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i like the communism acknowledged by ants
and terminites,
but that brothel bit where
we plagiarise lions
just to get islam?
**** that, let’s try again,
and again,
and again... until
the rhytms of the labrador and
the tricep conincide with a society
worth living in,
the utopia of my grandfather
i wished i lived in only compensated
by achilles and hercules...
imagine! only by achilles and hercules!
only by achilles and hercules!
hell with you!
hell with you for stealing that from me
and giving me the antionette john paul ii...
that gave me a statue and not a job -
endearing as the entering applause,
hell with you, discarded western of the jeans...
i'd go back to ukraine had
i claimed justice in a society that divided me
to make justice unclaimed and literature
for worth of being unclaimed...
had such society existed... the mongols
would have conquered it by simply yawning /
as opposed to mustard stink /
what? west's the best daddy's girl hello
boy dylan **** jim morrison?
you're ahead of yourself in the electra complication
with the decided cold war no.2 originating with the
kalashnikov & katyusha in pseudo-ottoman hands;
hell with you! stay middle class and un-fuckable!

me? i have no bond shares in terms of lying,
i have no profit...
i walk the streets at night painting a canvas
with only brown hue offshoots:
first it’s three bavarias,
then it’s a stella artois,
then a cobra,
after that a belgian leffe blanc,
i finish off with a saint michael from spain...
after that it’s barcode whiskeyh at 10.30 a bottle...
between khaki and tawny?
well, there’s ochre and there’s sepia...
there’s carbonated synopia and there’s slave hydroxy-loss rufous...
all shades of brown set againt st. andrew’s cross...
shadows in the fog i too tamed japan in spring
rather than in the wilderness of the seas among the waving waves
of the mongol invasion planned...
oh care less for me in my attention for an escapism...
it spans the lodgings of jailor and the strutting bars
as it might in 2d iv slash through to v....
i am wed to my past... i have not clear value for tomorrow...
because, after all, cats and dogs are cheaper to keep than women
obviously enough true and sad thus.
about that litmus testing i entitled this poem?
£110 prostitutes will not lie concerning having an ******,
i wish i had a bigger phallus to have one-night-stands...
bed more women...
but given the size of mine, the prostitutes i try to be familiar with
in an hour for £110 will ask for an extra £10 to give them oral ***...
and among them only one had an ******,
the rest didn’t fake it... they they just numb from not having it...
it humbling i might add... to pay for something numbing
and see what other cares have failed when tried...
it’s sobering to see a ******* worth £110 an hour...
and not see it translated into self-esteem of an orgsam
due to the fact that one’s phallus was not big enough
to provide an intimate relationship
of the objectification of an hour...
that’s what’s so ardently lost in me...
in wish for relationships that only last a night...
i have sacrificed the only relationship i could have had...
spanning beyond the blue of the moon once noted and thus lost:
******* envy? not so much, casual-envy of what can easily reclaim
a morbid frequency of the repeat and dis-satisfaction...
any shred of egoism can thus be discarded,
when it comes to ******* sizing...
i also have this defense mechanism like a turtle shell or
a hedgehog at a barbers... the freudian madonna-***** complex
splintering... an impotence mechanism...
when given the chance for a one-night-stand...
ironic you might say... not that macho said anything concerning bicep or tricep
to be worried about on the same magnitude... macho didn’t,
so i acknowledge when to speak and not feel un-concerned for the right reasons.

you become one with yourself
in a yoga class
with a basketball game happening
directly overhead
you feel at peace - at least
you are supposed to
with heavy eyes you walk out
loose and floating
you walk to the gym
and do bench press
bicep curls
tricep extensions
you are nothing if not
you are nothing without
you are nothing but
a predictable perfectionist
staring into your own eyes a million miles away
contradicting yourself
on a microsecond by microsecond basis
you eat a rice cake

you know, when you've just drank about *****...
you don a pair of sunglasses,
and you're listening
to marilyn manson's
long hard road out of hell:
mediating all the internet drama...
and then...
           your arms fold... at where forearm
meats the bicep / tricep...
on the elbow cusp...
        and the lower part of your
arms, rises stiff, dubious...
     and the whole partial-limb tightens
a grip on the existence of the shadow...
only with prolonged excesses of
ingesting ***** does this curiosity
arise...
the mantis pose...
              yum...
                   yummy yummy yum yum...
right on the cusp...
the hands turn into saber-tooth
hinge type of jaw-lines...
      shadows that growl, glow and
lament simultaneously...
           what?!
a mantis pose...
  you drink at much ***** as i have,
and for as long...
you too would find this automated
pose a Francis Bacon curiosity...
   groupies? no...
       i'm here for: shadow...
      always with the ******* *****,
the sunglasses, and the right volume
of the right music...
look... by comparison to the horrors
conjured in the 20th century paperback...
i'm a banality of expectation,
that... frankly... was never
suited for either fame,
or being the expected...
             i'm simply hier-           -sein...
          whatever "there" was,
is the "here" of, what here or there,
but became:               now...
   jetztsein...
               oh look... how spacing and timing
overtook the ontological certainty
to counter the *** space-time "continuum"...
well... if the Yids failed at anything
it was their overblown IQ...
sure as **** perfected their nationalism...
the Yids live in a perfecting
harmonization of Jude, as space...
and the time of Israel...

       if only Russia didn't interrupt
the integration of Ukraine...
and whatever happened to Turkey...
the lat segment of the dream of
Nebuchadnezzar II...

religiosity and all the tales,
is my second drinking part of intoxication...
i drink the wine of the ages,
or rather... i spice it up...
no ***** in the bible...
   but i feast on these written
catacombs...

       did i tell you about the mantis
pose?
         crux on the folded arms...
stiff upper bicep / tricep...
and a slightly lose lower arm...
with hands stretching into forceps
of shadow puppetry akin
to those expected from icebergs?!

*****, the night and sunglasses...
what  ****** combination;
as a wise woman once noted:
easier to be feared,
than to be loved.

first the bench where someone left a good pair
of shoes under the bench: mountaineering shoes,
bulging tricep in lycra types... i waited as a few people
passed, some on foot some in cars, drinking a beer,
wondering if they'd spot casper the friendly ghost...
then it was this cow-patch-work
of a cat, one eyed, started playing with
me, started off while we stood still
in the middle of the street
and i kneeled... then i boxed him
down with cuddles and strokes,
exposed his weakness, so he bit me gently,
i thought of women and the way
they behave like cats... then i thought
of men and myself: ah ****, dogs...
i don't want to wear a leash - i'll walk
my own random route thank you...
when i get drunk ezra's experimentation
with the personae comes out in me,
it's me talking, with a twist of lemon zest...
so she's the one who puts a ring on the
ring-finger and a leash around the neck?
ah crap... you wouldn't believe it...
buck bukowski made an entrance in
season 6 of that television series my family,
although as a self-help guru...
god the oddities - quantum physics as
particular energy content of particular things...
which is hardly a stance to take
with universal energy of a questionably universal thing...
given that there's only one... the universe,
and in it - so many particularness s s s (solipsisms)...
in between i opened a bottle of sant miguel
with the jailed archimedes with a cigarette lighter,
sant miguel bottles are the best...
if i carried an actual bottle opener in my back
pocket i wouldn't have made the same impact
of a girl getting out of her car with cabbage and broccoli luggage,
i took a firm grip... thomp / pop...
then the shriek... she got a fright...
the executioner just scalped the bottle like a red indian,
don't worry, charles 1st is still talking to the parliamentarians,
although with a weird haircut of bleeding scalp...
so as i said, the joke...
use a cigarette lighter to open a bottle and get the pop...
open it with a bottle opener you get a tss...
so pop thomp v. tss... now i'm going to buy a drum-kit
for the joke...
she semi-detached would be her pinnacle and life-ordeal
if not simply life's ambition, i agree...
middle-class queen turned *****...
i get it... it's what makes me tick tock... tick tock...
life's too perfect to imitate your mother and marry
a dentist, have to get that teenage pregnancy out
of the way... like they say: it's downhill after that...
or up the hill with a horse climbing the hill backwards
to ease the threat of sweat and exhaustion...
so as i said... a cigarette lighter opening a beer bottle
clean with the kapsel remaining flat (
just so you could technically pour some water into
the bottle, put the cap back on and sell it as beer)
will never give you the bottle opening dent on the cap;
magic.

/                                 ....i started to, sort of,
                           forget the world...

i mean:

            reading karin jones' article,
        and the extra s she uses,
                                  after an apostrophe?

i can't but gloat in literary
                                                   pedantry -
              everyone else does some
sort of pedantic excuse
to begin with...

            the welsh & irish marching
band?
             so... that's o.k.?

        ha ha!
            i just love their nibbling
of a coherent march of bodies
in a slavic army,

               quasi-****: feet above hands...

nibbling "marching" while standing
still,
           nibbling,
                      a proper ****-up fest...

shame about those red coats
adorned by, what appears to be,
   a ****** fest of marching squares...

i'll admit:
   that's the only time you can
make a genuine laughter excuse...
       the british army's parade squadron...

****: have to get my mongolian
harmonica out for this opinion...
  
   motorboat of fluffly lips +
             an up & down index finger
moving, just shy of
                    interfering with the lip...
****!
        can't even ascribe
an onomatopoeia
                                  to that ****!

foul mouth?
      well, i did pay an extra £10
   on the already brothel owner's £10
entry fee,
   for the £110 for an audience
with a woman:
                that no psychiatrists
can replace -
                     and will end up bashing
his head against a brick wall
to suspend compensation...

                the extra £10?
                         oral ***...
   a my my my my my what
                       a mighty paradox!
prostitutes charge an extra £10
to perform oral *** on them,
   on top of the £110 you already paid
for an hour...
   but then when you kiss
them, they become divisive...

        sneaky ******* that i am...
i'm glad that i managed to steal
at least two,
       to pardon a faculty of
                   memory and banking...

toes, wrist, that thing that's a first
at the end of the foot connecting
the fetish...

                         it really is hilarious!
how can a nurse, check my pulse,
when touching my wrist?!

              i've already spotted two
places on my body, where she actually could,
but won't...

   under the right arm-pit,
   and just above the right-side of
the collar-bone...

    i gather that the latter posit is more
hygienic...
   but come on!
             pulse reading... on the wrist?!
can you actually "read" (count)
a pulse in an area of so much
bone shrapnel, veins... but no arteries?!

i thought you needed an artery
to check a pulse,
   rather than veins, that... literally
have no measure of the heart's existence,
rather: what encompasses
being in the possession of other organs
having utilißed... well... their utility!

she doesn't kiss... but charges an extra £10
to perform oral *** on her...

you would really think it was
the other way round.

who reads a pulse while pressing down
on a wrist?!
      you could count it

   without that ****** artefact of
cold pressed against the chest
        (algorithm the noun:  
  ...      ...             ....................  
         .. . .            .....
                  ............      
medical instrument to check pulse
  ...      ...             ....................  
         .. . .            .....
                  ............    ....        ....
****... new entry:
        medical hearing aid................
.... ...          ....           ....       .. .....
   ..........................................
****, no good)

                      within the confines
of the two "mandarin voodoo" coordinates
on the body i already stressed!

but no...
      medical arithmetic of the heart
on the tip of a finger,
or by squeezing
                      the bicep and tricep
part of the arm to expose an artery...

    i already possess knowledge of two!
two! arteries in my body,
and all i had to do was... find them!

it's like 20th and 19th century
anthropological studies made
                                  europeans dumb;

sorry...
  
               techno-*******-cratic.

"We have another"
"Is he like the Last"
"You decide Doctor"
"I'll make it fast"

Asleep drooling venom
and blood
"It'll be hard to mend"
"Cuts full of mud"
"Boys will be men"

Eyes: fearful glint
Curdling scream
Patient: impatient
punctured spleen
"Can I caress your bicep"
         torn tricep
"Handsome jawline"
         snapped spine
"Boy you're cute"
         tongue mute
"You're a work of art"
          bleeding heart
"I'll go where you go"
          twisted toe
"Just you and me"
          burns third degree
" I love you for sure"
          fragmented femur
"Shhh I think you're the one"
          blown lung

Quick as promised
She cleaned him out
Until he was fixed
Grateful without a doubt
He smiled "thank you
You're my light
My love
I'm glad it was us too"

"Close but not right"
She dragged him
He wouldn't fight
His tears were grim
"The curb, bite it"

It lived in the palm of my hand;
Small and heavy
Like a dense pebble,
Like the world's smallest boulder.

I held it out toward the sun,
So all the world could see
      this tiny little thing
Reaching for something more.

My arm grew tired.
My tricep started to quiver.
My bones started to chatter.
The boulder sat, bloated and bleached by sunlight.

50 years later
The boulder sits.
My arm has not moved.
It has grown strong.
It has grown still.
It has grown silent.

The boulder is bigger from dust.
It forged a dent in my palm,
Wearing its way through
Until it finally fell out the top of my hand.

And I strained my eyes to look through
     that round hole in my skin
With puckered skin and smooth edges,
And when I simply couldn't see it,
I resolved to lower my arm.

Down it went.
And with every move, pain accompanied.
The stiffness,
The ache,
The ****** of habit.

And this, my dear,
This boulder.
This is what we have become.

I sat on the edge of the pool, heaving last Friday
"I thought this would be easy," I shouted at the lifeguard who was actually on duty in between heavy breaths
We've been mates for awhile I suppose, so I wasn't uncomfortable wearing almost no clothes in front of him
My relay partner was returning so I stood up, still breathing too hard,
Ignoring the bruises on my shins from the side of the pool
I jumped in, turning to face him (terminator style) as the water swallowed me,
Grabbed the brick, swam the fifty
Stood up on the edge right away this time, entirely focused on my body and my partner

I got lost on a mountain once
My friend and I had been climbing nearly straight up for an hour before we realized we'd lost the trail
We also realized that going down would be infinitely more challenging than coming up
Covered in scratches and bruises, with burs in our hair and the sun setting and no idea how we had lost the Appalachian, we called my dad
When I finally got home, with no help from him, he said,
"I'm glad you got lost. You learned something today."
The water I had hidden in his pickup truck may have saved our lives

A football player pushed me up onto the two foot side of the pool to do a tricep dip at the instruction of my teacher
This was the first time I realized how weak I was, pale and sickly and tired and trying to change
We have already done fifty nine pushups and sit ups and sprints on the deck
I passed out at six pm that night
And got up at six am the next day
Wrapped my wrists for English and chemistry,
And replaced the braces with grips when I got to the gym

I think disappointed was the only word I could come up with as my sister drove me to the ER the day before she left for college
She'd spent eighteen years growing up, and this was the first time I felt like she was still a child,
Scared and vulnerable, turning off the lights for me while we waited for the doctor and my dad
More CT scans,
"Lie still, don't move,"
I could swear I was in a mortuary, in my coffin, too young for my liking
This was before my second training session, and I was afraid I was going to have to quit

My girlfriend and I did our first run together, holding steady to her 11 minute-mile-pace
Except for the mandatory sprints on my training app
I took her in between trees and across the farmland I grew up on
There was no talking, we each had our own music
But she got to feel something I loved, and I got to be with her, sense her footsteps out of sync with my own
We got caught in the rain

"Excuse me, Coach, Sir," I said out of habit, when he told me to call him Coach and not Sir
It was the first time I passed my physical for a sport
He had me running three miles on the first day, and the second, and the third, and I got lost
(This became a running theme in my quest to "get better")
Suddenly, I wasn't the girl in the hospital gown anymore,
Although the one person on the team who knew me asked me if I had my medication every day
If I didn't, he stayed back with me
He was safe, for some reason
I ran my second 10k that year

**** knows...
         i'm in my thirties and i'm watching
the problems of late teens,
early twenty-year-old somethings,
and i'm not even sure what to say...
    when was the last time
i posted a comment of a video?
      erm... never.
                  i don't like the moral
brigade clamouring into my coordinates
telling me:
        oh you shouldn't drink to the excesses
as you are doing...
          the tsar, peter the great?
     drank 30 / 40 glasses of wine a day,
   what's your point?
               this whole "social justice" warrior
class?
           should i even use that term?
                     who's under the delusion of
not being mortal?
           have you heard the horror stories
of old people in care homes in england?
        who, the, ****, in, their, rational, state,
of, mind, would want to enter a care home
and be left ******* or ******* in their bed
while the "supposed" careres left you
      with ****-stain tattoos on your buttocks?
i'm not going to become an apologetic
alcoholic...
                    might as well cite
davy jones of the flying dutchman...
           do you fear death?
i can only imagine people that fear death,
are the ones that have the most vivid dreams,
and ask freud for interpretation...
         me?
                  oh sure, a dream once in a while,
only when i allow my cat to snooze in my bed
before allowing him to jump out of my window
and into the warm garden night...
     he leaves his psychic footprint on my bed
and i clamour into the feline cocoon...
   but this is poetry,
   there cannot be anything objective about it...
it's pure subject, self, or other...
     i did my science ******* bit
graduating with chemistry aged 21...
       i became bored... like an atheist might
with religion...
                 i don't understand why
there are so many "sensible" stresses for
objectivity, when no one as objective as
it is being stressed, could ever produce any
sort of art... sure, a **** good cohesive
argument akin to 1 + 1 = 2...
   but even kant denounced that load
of *******...
            i say *******, but what i mean is:
let the brain relax a while... it's not a bicep,
or a tricep...
              you can't exactly exercise fat...
there's no bone to fat relation as such...
   except the brain and the skull...
                     but forcing objectivity on
purely subjective arts... well...
       that's why i wouldn't ever have a youtube channel;
so much and therefore so much too much
              blah blah...
and that citation: no one cares about
your feelings...
           **** me! great! so you too can shut
the **** up! because no one cares about
your thoughts!
     do some mental arithmetic in your head!
if people can't listen to what other people feel,
why should these people not want to
shut the **** up, people who presume
their thoughts are worth more, to be aired
and made public?
                 that bothers me...
                  i guess that's almost akin to islam...
you don't care what other people feel...
**** me! you must be a composer...
you think about music, more, than you feel it;
you actually think about composing it,
rather than emotionally enjoying it!
                      start listening to raindrops
on a tin-foil roof in the countryside...
        who's going to want to listen to your
idea there?
           i'm pretty sure... noo 'un.

don’t worry about choosing a tattoo
don’t sweat that you’re gonna have to live with it for life
yeah but no
it’s about who you are when you get that tattoo
not about all the people you’re going to become
that’s irrelevant
of course you’re gonna change
there may come a day when you can’t stand sadie
and groan every time you see her name on your arm
but there was a you who was nuts about her
and that man will always stand guard
over the tricep of your love

there's nothing quiet like
an el niño diet -
                which is what
         currently plagues this land -

binge...
       binge eating...
      up to 30 strawberries
in one go...

   straight out the fridge -
eaten whole (inc. the calyx,
penducle
   & epicalyx)...

did i say 30, in one standing?

yep...

simply drinking water
to rehydrate after a heavy
night of drinking
is not good enough...

plus:
            concerns about
the amount of meat eaten as
closure to the drinking -
and the respective... ahem...
****...

    reinvigorating
              bowel movements...

washed them?
    nope...

                    as if any ravenous
predator seeking
   satiation from flesh, sinew,
marrow and cartilage...

eternal emblem of summer...
  and come to think of it,
the strawberry's
   achene pressed upon
my lips...
         must feel like what
a woman would call kissing
a man's cheek, "riddled"
                   with stubble;

that's as trans-gender as
                      you're going to get...

but god,
   what an awful day -

               the day when a hard wooden
floor became more appealing
   than a bed,
    more comfortable,
                  and a stretched out hand
with the bicep and tricep
  as a cushion for the head...

and then again laying flat -
   skull to wood,
    where somehow the gap between
the occipital
                   bone and the spine
bound to the back
                  wasn't bothersome...

if this heat continues
     for the next (supposedly) 16 days?
and if i was rich enough?
   i'd think about doing
       a michael jackson in reverse.

A bit of a purple ****** Ident it? A little fingernail pinch on the inner tricep......
Holiday' ..........
Ohhhhh yeah!
Memories ......
If I could just have these
I would be at ease withy miseries............
But no . .....
Torn open like a long eared bunny.......
I lay still . ....
Tryin to keep dignified a put my pieces back inside..
Meanwhile ....... Hyena's to the left of me......
Jackals to the right........
And here I am
In misery ......
Silver lining .
Might be my last one........
...yeah me!?!



.
.
Well see!
.....
...
..
.
Ok I kid ......
I does kinda feel good
To be wanted .... Even if it's just for   .......
Naw it's just good.
Merry holiday .. an all that ....... Ya'allllll