Cohort Night with her...
so you try to punish her:
by NOT picking her...
well... that will never go down well...
since she already allowed no ****** usage...

maybe i should think about... building a play-toy-thing
train-set or... **** knows what...
i just love women too much...
i love seeing how many mistakes they make...
i'm not saying i'm perfect...
but it's  gleeful pleasure seeing a woman
make a mistake... it's a bit like... seeing yourself
being born...

upon the great ***** of time...
   a figment of your own imagining... neither conjured
up by the mere spontaneity of thought...
hardly an affair of imagining(s)...
never mind the byproduct of memorising
one iota's worth of: iota, omicron, tau, alpha...
by the dim blue glare of the iris...
no... my iris are greeeen...

each and every day the everyday happens
and i feel obliged to borrow
all the necessary talents from the Thespians...
i am "i"...
                there is still massive heed of the grand
moving parts... some stall... some arrive with
no conscience with gravity's whim...
who, are, you? peering into my disclosures?!
my soliloquy supposing
the dead have no ears?!

  have no stomach the food to digest?!
a truly be-spotten sort of: awaiting feed...
time for the freezing of the tides...
liberate the Arab from his self-induced
indulgence!
fancies of fanaticism....
              of worded "things" worth "digestion"...
a tongue of youth
as precursor for the unfathomable futures
to come! old men have: not dictate
in my life! they reek of stinking socks
not since the times when old men claimed a superior
notion among the the youth...
i have nothing! nothing! to learn from the people
i should be learning from!

old men die... that's what they were
supposed to do in the first place...
old... men... die...
i too will die... but not before them!
but at least they could have ushered in a few
decent maxims... instead?!
instead?! i have no maxim conjurers!

these pandered to old FOOLS!
i sometimes wish i were a cannibal!
then again: the prospect of eating these
"leather chairs" is pristinely:
disgusting!

                        i am: ******* livid: i am abhor!
ABHOR!
                 i will shout that word...
**** it.... no mountain near me...
i will, climb, up... a ******* hill..
and extend my tongue and mouth into a shout
and i will clarify: I ABHOR!
best we burry you *******...
you think... us... youth...
will sit back while, you had all your, fun?

it's only one coin-flip away...
i want my fun too!
you're going to tell me, no?!
are you going to tell me, no?!
you... frail... old... man?!
you're going to tell me, no?!
what did you tell your elders?!
the same **** i'm telling you?!

ooh... what a telling!
i'm 36 years old... i'm going to have all
the prostitutes in the world and more!
i've, had, enough!
no! i haven't! had! enough!
i need... more!
i need more!
        i'm going to create the reality
that Darwinism subscribed to!
                         i want, more!

i'm hungry... i'm vengeful...
i'm... oopsy-turvy... i'm...
baron of Emeralds... green Irises...
                
just like the prostitutes suggested: why are you
looking at me with so much ferocity,
with so much intent?!
why?! i'm eating your soul...
******* it out from your eyes...
you, are, mine!
the eyes disappear when the eyes roll back
into a canvas of sclera...
but not until then...

why am i so intent on peering into your self?
if it bothers you so much:
why, why... why don't you close them?!
are you afraid of being unable to see what's
worth being seen?!
tender doe... why... why... oh why so...
scared? life didn't get back to you with
its revisions of adequacy?!
too bad... maybe next time.

finish this, Matthew, finish this!
yes: we know already...
you had trouble keeping up a hard-on because
you thought you would be punishing
a ******* who's wild idea
of inviting you back to her home for free
*** backfired: as you know it would...
****-locked after you chose another
and then broke down limp
       hearing her walk into the next room with
another man and not hearing the sort
of moans you heard when she was with you...

i can't forget the dimmed lights...
contorts... archaic precusor-Cubism...
   the body sweating all other without much exertion
being applied...
if only the moon could drool moonlight
like a dog in Pavlov's experiment might drool
for the reply to a ringing of a bell...
my hands turned into spiders...
my hands turned into eyes...
but i wasn't angry or ashamed at my predicment
of under-performing...
if she was sweating all over her body
and i wasn't impaling her bur rather caressing her...
*** is... complicated...
it's not even close to the pornographic depictions...
i switched from a performance artists
to looking for something deeper...
a bit like...
well... what's within wheat?
   the category of carhohydrates... fibre...
it's the same with ***...
                                simply squeezing juice from a lemon
is not even about the point of squeezing
or the lemon...
    sometimes lethargy kicks in when you're trying
to switch ****** partners...
esp. difficult if you already have three sitting opposite
you whom you all have bedded...

Monday... i'm going to have to revise my liquid intake...
i already know that it requires me to juice up
with one strong cider... and drink some whiskey
on the side...
while kneeling before her naked body...
or sharing her cigarette...
then again: maybe her nervousness made me nervous...
after all: she had to snort a line of *******...
she had to drink half a cup of *****...
and still that nervous laugh as if Khedra was going
to **** her...
i have recently found that women are...
terribly nervous...
it's so unforgiving to find oneself in the company of a nervous
woman...
then again: maybe this should be a thrill for me?
oh, Marie is going to take me a while
to unravel... she's too petrified for any penetrative
***... she's pretty content with performing
only oral ***...
    i wonder... why...
  she's the first girl who wants to do it completely in the dark...
she feels insecure or rather: wounded...

whatever the reasons are...
    this tiny: heaviest of hearts i frown at and with.

p.s. 4/4

e|-------------------------------------------------12---
B|---­------------3--------------------------------12---
G|---------3--­---------5----- 2h3h2-----------12---
D|----5------------------------------------­3-----------
A|--------------------------------------------------­-----
E|-------------------------------------------------------

­and then my usual blues...

We barged hard against the old door and managed to get in
Dark corridors led to a back alley where fantasy met reality
There they were, hundreds a shiny boxed small windows waiting for us
Richard picked up a stone, pulled his home made catapult and released.
Bam, a broken window now more broken
You have a go
I took it and hit a window, amazing sound and joy
The windows were in our sights

Left a bit, right a bit...
Patang, reload, hutchuck, dut, snnuuuck,
Missed
Adjust scope a little to the right
This time a hit, no movement from the crow
A small troop are marching up towards our house
Door bell rings
dad looks concerned
'There's a report of a youngster with a rifle?'
It's the UDR
dad looks very nervous
'Its just my son with an air rifle'
dad brings the rifle to the door and the gun licence he had
Firkin wee Duffie the headmaster has seen me with his binoculars
The wee sneak ..I rumble under my breath
'No problem sir, we're on our way out of here'
Wee Duffie had me in his sights

Returning from England the green walk up the Dungannon road is a fresh change from the hustle and bustle
Passing a bungalow on the right a man stares out at me, hands by his side
I take a left up a hill past Derek's place
We rode his white horse bare back in that field
Suddenly a car pulls up with the man and he winds the window down
'What's the name?' he growls
'What do you mean what's the name, I'm just out for a walk?' I retort
He reaches for the glove box, I stop
'What's the name?' he shouts again
I ignore him and continue walking
He accelerates quickly forwards stops and manages to make a U turn

Walking back home I'm confronted a small troop of soldiers marching the other way
A car pulls up
'What's the name?'
'Turner' I say
"It's the bank manager's son, stand down'
On reflection I processed this situation years later
The big man Stewart had thought I was a 'spotter' from the IRA spotting him an off duty policeman in his home so that a shooter could take him out
He had his hand on his pistol in his glove box with a view to pull the trigger
He had me in his sights

craning my neck to the never-ending ascent
cemented stairs narrowing into dizzying consent
flickering, dull neon lights,
my shoes tapped as I puffed
above the steps of flight
the air was cool,
posters plastered on the gloss
sharpie scribbled pertaining messages
historical analogies, flashback memories
creak, the heavy metal door opened
place a stopper, shush my breath away
before me splayed an array of shafts
wooden beams and rotating lighting crafts
silent and dark, empty and stark
I tiptoed and clung to the ladder
tasting like metal and smelling of riddles
I finally sit, spotter vibrating in hand
the piercing white light following my
every trail
headset fastened, murmuring conversations
the show is starting in
3
2
1
go
actors file onto the gleaming stage
vibrant hues and melancholy shadows
each element working in unison
my hands spotting the beams
flashes of color
ringing tones of vocal chords
musical, theater performance
and I sit in my booth
hands tingling from light's heat
watching the show unfold,
behold, transform,
beneath my feet

My terrifyingly-terrifical reality warps under therapies psychiatrical
& psychedelical like no Atlantic tuna fisherman's scale pentatonical
upon oceanically-flat, perpendicularly-level sea planes capitalistical
while birds fly lower in an arid-zoned Arizona that's deterministical
& esoterical as men push thumbs up girly ***** for hikes strategical
after circle jerking to shows that're less proctological than athletical
but rarely & lamely ever, hungrily-raunchily-anorexically bulimical
I fork pitches into threshed alfalfa hay bales like I am pyromaniacal
and susceptibly prone to no ills local nor core diseases xenotropical
Hey largish woman, let us fish for warm regards at Cold *** Harbor before our freshest blue turds are totally stolen by a bold **** robber whose pushers are burned crack hoes with clap & an old **** jobber
fishing for the corpses of Frisco floaters with a *****-slotted bobber
off the Golden Gate where gag-happy girls have sold spit as slobber
while each ***** pukes peat & tosses penicillin as a mold-pit lobber
on leave from a Georgia chain-gang as a queer, unshod clod hopper twice demoted from flat-ball spotter to broken Hoboken hobnobber
who, like Hillary, survives on gray, vomited Hoboken squat cobbler
in gay museums & ***** ***** houses as a snot-clobbered shopper
resigned to tease, displease & nonviolently seize Herr Alvin Toffler
Pay more at Mary Tyler Moore's fish store on the floor of the shore,
with Al Gore on his global-warmin' tour to make wealthy men poor

to the days when you wake up: mentally exhausted...
everyone else is having their mental breakdown
conundrums:
you had yours aged 21... you aged with...
that ******* choir and the great wind that dispersed it:
no, oh no... no instructions from the great almighty...
just a wind of a voice that dispersed a choir
of: invisibilities... i kept quiet... ran around the church...
lay under the altar... dragged the cloak from it and
covered myself: shivered... switched my iPod on...
then off... stiff the ******* singing...
i had no one to talk to... i still don't...
               oh well... lucky for me this happened back
in 2007... and after 2007? theatre! circus!
but while people are gradually gearing up to their...
ahem: group-therapy session overloads...
i've passed mine... no help: except for the time when
i visited a psychiatrists and: because he presumed
i was white British: i should be given the post-colonial
treatment of: REGRESSION...
false memory implants...
      the insinuation being: i was abused as a child...
sure... yeah yeah... by whom?
me? obviously me... i was ******* by the age of 8...
self-taught... don't know... it must have made sense
since... i wasn't: aren't: circumcised...
a "sword" has a "sheath": no?
               but fair enough to the circumcised crowd...
if their women are... religiously obligated
for a man to loose his ******* "detail"...
the niqab usually helps... blah blah...
           but then i imagine the instances when
a man is circumcised and... boom!
all the frustrations overflow from being snipped...
it's ******* degrading...
i don't need a sack of ******* the size of watermelons...
no... on the throne of thrones...
****... ****... *******... to some...
      venus, cupid, folly & time Bronz(z)ino...
i don't need much... my libido is a hamster and all
i need is a hamster's wheel worth of cleavage focus...
that's it...
    every time i go and visit a ******* i focus
my libido on... two aphrodisiacs...
spells of concentrated exercise: heavily cardio orientated...
and... white wine...
well... and jerking off without having to ******...
so i know where the blood is flowing to...
oh... right... that part...
but glory to be to such days...
mother is busying herself cleaning the house...
while i play the actor of idle...
    i have my bedroom... i have my private
library... only two volumes... only two volumes
of Knausgaard's Mein Kampf left to read...
and no... i will not finish Dickens' the Pickwick Papers:
on principle: from a review...
not that i would ever reread any book i've already
read...
        but... while people around me are having
their apple-pie crumble... i'm riding... slow: high...
slow: though... just... sifting... sieving through the air...
thankfully my difficulties came early:
god, great wind... i don't know...
did the choir descend from on high...
or did it boil from rummaging in the depths of
Hades?! like i said: i wasn't given any: instructions...
hear a great wind... what?! **** against it?!
         *******: become petrified... run around...
ugh... eh?! huh?!
                   i wasn't going to become one of those:
Hyde Park Speakers' Corner nut-jobs...
first: the world would have to reveal... what it was supposd
to reveal... and still i wouldn't do anything...
not after: why do i feel so mentally exhausted
waking up?
oh... right... now i remember...
well... if you go to sleep via: punching yourself in
the head... head's a bit of a mess...
knuckles ache... why am i so disorientated:
lacking motivation... was i fighting someone, last night?
oh, ****... me... or my shadow...
i prefer the idea of my shadow punching me...
or me punching it: but i always miss...
it's all about the thinness of him... i'm too solid...
he's already talking to the Madame of the brothel
of death... silly picture...
so i wake up and start thinking: pretend to start
thinking: i'm already here... so...
thinking is more of an: afterthought...
obviously i didn't just: magically appear:
but i don't have to make that Cartesian effort
of justifying consciousness: to begin with...
thinking is an afterthought...
i didn't exactly think i was going to be born...
did i?
           brain-damage... creative brain damage...
spontaneous: from punching yourself
in the head... giving you a prized plum hue
under the eye... sore knuckles... nice... nice...
i guess... coupled with heavy drinking:
beats any choice for psychadelics:
that ******* mushroom hijacked my monkey
brain! mushroom! mushroom!
mushrooms parasites controlling us!

                  let's be hyperbolic for a little: on a whim...
in all seriousness...
the glory of feeling so **** but at the same time:
so... goo... goo... ahem: good...
well... such days are as follows...
who can say that they "self-harm" by fighting their
own shadow? wrestle with it...
silently scream at it... go! explore the night!
mould with it! i don't need you! fiend!
     well... however the drinking boyo's stereotype
goes... next day... oh man: my forehead
and my cheeks hurt... i must have seriously done
some damage...
        because so much of man in society is
pacified... what?! violence... only as a spectacle:
during boxing? that's it...
and no healthy show of masculinity via the rough
and tumble? well... that's not fun...
     not fun at all... i'd love some back-alley rough
up after a few too many drinks with a sparring partner...
fat chance of that happening...
we'd be immediately caught on c.c.t.v. and the police
would come in and break us apart...
oh the sweetness of a good fight...
     me and Kieran O'Mahoney... just before class...
wrapping my hands round that lard-ball...
punching him in the kidneys...
then he crying about it: he started...
to the teacher and me retorting: shut the **** up:
stop crying...
              because i couldn't just: do what so many
have done... guns... knives...
no no... not mortal combat... just a play around with
fists... teeth... knees...
           *** can't be the only outlet for man's
"frustrations": sure... and i'd love to try painting...
if i had the assets to buy paint, for ****'s sake...

drinking works: up to a point...
but after a while... i need some: grr! some oomph!
some sucker punching bag...
well... at least no one can say jack **** if i'm
beating myself up... ha ha...
ah... ha...
                  
   oddly enough: not oddly enough...
it feels like listening to that :wumpscut song -
madman szpital (skon remix)
and the lyrics... which... this is a Bavarian electronic
project... backwards and forwards
"us" western Slavs and the Germans...

     nie przyjęty do szpitala...
    
       not admitted to a hospital...

             nicht zugelassen zu ein krankenhaus...

ergo... moi...
            the 3Ps extending to...
poets... priests... prostitutes... psychiatrists...
madmen...
   who envision themselves as...
inheritors of the lineage from the Greek Titans...
wrestling with themselves... fighting themselves...
in order to: seek out: vitality...
a life-affirming "gravity": abundance of...
curiosity...
                       ***'s a tease... it's soft...
it's mollusk ******* oyster type of scenario...
it rarely reveals the proper sensation of bone...
sure... sometimes... the coccyx...
the pelvis roughed up... that's not enough...

perhaps all those myths of an Aztec or a Spartan
society were true, or therefore are...
i feel enclosed: entombed: fermenting in my physical
prowess, dignity: even...
just some rough and tumble... some:
a society that gathers on a Sunday and doesn't kneel
to **** off a corpse on a crucifix...
pain one can endure... if one can possess a reality
of also being capable to inflict it...
hell... i'm free-falling in thinking:
but... if i could strain my body parts in a showcase
of violence: rather than the mundaneness of
cardiovascular exercise...
    i'd be twice the man i'm currently half of...
well... more as one: if i'm punching myself in the head...

****... sore forehead... how did i? oh... right...
that's why i feel sore... sore cheekbones... sore jaw...
it's not fair that some men get to exercise their violence
via boxing, or rugby... while i slouch over
a keyboard and bash some thoughts squash-style...
i'm getting in on the action...
     you simply can't just: "translate" everything that's
masculine into an art-form...
you need knuckle-arithmetic: from time to time...

sanity and the boredom that life throws at you
with its decrepit longevity...
best time to start reading philosophy books?
probably in your early 20s... i was... called to the "cause"
by listening to some lectures on Hume, David...
that black swan... induction... falsification... blah blah...
i was hooked... a sort of thought-spotter...
if there is such a "thing": beside the thing most associated
with spotting: i.e. trains... no... no trains here...

the rest is history... beep beep bleep... beep beep...
oh man... just some outlet for violence...
it would be greatly appreciated...
            to feel more sensations than a mollusk's
comforts of: fragility and... pickling itches when
getting a suntan...
            something more than mere ***...
i want to feel... that i don't have an exoskeleton!
i want bruises! life's so ******* boring without...
the fun fright of a fight!
it's stale sourdough bread... it's a ******* crouton!

everything: schematised, systematic,
predictable... orientated... gynocentric...
predominantly centred around: ensuring the safety
of women, children and old people...
well then! can't the boys have their violence?!
no no... not clinical violence...
within the confines of boxing... or whatever other
martial art...
i mean: violent play... just: hmm...
         i can't explain it to a person who hasn't
punched themselves: not myself: my shadow punched
me...
   i just can't...
because it's not the sort of masochism
associated with ******-shaming associated with
ol' Leo von Sacher-Masoch...
                it's... drawing from something Aztec...
Spartan... i don't need no limp **** scenario of
leather, boots, feathers, or latex...
             i just need to fight someone...
as much as i need to **** someone...
my perfect day would include:
a medium-rare steak... loads of pepper...
Himalayan pink salt...
   the meat: no carbohydrates, no salad...
or raw herrings in a creamy pickle sauce...
and then... fighting someone...
and then... ******* someone... then again:
those last two points could be done in reverse...
whichever...

i miss violence... the sort of violence where
you might later have a beer with your opponent...
eh... life's ****... for this particular reason...
pacified... un-gloriously tamed... hibernating:
zoological... therefore: caged...
systematically broken by psychological schematics...
fractions of once whole men.

✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪
My terrifyingly-terrifical reality warps under therapies psychiatrical
& psychedelical like no Atlantic tuna fisherman's scale pentatonical
upon oceanically-flat, perpendicularly-level sea planes capitalistical
while birds fly lower in an arid-zoned Arizona that's deterministical
& esoterical as men push thumbs up girly ***** for hikes strategical
after circle jerking to shows that're less proctological than athletical
but rarely & lamely ever, hungrily-raunchily-anorexically bulimical
I fork pitches into threshed alfalfa hay bales like I am pyromaniacal
and susceptibly prone to no ills local nor core diseases xenotropical
Hey largish woman, let us fish for warm regards at Cold *** Harbor
before our freshest blue turds are totally stolen by a bold **** robber
whose pushers are burned crack hoes with clap & an old **** jobber
fishing for the corpses of Frisco floaters with a *****-slotted bobber
off the Golden Gate where gag-happy girls have sold spit as slobber
while each ***** pukes peat & tosses penicillin as a mold-pit lobber
on leave from a Georgia chain-gang as a queer, unshod clod hopper
twice demoted from flat-ball spotter to broken Hoboken hobnobber
who, like Hillary, survives on gray, vomited Hoboken squat cobbler
in gay museums & ***** ***** houses as a snot-clobbered shopper
resigned to tease, displease & nonviolently seize Herr Alvin Toffler
Pay more at Mary Tyler Moore's fish store on the floor of the shore,
with Al Gore on his "global"-warmin' tour to make wealthy men poor
I don't puke anymore like I used to once in awhile never always did
'cause I gave up stinking diarrhea-sponsored rotten octopus & squid
that I inhaled like ******* on reduced food stamps when I was a kid
thrilling to vicious Johnny Rotten caterwauling over the bass of Sid
long before biddin' on the corpse of Jimmy Carter with a sealed bid
that I put under my fat folds where the fatty **** was that I often hid
so cops couldn't cop 4 fingers of ganjah rope that made for 1 *** lid
before I ride a homosexy unicorn that ain't by no *** queen been rid
Never have I wanted to scoop up the reekin' **** of an ill, zoo rhino
while I'm happy I wasn't born an easily-sun-burnt, pink-eyed albino
or a back-alley ***** in love with a stinking, Hillary-screwin' wino
whose drunken state makes him reply to cake, "Yes" & to pie, "No"
whilst he pees on California droughted pines from pine A to pine O
Look at me, I'm half stupid from being unlooped so long from here,
like someone unable to revive dead Sonny or disengage harlot Cher
from her lezzy-*** intrigues that Salvatore & Gregory couldn't bear
at the grimy Pittsburgh ****** for which sickly Cher did not prepare
for oozin' vaginal rifts that her gynecologist had to surgically repair

title: labrador
body:
Labrador mansion:
bright eyes: see;
tug... tailor... leash.

i find myself rereading some aphorisms by Nietzsche
from human, all too human...
in terms of maxims... aphorisms...
   a Rochefoucauld is on par...
            i sat down with a whiskey and a pickle's worth
of thought... i'm getting my search results
hyped up with self-          -help guru mantras...
i abhor that prefix: self- esp. when it comes enticing
a suffix -help... point being...
there's this burning thought in my head...
   how... rather... a realisation that still prompts me
every time i think about other people's problems...
when it comes to dating... blah blah etc.
i'm sitting down... perfectly alone and thinking...
wait a minute: i... i really don't have these problems...
i tried relationships before...
but... apart from wanting nothing more than
***... the conversation never really satisfied me...
not with a woman...
my last encounter... oh god... i wanted so bad
to get into her ******... but the conversation?
she just complained about her ex-boyfriends...
how one dropped a boy in her womb and ****** off
not paying any child-support...
another was much younger so she could manipulate
him with... whatever scarcity of *** she gave him...
blah blah: punch 1 punch 2... how she sat through
his addictions... how he gave her a bad credit score...
how she's now in debt...
               what conversation would i want to have...
with... that kind... of a woman?
matching her in years... just... 4 years shy...
and... she's clueless... can't control me...
when she tells me her older brother moved back
in with his parents and is being abusive to them...
while i tell her: i haven't moved out
but i do all the house chores... the cooking...
i tried to change the subject of conversation to music...
movies...
but it's like... yeah... Dua Lipa... Mabel...
but i'm not here to talk about her son out of wedlock...
no wonder then...
i went to the brothel about a month ago...
the ***** still sends me selfies of kissing the *******
air and what not... i've been sick for the past week
so i "ghosted" her... no i haven't...
i just haven't been feeling up to scratch...
but i seriously have... no need to talk to women...
once upon a time... oh my god...
i could have been really good friends with her
for the splendour of a lifetime...
but you age... you become... rigid...
         predictable with yourself...
sharing a life with someone of the opposite ***
makes you... doubly predictable to yourself:
since you're no longer living to surprise yourself...
every time i have these thoughts i have
to consolidate myself into thinking:
i'm no companionship material...
    i never was... even if some psychologists roasts
the counter argument:
oh... but women are always right...
for not choosing you... they're right: you're wrong...
it's like... fair enough...
            i sometimes tease the idea of being
a father with the children of strangers...
today, i... "forgot"...
                   the manicurist came round the house
to do my mother nails...
she brought her friend along...
the manicurist brought her toddler...
the manicurist's friend brought her mongrel son...
she's about to get divorced...
my mother described him as an animal:
ADHD she could understand...
i was lying in bed until 1pm waiting for the women
to *******... i heard weird sounds...
the little ******* wasn't watched by his mother...
strange screams to add to the weird sounds...
pushed... pinched... whatever it was he did...
to my female maine **** cat... she expressed her
discomfort... he ****** off...
the manicurist's toddler came to my cat...
she retaliated... scratched the toddler's face...
almost taking out her eye...
                       i remember that one time...
when my dobberman started biting into my Alsatian
*****'s hind... i later smacked him with a belt
and he too almost gauged my eye out...
    if i were in the company of a woman...
right now... would i be listening to post-punk music
from the 1980s... from... Finland?
or the Netherlands? probably not... would i be rereading
Nietzsche? probably not... would i be drinking
whiskey and sitting on a windowsill...
enjoying as much of silence as might be allocated
to... not thinking?
        it's not a harsh realisation...
most only-children figure it out...
well... some do... we're not built for companionship...
i've noticed it at work...
people try to make small-conversations...
i can never make small-conversations...
   i like my silence... tell me what to do...
please... no small-talk...
                   but come to think of it...
i want to write something profound...
           i'm almost gagging to write something profound...
Nietzsche: aphorism 398 -
modesty: women's modesty generally increases
with their beauty...
right... that's the beauty with writing aphorisms /
maxims... people who write them are rarely challenged...
in the immediacy of stated "truth"...
me? i always had this nagging expression...
why do all the beautiful girls become
prostitutes?! for me this maxim / aphorism is FALSE...
women's modesty generally decreases with their
beauty... unless Nietzsche is inviting Socrates':
let my inside be as beautiful as my outside etc. *******...
the most beautiful women are the most immodest
women... well... if beauty is something to be "shared":
i.e. that other men are jealous of a man who
is familiar with a woman of considerable beauty...
once upon a time i heard on the streets of London
when much younger:
a voice said... marry a woman that other men
will not desire... well... great... only a few days ago i was
left mesmerised by spotting a train-spotter at
Stratford Station... armed with his notebook... checking the times
of arrivals... wow...
well... at least he wasn't defeated to his garage playing
with model trains...
i could never write maxims or aphorisms:
they're such a game of hit-and-miss...
you spot one truth... clever enough...
but you miss on another...
    like the prior mentioned quest of equating a woman's
beauty with her modesty... codswallop...
all the really pretty girls become prostitutes...
but aphorism 625 about solitary men...
in short: one must grant certain men their solitude...
and not be silly enough: to pity them...
as is often the case, should such men be addressed...
they'll simply turn around and say:
i pity the company you keep...
perhaps the company you keep...
or the company that keeps you: in company...
solitude is a learning curve...
personally: i never laughed more whole-heartedly
when in company of others:
always when thinking and reacting to my thinking:
solo... i tell myself the best jokes...
i retain all the best jokes: for myself...
no one knows the jokes i've spoken to myself...
and i've always been the only person
to laugh at them...
     now... sharing that... with a woman?
would have become a complete waste of time...
so the pop psychologist dangles this carrot
of why women are picky...
sure... they're picky with regards to men
impregnating them, abandoning them...
or drawing debt in their name so they can't work
in the financial sector... great ******* choices!
i'm not their father... i'm not their uncle...
i'm not stepping up...
the saying is universal: how did you make your bed?
now sleep in it...
    i have trouble sleeping with a cat in my bed...
for a few hours before i knock-myself-out
while listening to the Chants of the Templars...
a ******* cat... imagine having to share
a bed with a woman... unimaginable torture...
i tried that once... each time... one side of my body
turned numb from having to snuggle up
to her... an impossible paradise of touch...
it just bothers me that people are so desperately seeking:
a "friend" to... zombie-out till old age
while watching television, the news...
movies...
can't i be content, alone, watching clouds...
the weather... my shadow?
i just can't be found spewing aphorisms...
truths that have no facts...
sure... well-grounded observations...
but no follow-up justifications...
            i can't bemoan what most men bemoan...
because... most men bemoan...
a fact that... they're wrongly bemoaning about...
an hour with a *******...
on a regular basis... once a month...
would cure them of their ills...
these bemoaning men are not looking
for relationships / companionship...
they're not... they're still to understand that
they're built for the solo-trip...
they're not father material...
me? i don't want to be a father...
i want to remain an arrogant bicyclist...
i want me testosterone levels giving me a break
with an early death...
             these men seem...
conflated by a confusion that... they should have
sought out from a *******... seriously...
i know what i want...
one hour... physical intimacy...
and then... a month... free...
       to do me... for me... and me alone...
write... scuttle... read a little...
watch a... moo-v... alone...
              i don't want a relationship....
these guys have it terribly wrong...
they're not relationship material...
               to elevate ******* is one thing...
to think... you... can... do what... most men
sacrifice from fear of solitude? that's rather another...
it would be like...
so... we're going shopping...
any chance of my going into the vinyl store and
checking out some new records?!
no? just... shoes... and... what the ****?!
now... i could... compensate...
when i told you: first date... let's go to an art gallery...
then the cinema... then to a restaurant...
make a day of a date...
now? i'm not too sure...
i'm not willing to compromise...
                 how men prioritise their life with regards
to their earning is... so... so much different to how
women prioritise their life per se...
regardless of their earnings... since...
women earning their own money is something
completely new...
me? why would i need to earn more money
if i'm not going to spend it?
thereby, also, save it?
               why would i require more?
how much do i need to spend...
how many rainy days are to be expected?
              so... why work more,
to earn more, if i don't need: more?!
                                 i don't need to look pretty
if i can simply look presentable:
washed... tailored...
i don't need to be a ****-upped glitter machine
of chance of flirt;
but i can't be readied for anything more than
than a mere hour of physical intimacy...
i can't do... pair bonding... "relationships"...
watching the television with someone...
the older i become the more i realise this...
sad-but-not-sad-truth...
             it might be a sad truth... but it's a truth:
regardless...
people with the capacity to couple-bond
are sad... since... they are so incapable to
try it out: solo... they have to live and thereby die...
as... halves...
they can never live, or die...
as their unique wholes...
          what a strangely placed focus for a "struggle"...
there is none... to begin with:
or to end with...

upon oceanically-flat, perpendicularly-level sea planes capitalistical
while birds fly lower in an arid-zoned Arizona that's deterministical
& esoterical as men push thumbs up girly ***** for hikes strategical
after circle jerking to shows that're less proctological than athletical
but rarely & lamely ever, hungrily-raunchily-anorexically bulimical
I fork pitches into threshed alfalfa hay bales like I am pyromaniacal
and susceptibly prone to no ills local nor core diseases xenotropical
Hey largish woman, let us fish for warm regards at Cold *** Harbor before our freshest blue turds are totally stolen by a bold **** robber whose pushers are burned crack hoes with clap & an old **** jobber
fishing for the corpses of Frisco floaters with a *****-slotted bobber
off the Golden Gate where gag-happy girls have sold spit as slobber
while each ***** pukes peat & tosses penicillin as a mold-pit lobber
on leave from a Georgia chain-gang as a queer, unshod clod hopper twice demoted from flat-ball spotter to broken Hoboken hobnobber
who, like Hillary, survives on gray, vomited Hoboken squat cobbler
in gay museums & ***** ***** houses as a snot-clobbered shopper
resigned to tease, displease & nonviolently seize Herr Alvin Toffler
Pay more at Mary Tyler Moore's fish store on the floor of the shore,
with Al Gore on his global-warmin' tour to make wealthy men poor