Umm, the presence and scent of a man
Magnetic attraction where his feet stands
His natural body charismatic aroma
Element of charms, seeping to awaken a woman out a sensual coma
Is it his eyes, the soul behind his life’s mysteries
Flirtation in his smile, tells me he has an undercover ****** history
It is his nose that smells out my charms
An enticing deep baritone voice, his spoken words, which turns me on

Is it the erratic heartbeat he has for a woman, his passionate relent
Stealing my breath, as he tenderly seals my lips in an impassioned moment of content
The strength in his biceps
His triceps
Strong, yet such comforting arms
An epitome of steel, circled around a woman in winter life’s storms
In the cold of night, his body providing your heated warmth

His chest, a hard pillow to tell your doubts, your uncertainties, your fears
Pulling you closer onto it, his reassuring words eradicating your tears
His intellectual mind to think as a man
A stimulating, slam bam and thank you ma’am, or your personal grand slam
His weakening love, taking your body beyond the stars
Woman from Venus, my handsome Man for Mars

His groin, and his family jewels from which it springs forth
Erected compass of his wand now pointing North
A woman’s reservation to tease, please, stroke, or allow it to choke
His loud murmurs shadowing your moans, echoing in the wind
****, I love the presence of men, and his undulated carnal sins
From the first taste of honey dipped Butter ***, me

As his giving oral fixation is traveling free
Freeing the elixir of juices that deems to flee
His hairy legs as he stands to lift my weight
In the shower, no wait, as I anticipate
Hooking my twerking bait
His physique in general…Oh, God thank you
Without the scent of a man, we women would not know what to do

Your presence to a woman is our earthly food
Our je ne sais quoi for our every ****** mood
Rather you are standing, lying still, or upside down
The blissful 69 number conquered as we’re fooling around
My Dream Weaver
My distance heartbeat receiver

His dripping sweat
Droplets to my skin have been met
The presence and scent of a man holds me throughout the night as our eyes finally rest

She gained ten pounds of muscle the summer she worked in Alaska.
She’d have that slight tone for the rest of her life –  
a glimmer when she flexed to stock shelves at Vons the next year or to take a turkey out of the oven or to climb a ladder or to carry her sleeping daughter fifteen years later.
A flashing tight tendril of muscle in her triceps.

Rest easy, read these heavy words of slumber,
tap your chest to the beat of your heart,
empty out breath even from the deepest parts
the void, will fill itself, with sleep, I hope for your sake.

Scrunch those toes to close, then let them relax and let go,
Half close those toes and let them loose, shake them once and again,
Tense those calves, feet pointed at the ceiling, if you are willing,
Go half way and shake the tension away, from you,
Quads and hamstrings, next remember in pretext, full and halfway,
shake the tension away,,
gluteus maximus
then abdominals
and lower back
and in their turn
chest, those pecs to reflex and relax
latissimus dorsi, my oh my you got your back
shoulders,
hands of fingers, just like the toes,
pretty soon you might doze,
forearms, biceps and triceps too,
neck and face shrug and scrunch,
you don't have the answer,
so pucker your face,
eyes are the last close them once,
eyes are the last close them half,
eyes are the last,

I hope you never read this far,
unless you are awake, after a
night of rest fullness, so if it does
not work, know this, I will sit by
your side so you can unwind,
I have a good year for listening,
on pillow soft words, for you to put
your sleepy heavy head.


Good...night...yawn

i was about to start writing this up when i thought:
another whiskey Quincy? **** storm,
spilled the remains of the one i barely touched
before having to pour myself a:
puritan Scot in Cheltenham.

now, i heard people say any town in Essex
is a ****-hole...
                            fair enough...
but there are darker recesses of England you
must get to know before making that
assumption...
                  sure, London, proper London,
zones 1 - 4, E17 (post code, outer reaches,
Walthamstow, used to have a dog racing
track - played there once,
like a typical Paris catwalk, those hounds)
can skive off Greater London
                    like New York can laugh off
New Jersey, it's pretty much like that...
the only thing is: Londoners don't know what
exists outside this area: the buffer zone.
this is the buffer zone...
                 you experience England outside of
this very sensitive area of integration,
take for example a 3 hour coach trip to
a little town of Cheltenham in Gloustershire
not far from Oxford (a hub of learning)
and Bristol (Massive Attack, and that
bridge by Brunel - funny, engineers are above
architects, in that engineers build things
that *work, architects are like science-fiction
novelists rather than scientists -
do you know how many problems workers
experience, because an engineer
"forgot to mention" something essential in the plans?
at least an engineer gives you a read table,
all architects work for Ikea -
          ah, here's pieces a - z,
put it together yourself) - anyway...
              spilled my Quincy whiskey, now i'm a puritan
of scotch - unlike that damning quote from
1950s Hollywood: whiskey with a drop of water...
   ok ok... a little **** of ice floating about...
when will the nagging stop? no one says jack
about putting water into authentic absinthe...
      why? cos it goes cloudy green when you do!
(too much digression, news paragraph).

   i was leaving London on Friday,
murky the way i like it... Albert Bridge never seemed
so out of cinematographic urgency -
               but the west end with its grand buildings
appealed to me to start imagining
                    Oscar Wylde ghosts leaving these places
for promenades in top cats and tiaras for the ladies...
                     west London... the best way to see it
is in transit... preferably rather urgently...
                    and in a coach with other people not paying
attention...
                       the Thames receded into the estuary (
as it does), those housed in boats experienced a wake-up
call with a 10° ***** into the mud -
                                past the Chelsea pensioners' abode,
past many monuments to be exact...
   and then onto the open M4... past Windsor Castle
and the streak of aeroplanes about an aerial mile
apart landing at Heathrow -
                                  3 hours later, there i was,
in Cheltenham - chitty chitty bang bang,
apparently dubbed the hub of all English literary
endeavours - well, if you're going to host
a literature festival, wouldn't you claim to host
it with at least one patriotic son of the word?
did i see any statue of a famous poet or writer in
that little rugby stockpile of excess triceps?
nope.
           well, at first i thought it was cute...
                                a little Portobello, albeit
without the St. Petersburg paintwork on the houses,
houses as grey as the skies...
                                           got lost looking for
the b & b hotel i was supposed to be staying at for
the night, went into a gas station, asked,
i was apparently only adjacent lost -
                           old school, map printer and no
g.p.s. on foot -
                                  i once read a map and navigated
a car from an obscure Essex city,
to an even more obscure city in eastern Poland,
past the dreaded Penta Germania consisting of:
Düsseldorf, Duisburg, Essen, Wuppertal and
obviously Dortmund -
                                           i call it the whirlpool
of navigation...
                            anyway, so i found the abode,
what a nice little place it was, shied away from
all the traffic - a lovely garden,
a room fit for a journeying writer,
          actually, everything a writer could hope for
to lock himself away and write,
            tunic scenic - everything to ease the literary
constipation - the surroundings, the whole decor,
i even took a picture thinking: shame if no
Balzac were to not emerge from these rooms...
                           i sure didn't,
i dropped all the things, took a shower,
went into town to do the g.p.s. topographic of
the city so i wouldn't need a map in the future -
bought a bottle of whyte & mackay with a huh?!
apparently this brand isn't popular...
               went back to the room and found myself
drinking in front of the dreaded sight...
well... it was a room fit for a writer...
               but it had a double bed in it...
and a mirror at the desk...
                                    i downed one puritan glass
and looked in the mirror: i don't need your company.
looked away and found to my amazement the
truth of modern writing: the industrialisation
of writing... it emerged in the 20th century when everyone
did it by himself, with a typewriter -
        the industrialisation of writing on an individual
scale can be quiet debilitating when trying to
rekindle the quill... i didn't write anything, i doodled,
and those were bad doodles, it wasn't writing,
it was doodling... i drank a quarter of the bottle
and went out...
        went into the first bar, ordered a Guinness and
and sat down by a table with a
(later disclosed) Gloustershire University student,
a Canadian, jacking-off a script for some
B-short-movie in a public place: to catch the oozing
exfoliation of inspiration from crowded places -
if ever that worked, it might have ever worked
in a graveyard...
                             we were joined by his friend,
some peasant, we got chatting, boy, it was such a thrill
to exchange names... the Canadian's name
i did remember: Darcy...
                          he had that look about him that made
it worthwhile to remember his name,
ah, when names fit the image...
                         chubby, pig-blondish, hairy...
i'm guessing a native of Quebec...
                               but i could be wrong.
so a few hey hey, yeah yeahs later i asked if they
knew something about this gig on the festival slot
that was starting tomorrow, 5 p.m. and for free...
sure sure... got to eye the guide... so i asked:
so, maybe we could meet up at this place at this time
and go from there....
                                  Titanic looked more graceful
sinking than the reply...
                                                 i had to really check myself,
this isn't London psyche chess, this is:
we are small people from a small town,
we think a charming stranger is a serial-killer...
                    the Yorkshire ripper case scenario,
not last... first.
                              i might have been ******* a lemon
by then and pretending to be drunk squirming
a Buddha look - i pretended the polite noting down
the details: suddenly i didn't think like attending
this ****** venture that would start at 5 p.m., end
at 12 a.m. and according to my travel diary:
having to wait 2 hours to catch the 2 a.m. home.
so i went to the first instalment of the "literature"
festival... lemn sissay and salena godden -
and i have to admit, it was a corker - a true
a champagne cork popped and hit the crystal
chandelier and i laughed... and that's how i lost my
virginity to "spoken word",
                                         i wasn't listening to poets,
but i was thoroughly entertained, i swear that
at the end of her performance Salena pointed into
the dark (great tactic, how can they be nervous
if they can't see anyone? they stand on a pulpit of pure
light and see black ahead, where the nerves?)
and said: esp. to my friend over there...
                i might have involuntarily back-laughed /
snorted like a pig trying to catch enough lung volume
for a ha ha...
                          got chatting to this lovely middle-aged
couple: told them: i'm being ***** with gags.
                prior, i was watching the queue build up
into the room, with a god-awful grin on my face...
i couldn't take it off...
                         perhaps because i was looking at
the demographic and thinking: where are my peers?!
i spotted about three people in a close age proximity -
the rest were farts and soon-to-be-farts...
                             now Sissay freaked me out...
in a good way... i met the two after the show,
i brought two copies of my own printed work to give to
them... i had to ask their publicist if i was allowed
to touch the Aegean marbles... luckily i did,
but then i asked the stupid question to Sissay:
so who were you trying to imitate when your eyes
were bulging out nearly gauged out like a Pink Floyd
song video of: teacher! let these children go!
               i should have associated something African
freakish in mask, a strengthening - the sort
of look that New Zealander rugby players put on
to frighten people off when dancing the haka -
he really did talk like that...
                                       the little devil voice didn't help
either... but i only asked that "stupid" question
while mumbling something about how hard it was
getting published and how anyone aged nearing 40
forgot the free press of the internet emerging and
how he asked for a q & a after the performance...
and... hand on my heart:
                                   got asked one question...
          and answered... only one question...
                                        a complete and utter ******* meltdown...
   not: oh yeah, so who's your major influence...
                      a Samuel Beckett moment from not i.
later i standing outside and smoking, a grand English
dame of the west approached me,
chitty chatty kiss the hand later i got to say the most
famous line known to the current Englishman:
unfortunately... from Essex.
             honest. anyone asks you in Essex the question
they always ask: so where you're originally from?
                         anywhere else in England
they just ask you: whe

Put on suspenders and gave them a dance.
(When it comes to girls,
he hasn't a chance.)
I could care less about warnings and threats,
because for tonight
I know I'm the best dressed.

Went to a show and lost all control.
"I'm just here for the music.
I love it.
You know?"
Nine times out of ten,
they don't.

Went to a gym,
and never felt so depressed.
"I feel surrounded by lonely people desperate for ***."

This from a guy who proofreads his texts.
Spells out his laughs.
Drinks from the glass.

"What you need to do
is work on your shoulders, triceps, and chest."

Nah,
I'm good on that.
I'll just keep doing the things I like best.
"You'll never find a girl that way."
Ah,
give it a rest.

YES. my simple biceps are purring perfectly slick immobile death
rictus wearing skulls. i needle my flesh and ink it and make it pretty

                      the smiling violence of my triceps
          bulge distended arcs of fists. ladling terrifically through stale
                             air mingling vibrant vibrations

calm tigers of effortless dream making darkness my arms dance and
jolt pleasurably and every body loves
               the infliction of their splendid pain;they roar and combust
suddenly at the night crafting carpals imbued to my wrists
jouncing and blustery voices thrash from throats

             they love it

they love it        they love it

       i
'll do it some more

Do you remember the apple cider?
Your house was always cold, every-
thing was always apples. I never
did get the matching triforce tattoo
with you and that is okay because I
don't like tattoos anyway. You didn't
ruin the Legend of Zelda for me, I
just said that. Remember to drink water.
Remember that everyone you ever meet
is responsible for their own feelings and
their own problems. Remember that lots
of things provide temporary fixes but
never solace.  

How about those frogs? Never a silent moment
until I yelled out your window and you lamented
over the amphibious life you stole with the lawn
mower. (I noted that I had caught frogs at my
grandfather's funeral).

Here's to your earliest memory. Standing in a hamper looking out
the window until your mom picked you up. Was there a bucket
involved? Here's to your scars, your split finger, right next to your pinky the red
on your cheeks, the rough texture of your triceps. That other chris in
kindergarten, Mercer? Did he steal your first love? Haven't smelled
your stomach for a year but I am pretty sure it still smells like
leather. Your hair, soft in the middle, rough around the edges.

Will I ever have enough documentation?

You taught me that tap water doesn't **** and that
all you have to do to make anything perfect is add
an egg or two.

Deep breath
Deep breath
Deep breath
Deep breath
Deep Breath

one man on the windowsill
imitating monkeys
ooh ooh ah ah
went far with the onomatopoeias
of tarzan able to sift through
onomatopoeia into syllables
into letters... and it took
about the same time it took
the dinosaurs to be extinct....
ooh ooh ah ah... ha ha...
god give this monkey the fur
and that man the nobel prize....
i'm guessing both will claim to be swedish:
ooh ooh pooh ah ah!
english society doesn't like philosophy,
it doesn't like questions, it just like facts;
smell my armpits for a digression,
smell my armpits for a who'd do it, who'd ever don it,
maybe a breezy mullet fringe for the *****
for the whiff-up we call a gel-up;
ooh ooh ah ah lifting of weights to exercise the triceps.

lean back in your chair
stretch your sore triceps
write a few more lines of poetry
take a drink
turn off the light
rewrite the last line
consider it
leave it be

it’s three AM and
the world unfolds before
you

I'm well aware of your existence, orange-skinned fitness aliens.
You mask yourselves with the power of cosmetic force.
Tanning beds are your temples and Snooki is your Goddess.
Say goodbye to your ******* self of natural beauty. For you now have a shiny, new, orange-colored meat-coat that people can admire and laugh at you about. Congratulations, the Sun is now useless in your eyes.
Welcome, UV-A exposure. Goodbye, UV-B exposure. They never bothered to know you and for that, the Sun is jealous of your own insecurity. While chemicals are seeping into the very core of your being, others can't wait to hop onto your fashion train and bed of self-proclaimed beauty. Bravo! I'd give you a pat on the back, but you might scream and my hand might start glowing orange. Others are a nice white, bronze, brown, black, red, but not you. You're on a whole other level of society. Maybe you are an Oompa Loompa created by ***** Wonka.
I think you have separated yourself from the rest of humanity and created your own race of beings. If that's so, than this poem has made me out to be a "racist" *******, but alas, I must digress.
Hey now, the Metro Fitness competition is calling your name. You orange people, go forth, with your brawn and beauty. Your bulging triceps and rippling deltoids have sprayed sardonic smiles onto our faces, much like some of your spray-on tans.
Some of our hearts may be touched, but your pride is intangible.

have i, or letters, known so well
the knowing of your words when
so thick with verbs you jangle
meticulously raw spent kernels
of your swiftly lustful wings
     bursts ripe and halting smoothly
over shoulders fingers' hands
that ***** and flutter.
    right, suddenly, against winter,
slowly, you are colours and glowering
ductile arms snaring.
   a song of hours lifted from *******
where between lays me and my.
my elbows and my triceps,
  electric, you writhing sapling, you
sprig and blood, you are in their togetherness
you are rips flung deep and voluminous
with comely exacting fragrance
you are radiant. a star from heaven shorn
and wafts of gilt implacable violence

I'm all lopsided
muscle on the top
fat on the underside
thighs strong
the underside wiggles
biceps meant to hurt
triceps that look like my grandmothers
and all the spaces inbetween
that poke out, nothing but skin.
Hipbones like razorblades
wrists frail and shaky
jaw pronounced
collarbones like a skeleton
I'm so lopsided
and I want to look like a whole picture
instead of a few puzzles
that someone tried to shove together
I am a wobbling duck
stuck with a mind
that cares far too much

well, thank you England, but bye bye,
but hey! the blonde ferret  will be your guide,
anally sniffing Kentucky. say bye to Hong Kong -
say bye in Bengali to India বিদায় (bid-aya). oh sure,
feel pride, but there's the Zeppelins missing,
Focke-Wulf Fw 191 too... Londoners Yorkshire proud
as turnips.... horse and carriage people... blame the Poles!
invite the Syrians... the Hair-rash gingers
from Dublin never mattered... feels good not feeling racist once
you greet the Syrians unable to work the coal-mine, doesn't it?
a bit like donating to Oxfam?
go **** forward mind i guess where the triceps will
come from... remember that my
great paternal-grandfather was a **** with a
Wehrmacht dagger - adding to your closure on debility,
and the Irish jingle - or as someone said:
the show must go on... i just laugh at your little
racism nibbles - never heard a viola in an Irish jingle -
heard the Titanic, for sure, the perfect pub buddy
had a self-conscious moment - there's always the KKK
and the graveyard - unless you're not being
democratic, which i am aware of;
dogs and as suits the master - coagulating glue
for the thick thick contrast between φ and θ, esp.
in ascribing the title genius to a child, via spelling,
when φ and θ are side-by-side, e.g.:
as women said: i knew better than your concern
for digestion, so i grew a foetal-turnip while
you harboured a thought;
i guess the continuum mattered greatly to the thought
excavated, but i held life dearest,
and the foetal-turnip mattered most...
well, as Moses wrote: i'm anything but man,
so loving you (woman), will always be like
digging up turnips along with fishing for shrimps,
a bogus affair needing fishermen and half the sea
of awaited selectivity for the metaphor
there being other fish to catch; whatever;
****** come cheaper than dating, and dying for the third
or fourth time, i can't wait being aged 40;
by this point... it really doesn't matter if there'll be
a gathering to celebrate my name in Trafalgar Sq.;
by now there are other priorities, like turning on
the radio and not stealing MP3s; i only compound
the self with consciousness given history -
history makes me self-conscious, a shame of not having
invented the refrigerator or the kettle, or having
a thought concerning gravity to no use for someone
climbing the god-body of Tibet that's Mt. Everest.

To the Enlightened Healer take to Pray
My Swallowed Ego for his Bow to Heal
In his Reddened Mind deny his Best Day
And submit to Therapy his Triceps feel
Ever the More his Circle's Motto adapt
To Reconsider this Two Week's Defeat
A Warrior he is; Such Pool's Walk protract
And make the South brace his Healthy Conceit
But during this Event a Blessing cries
Which the Lone Star Maiden rushed to his Aid
A Few Soft Words; Then a Rub on those Lies
Allowed most of his High-Nosed Debts be Paid.
It was their Time. To heal Divorce's due
A Spectrum appeared; And signalled his Cue.

the day near finished and
the night aglet as if day;
what came first -
cliff richard's devil woman
(chicken) or the eagles'
witchy woman (egg)?
cockerel via ****** already took
the opera seat, and the soprano
slit open the larynx of the castrato...
just so the chandelier and windows
shattered in practice...
if your poetry isn't musical, not rhyming,
just write about music,
that's what bukowski conveyed...
make poetry an interest in music,
don't make it this trollop-cod-whipped-****
self-interest... if you can't sing because
an elephant stomped on your ear
or you never had enough money to buy a saxophone,
don't make complex musicology of symphonies
cute with "adoration" using the rhyming technique,
forget it, it's not cute, it's damnable...
true virtue isn't afraid of critique...
write about what you love so i can look it up
and share it, don't write self-love walking sticks
of decrepit fidelity of marathon runners
that wheeze out after the 100th meter in
goldfish dollops of addictive lungs gulping for
breath... no technique in poetry will ever be music
in terms of actual music...
ever heard tenacious d's one note song?
most poetry sounds like that:
sound
around
            orange peel
            foot massage that turned into zest of extra
sound
around
            a tambourine tabernacle
            with st. thomas ******* a rib cage
kangaroo pouch
****'s ouch
                             five multipliers mono
*******
softy
                     doughnut
                                               peach;
'***** where's the cream?!'
'oh boy it's coming, coming with the flying scotsman's
                                steam;
                         ­                      choo choo!'
puff up you puffing puffin *******!
well, i was always going to be an extension of her
doing the triceps choo choo dangle motion;
morph into a church bell uvula
morph into a church bell uvula...
of a-ding-along-for-a-ding-**** of st. ursula's
interpretation of english police officers
deviation from the standard:
                       'allo 'allo 'allo.... n'est-ce pas pas ce comme ce?

Miss Shaped
With that hourglass  figure
shifting sand from one orb to the other
She knew her time
was ripe.
Walking into the alleyways of wilderness swamps
where lurked men of all contortions of mind and body
She met her match
in mister muscle.

Not a nerve twitched in her entire
body when he flexed his biceps
and wooed her with no words.

The years of steroids had tied his tongue
into strips of knots
and crosses unable to stop
pumping iron.

Miss Shaped loved this muscular
feast of a man.

The years rolled by
for misshaped

mr muscle had no iron in his heart
only triceps biceps
he left when too many wildebeest
chased his moll.
Author Notes

Just a crafty play on words with several different meanings. The poem will dull you into deception. Say what you will to break it apart.

It took time to assemble

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 24 days ago

Get that stupid *** grin off your face and kiss me!” And so I did. I leaned in until I was inches from her rosy lips, waiting for her to come the last little distance. She did so readily, with a warmth and a salt taste that I knew I could never forget. Her hand found my knee as I reached around to gently caress the back of her neck, my heart pounding in my chest like waves on the shore.
          We stayed that way for a while, exploring each other, while the sun beat down. I could feel it burning my shoulders and back but I didn’t care in the least. It was a passionate kiss, not wild, but it had the depth and quality that so few do, the feeling that only comes with connection. The waves gently rocked us, occasionally lapping over the side of the surfboard. Our legs hung over the side as we straddled the board for stability, the salty water keeping us cool. It was complete serenity; one of those rare times when there are no mental distractions and a person can completely lose themselves in a single moment. Despite the perfection of the moment, I couldn’t help myself and the thought of pushing her off the board again made me grin trough the kiss.
          “What’s so funny?” she asked with feigned innocence. I could see the twinkle in those incredibly dark eyes, the little spark that always drew me in and fascinated me. The countless little freckles on her nose were newly accented by her sun kissed cheeks, holding a slight rosy glow that was very becoming. My hand had fallen from her neck and I used it to playfully splash a little water on her leg.
          “Oh, nothing,” I said with a sly grin, “I was just, uh, thinking about how beautiful you look right now.” But she knew me too well, easily seeing through my fib. She had always told me that she could read secrets in my eyes, big or small. Apparently I just couldn’t hide the way I felt from her, but that was okay with me. I had never needed to hide anything from her.
          “Is that so?” she had a devious look in her eyes. God I loved that look. She bit her lower lip just slightly and played with a loose tendril of hair that had escaped her ponytail. Then she leaned back on the board with her other hand, watching me. She had done this so many times before, I knew exactly where this was going. But she also knew I loved it.
          “Well, actually I was thinking about pushing you in the water again. But then I remembered we were being nice to each other today.” I said the last bit with a bit of a wink. She had always said she loved it when I winked, so I purposefully used it sparingly. A guy has to have a few tricks of his own, right? She always seemed to have the upper hand on me, no matter what we were doing. She seemed to have me figured out as nobody before ever had. It was nice, to say the least, to have someone whom I had to work to surprise or impress. It kept me interested, kept me challenged, which is exactly what I needed to make me happy. She was a challenge. A beautiful challenge, and I loved it. It was exasperating at times, frustrating to work with, but I knew that in the end I would never have had it any other way. She was perfect as she was.
         A beautiful, dangerous, **** challenge is what was going through my brain as I sat there watching her. She had tanned this summer, her skin taking on a golden tone that made it irresistible to the touch. Today she wore my favorite bikini top. It was red and hung down in a small triangle in front of her chest, patterned like a bandana. Small drops of water still clung to her forehead and chin from the last time we fell off the board. She was, in my mind, a scene of perfection, and she knew exactly what I thought.
          “Well. Maybe I’m not in the mood for you to be nice to me right now,” her voice trailed off as she pulled her feet out of the water and placed them just inside where my knees were, just to where her toes barely rubbed the inside of my thighs. The movement brought a tingling sensation where we touched and brought my heart to a pounding beat again. She was still leaning back just slightly on one hand, playing with her hair in the other. Her back was arched inward, so that the triangle of bandana was extremely prominent. I knew what she was doing, but so did she. Her eyes traced up the board from her toes, up my chest, to my eyes. She stopped bighting her lip as the devious grin once again took its throne upon her face. **** that grin.
          “Actually, I know I’m not in the mood for you to be nice to me right now.” This time her voice was laced with seduction, barely audible above the waves meeting the shore 100 yards away. She slid her body along the board towards me, her legs sliding underneath my knees, my calves and feet still in the water. My heart was pounding out of my chest at this point, and my breathing was a little heavy. I partially hated that she could do this to me so easily, but she knew that above all I loved it.
          We were very close now, her thighs slid just under mine, her toes touching the middle of my back. I lightly rested my hands on her legs, the golden skin feeling like heaven beneath my fingertips. She still had her back arched and she knew ****** well how good she looked as she slid her hands up the outside of my arms, across my flexed triceps and up to my shoulders. She moved those rosy lips towards me once again. ******* she was beautiful. She stopped when her lips were touching my ear, I knew she could feel how tense I was, how fast my heart beat, how electrified I was by her. Then she whispered.
          “Sucker.” And with that she threw her entire weight over the side of the board, her hands and legs dragging me over with her. The salt water rushed up my nose and into my eyes, burning. I surfaced spluttering and trying to see again to the sound of her laughter. I stood up, the water only four feet deep out here on the sand bar.
          “**** you **** you **** you!” I did my best to sound angry, but I couldn’t keep myself from smiling through it all. She was still laughing, loving her own joke. I splashed water in her face, still dripping wet.
          “I hate you.” She knew that every time I said it, that I meant the exact opposite.
          “The look on your face as you went over. Oh my god. You totally thought you were going to get some on a surfboard. Oh my, pffft that was funny.” She was still laughing, standing a few feet away, having not defended herself from my frustrated splashes. The look on my face was a mixture of amusement and frustration. I knew she loved that look, it gave her some sort of satisfaction in having gotten the best of me. I watched her walk through the warm water over to where I stood, arms crossed in front of me. She wrapped herself around me, giggling, and reached up to kiss me again.
          She was always a challenge, this girl. Always a beautiful challenge.

Summer foolish
  your stupidest fists
         mangle in wet
                       girls
                      by the
                       lake rifled
                      by the
                    f
                   i
                    ng
               e r s
                 roughgently
             of hefty
                lush
              godsighs
                                        Sum
                                           mer purring
                                                         muscles
                                                     you bulge
                                                          triceps
                                                               ladling
                                                             the kissed
                                                            lovely forms
                                                          of sungirls
                                                                     by the golden
                                                                  hewing untrembling
                                                               husk of laughing days you
                                                                                                                  unquaver
                                                                                                                     steadily increasing
                                                                                                                           on bodies
                                                                                                                                    daftest
                                                                                                                                 some stinging redness
                                                                                                                    and
                                                                                                     in the soft
                                                                                                  belly of your nights
                                                                                                i'll stand by open drinking
                                                                                                  seawind windows
                                                                                               and i'll rub
                                                                                                       into the back
                                                                                                    (the startled raw back)
                                                                                                   of my silly girl
                                                                                                 some aloe
                                                                                                                   and i'll kiss
    &nb

most days i'm thinking:
thank god i didn't give you a smile;
for all the love that abounds and binds man,
thank god mine was not translated into a failure
of dis-encouraged children not achieving
a higher ideal; leave me dreaming,
and you too left the happiest
ably resourceful
in me minding the outer
so-called existential suburbia;
i know, the english vocabulary
does not like the ponce of philosophical
involvement... it doesn't even like
the word as such... it prefers:
manager of deleted files,
safety manager of hammers,
contract supervisor of termites,
you know... all the Monty Python ha ha,
goose strut ha ha (funny walk ministry);
very debasing contrasts of
"real" jobs not being kindred of coal-miners...
no real jobs in the office, although
sold as such they are considered "real",
to get to grips with
underused triceps
and quasi-haemarrhoids of sitting
on your *** all day playing candy crush
sh'aga... or some ****
about the Shanghai stock-market
creating a booming Hong Kong
housing experiment of noodle lovers
ready for some artificial intelligence *****
chat; hey, if pink is the new *****
of fluffy handcuffs... sign me up!
i'm ready for the near voyeuristic
claustrophobia of living in over-crowded
high-rise accommodation.

prophesy also comes from the unwillingness to engage with verbs, such that nouns are thoroughly investigated, such that prophesy is a disengagement from verbs, and a penultimate rummaging in nouns to express a single verb associated with either biceps or triceps engaging in the missing flex, that thought is; a grand word, i know, but the unwillingness is all too apparent, to craft a verb from all accessible nouns and still revolve around the unfathomable is above all desired - rather than to craft a noun from all accessible verbs and still revolve around the fathomable as desired to denote life the end rather than an end; when reading was actually rereading and non-impulsive, non-instinctive, with reading the necessary repetition deviating from rhythmic repetition of poetry - when reading was to be taken to be as non-instructive - when people cared for freedom, and were less likely to claim psychiatric pathology by claiming reading was to be instructive! those were the days! these days people want to be hit with a shepherd's staff, to be herded, to be instructed, by-product of these days ensuring that the best writing can only be non-instructive.*

active censorship of the 20th century -
humanity's greatest fascination
and a piggy bank of capitalism's
investment worthwhile will clear like
19th century's london smog
and all will find themselves as Adam
or Eve, in paradise, albeit
naked in terms of vocabulary and therefore
easily manipulated,
for if a poor vocabulary was ever
equal to a shepherd's shawl it is now -
for a poverty of vocabulary came to pass
as a poverty of attire, and the 21st century
will prove it so, with the exponential
disappearance of menial tasks in
factories and in agricultural society.

that's it
the this of now is where
I am gonna hang my cap hat my
toupee

Then there was when
that day I had long hair
and a goatee
always wet

vigorous , in a way
no doubts no second thoughts
my way or
nothing at all

had two ***** then
now I have three
they sag down lower then
my knees

I dont care anymore
wrinkles around every curve my biceps
turned into droopy triceps
my lower eyelids
into nose bags
my ears into forests
my chin into three of em

that is the way
I live work  hard
party when not working and
it took a toll
I just wish the mirror had a mute button
It has started laughing at me

I promise to write till I have no words with me.
I will write till I've exceeded my limit and can no longer do no more.
And even once my hands are unable to write, I will stay loyal to you.
I will admire the art that you are.

At my lowest,
You held my hands and listened to my withering heart.
You locked eyes with my darkest holes and smiled.
You gave me a pen and whispered, "Write.Anywhere, colour your pain and let me feel it"

During my drought,
We fought.
Countless of times.
I began to lose hope in us but you stayed.
You pushed pens, pencils and papers in my direction and told me to write.
"Good or bad just write, I'm not here to judge", you sang to me.
But I refused.
Blocking your lullaby because I was afraid.
Afraid that I would let you down if it was bad.
I only wanted the best for you.
The best from me.

The drought got worse.
I couldn't write and my heart ached
My souls cried,
My hands itched.
I was craving you.
So I wrote.
Good or bad because ultimately
You won't judge me.

During my moments of happiness.
I wrote a lot,
I wrote till the tips of my hands turned purple.
Till I could feel my own heart beat synchronise with the movement of the pen.
Till my arm cried in pain as my triceps and biceps contracted and relaxed.
I could not stop.
I simply still cannot stop.

You watched me write.
You watched my body grow in anticipation.
Grow anxious to touch a pen.
You smiled and whispered to me
"You're finally writing your heart"

I turned back and looked at you.
Engraved with people's lives.
Coloured with their greatest dreams and nightmares.
Inked with so much of their emotions.

I laughed and turned back.
Jotted down so gracefully.
"She is my heart"

from what i heard eternity has complete
individuals and a lack of *****
to be minded as ransacked tactic
of exploitation - which makes the socratic
utopia quiet appealing, arguments readied and
readily available - making the perfect
mosque quiet appealing -
in that kindergarten of  prayer a kindergarten of
hopefuls to speak-  i mean fake it as a mannequin
to undress itself - and then get readied for
the tattoo needle of the eyes eyeing rather
than scribbling - i still mind the candy-floss of pop
eating air rather than my allowance,
air compounded with exacted premonitions of prior,
thus said to an exploitative excess;
we learn to be intelligent from what we haven't studied
to curate our life into a vector status -
why then the appellation of capitalism
to only target the young, esp. the feminine base market,
and forget the other criteria?
well, capitalism is such a grand word
discouraging other little words of usage:
teach them a vocabulary and then censor it!
prime politics! teach them language
and then teach them a second language
of what's politically correct!
weaklings in power, weaklings in power,
a status of one man explaining
biceps of another - a status of one man
explaining the triceps of another -
what a power struggle... it almost felt
anguishing with prior examples of the warring tribes
and diatribe...
so few wish for gardens and maidens...
and so many in an aided wish via fiction
for an adventure and a lost domesticity; so many
wishing for not encompassing lazy peasant
among pheasants - so many unto the wish of adventure,
a true linear of the earth spinning forth from within
orbit into a single identifiable route of the non-repetitive...
so many here are awaiting a chance to fall of
the carousel... so many!
we would gladly drown in a glass of water
should it give us a step off the carousel into
the enigma of a life sentenced to a perpetually
changing narrative!

Cinnamini cocoa goddess with a chocolate friend so dark as to tint the soul and leave me salivating as my sweet tooth acts improperly. I’ve been snagged, giving smiles and yet my eyes betray me, they show my interest clearer than the highest definition.
She’s got me tripping on my own feet as I try to walk confidently toward her, holding the air like rails as if I were a wobbling infant talking the first steps of my life.
Step one, I stride up to you in a way that sends chills down your spine, shivering your body when I touch your arms and slide up, my fingers making it up the triceps and easing onto your shoulder. Step two, kiss you and make you see how much I’m in love with you.
But step three?
What step three? Usually by this time I snap back to reality realizing that you’re still in front of me, body burning the air’s nitrogen around thee. So savage a **** yet so classy a manner, I tingle in my lust of you.
I just want to be known to you, I want you to see me as a being that is close to you, intimately, physically, whatever’s accepted by you. Can I do that? Can I be accepted by you as maybe a friend or more? It’s a possibility that any ad everything can go wrong, but **** the odds, we are in ourselves against the definition of odd, awkward beings that need each other lest they go crazy from neglect and withdrawal.
I speak in intonation when around you, the rise in my voice is for every time your eyes connect to mine, yet the fall is for all the moments that I can’t see you, three desks away and yet it feels like an entire galaxy of space between our adjacent seats. But there isn’t anything I can do to control my urge for your assiduity. Call me greedy, as I feed on your attention like a moth feeds on fine linen.
And I’m hungry for nothing more than you, no one other than you, call me critical, but I can’t savor anyone but your flavor. Your taste, as distinct as it is, is still a one of a kind, and I am addicted to the one of a kind flavor.

502 bad gateway bypass:
chuckle baron,

mishaps at 0.5 degrees
of a circle.

picked up an unfinished cigarette from a jar i have
placed on my windowsill
instead of an ashtray and smoked it...
ooh: those ***** little pleasures...
    so ash on the filter... and in general:
***** cigarette finish...
                 sipping my whiskey...
   found a new band i can't stop listening to...
SJÖBLOM: which is a surname by several
Swedish people... the album? demons...
i always found that the Swedes have an incredible
pop sensibility...
a bit like Abba... a bit like Roxette...
it's infectious music...
   i don't care whether someone calls its "emo":
it's not... there are not screeching vocals of teenage
angst... it's melodic...
it's a bit like discovering Alt-J or the XXs...
or Porcupine Tree...
           then again: it's like trying to find the antithesis
of the major bands of the 1980s...
i needed to get something from that decade
beside only listening to the Cure or Depeche Mode
or Duran Duran... since that's what my uncle was
raised on...
turns out the 1980s were probably the best
decade for music: nothing mainstream matters
when you discover post-punk, dark-wave...
and no: not that pretentious indie music from England
from the 2000s...
   even Brit-Pop is bearable compared to that
strange movement...
   i was a child when Brit-Pop was a major force
to contend with American Grunge and Metal...
      to be honest: anything from the 1980s that wasn't
mainstream is... better than anything mainstream
that came out in the 60s or 70s....
   dad rock...
                well: progressive rock was never mainstream:
King Crimson will still have a special place
in my heart: i don't think there's a better album
than: in the court of the crimson king...
    it's my youth...
        well... Roxette's Joyride... that album is pristine...

tomorrow's F.A. cup final between Liverpool and
Chelsea ought to be fun... i'm already gearing up...
how long to stay up and doodle?
what time to wake up...
    eat something prior leaving?
shine my shoes... doubly iron my trousers...
iron a shirt...
     i already asked to be placed inside rather than
outside... near the VIP section... near the Royal box...
hell... i might even brush against the future
King of England...

i sit back and remember my grandfather:
how long has it been?
   2 years since he passed?
      he was a peoples' person... he could make
people work for him...
   i'm sort of growing into this role too...
even though: we're not talking: proper work...
in a metallurgical plant...
heavy duty stuff... Die Krupps - im schatten der ringe...
i still don't think this is work...
trying to make people not drink in view of the pitch...
trying to make people not drag their mobile-shishas
in stadiums... searching bags...
general security *******...
    i guess i don't think it's much work:
but it would have been... if something like
the Manchester Arena terrorist attack took place...
maybe i'll be made a supervisor again...
last time at Wembley i was frantic...
   a Tyson Fury boxing match... trying to tend to about
20+ people under my supervision...
this one guy... mental health issues...
broke down crying... poor mother:
i'd get slapped about for saying the stuff he said
to her: and she bought him the tickets...
the amount of time it took to calm him down:
panic attacks...

while he was running backwards and forwards...
insulting my stewards...
i had to step in... thankfully this black guy helped
me... a steward under me...
it's like in those 1970s movies about mental asylums...
all the orderly seemed to be black...
i didn't want a response team involved...
i hoped the two of us would reason with him...
and we did... he stayed...
he didn't know London: had no money
and as i sat down with his mother
she told me he was being a little brat...
a 25+ year old man needed my support...
cried in front of me... while i tried to tend to him...
touch... touch... hand on his shoulder...
   etc.: no need for the details...
i just said to him: you paid to see this event!
it's not fair that i'm getting paid to "sort of" see this
event too! look! bright lights! stay!

i still bewilder myself... this isn't work:
i don't treat it as work... i've already got used to
the infrequency of toilet breaks...
sometimes i come home constipated like a turtle
that only ate sandpaper...
   and it takes me about a day later to recover...
i don't even mind standing like a ceremonial soldier
at Buckingham Palace:
i swear... 4 hours on a bicycle is less exhausting
than standing still...
what's sometimes on the news?
ceremonial soldiers dropping from exhaustion:
because they're imitating statues...
which is more exhausting than... movement...

this is a "joke" of a job compared to roofing...
whenever i tell someone i used to be a roofer
they're like: what's that?!
Romford is the capital of roofers...
oh you know, tar work, hot-melt, waterproofing
roofs? on an industrial scale...
that summer of 2004 was probably the most
glorious summer... working, sweating on
a housing project in Beckton...
   shame that in the same year: i was on site
when we heard the news about the bombings in London
my ex-girlfriend was going to catch that
bus that exploded...

i think she missed it because she was running late
or some ****...

i miss those days: because tending to people is
hardly work if you are both an introvert
and an extrovert... although: i don't really know anymore...
i've recently come across this acronym I.N.F.J.
acronym: i watched some videos...
mein gott: what ego-stroking...
sometimes: no, all the time... it's a vanity project...
this sort of categorisation of people
is laziness... psychology is lazy compared
to philosophy...

   ooh! really?! are you that special?!
the term advocate? in the ****** language?
it translates as: lawyer...
   but it's true... i've seen people with these S.I.A.
badges that are trigger happy on violence...
i'm always certain any issue can be resolved by conversation
alone, by building a positive rapour
by standing your ground...

psychology is boo-ring to me... it's predictable:
it makes people predictable: cagey... caged...
superficial... psychology used to mean something...
it used to be theoretical: almost philosophical...
now... since it's pop culture...
it's useless... you better look into the underbelly
of psychology: psychiatry... after all...
psychiatrists are psychologists *** pharmacologists...
that's the ugly side...

or see a priest, or see a *******... or read some
philosophy...
         i might have been hurt...
but it was a sort of a pain mollusks feel when:
that ex girlfriend of mine that was almost blown up
in 2004... she once told me that as a child
she would pour salt on snails...
    
         yeah... and when i was much younger
i came across these two boys that caught frogs...
smear them with lipstick and then set them alight...
go figure...
  
to lessen suffering... i always thought that was best...
perhaps that's why i don't think i will ever
have to put up posters of: LOST CAT...
on trees in my vicinity... how can you,
for ****'s sake, "lose" a cat?! you don't ever "lose" a cat!
the cat has had enough!

just a little bit of tenderness... understanding...
i'm thinking: if this isn't work: crowd control...
i should maybe start looking into work related
to metal health... it would be sort of funny:
a guy, diagnosed with a psychotic disorder
starts working in a mental hospital...
    that would be kind of funny...

on a scale of 1 to 10... how mad are you?
10: mad enough to read Kant and Heidegger in the 21st
century... i think that's mad enough...

what a ******... only two days ago
people were complaining about traffic surrounding
Romford... what happened?
a 22 starling... a boy... not yet a man...
jumped off a four storey car park...
and a pretty pancake he must have made...
between 8:52am and 9:02am he was.... GONe...
gone...

when i was having a hard time during my "breakdown"
i tried to imitate Odin... by hanging myself
from a tree...
the noose was there... i was sitting on the branch...
i dropped... ******... the branch broke...
some of us are not so lucky...
even my godmother mentioned this story once...
drunks and madmen... we have all the luck in this world...
we're talking... 7 storeys... high...
in one of those Communist style living blocks
of concrete...
the guy fell... like a... ******* sack of potatoes...
landed in a bush... about an inch from
a metal ****...
got up and simply said: o kurva!
                           oh ****...
and walked on: for another dabble with some
***** mistress...
                                
i sometimes wish this was fiction...
but drunk people fall like sacks of potatoes...
there's no defense mechanism...
they don't try to pretend to fly flapping
their hands in the air...
i remember when i tilted back and fell down
the stairs... did a Lucifer's dive...
of being born: head first...

i don't remember any bruises: any plum tattoos
on my body... that other time...
when the summer was really... really hot:
unbearable in England... 2016?
i'd wake up gasping for air... run but naked
into the garden and lie on the grass in the shade...
but this other time i escaped my bedroom
and decided to snooze in the hallway...
i rolled from side to side... dropped about 2 metres
down onto the stairs...
like a ******* sack of potatoes...

falling to your death: it must feel like that "analogy"
in Salman Rushdie's the Satanic Verse...
one of the characters drops to earth: laconically...
is that the right word? while the other...
is hardly in a freefall...

this 22 year old darling was lucky: he died...
i would have thought it would take a much higher height
to drop dead like that...
at least he didn't survive the fall and have become
bound to a wheelchair and being fed milkshakes
of protein through a tube...
let's be absolutely frank about this fact...

but that's the luck of drunks and madmen...
i was about to start work on the Olympic Village
prior to the 2012 events...
i panicked when my father said:
you'll be drug-tested: he always ******* lies...
they do test... but not to the point of paranoia...
i was about to start the next day...
what did i do? i ****** off to Athens...
the next morning...

i've never been to Athens! i remember catching a bus
from the airport to some random hostel
in view of the Acropolis... on the mountain side:
illuminated... it truly reminded me of Edinburgh...
although... there's not much on Arthur's Seat...
by comparison... first night?

in Athens?! drinking absinthe... putting a hand over
my eyes... left? right? then spontaneously giggling,
laughing... pointing forward...
from what i later heard: it was the ******* district
of Athens... the philosophical quarter of Athens...
plenty of "bums": did i meet a Diogenes of Sinope?
nope... second day i met a few guys who i thought
were Syrians... i got into a car with them...
we drove far ******* far from where i was staying...
to a *******...

at one point: what's the policy in a *******? no touching...
i had two broads on either side of my shoulder...
mingling my lips with their collar bones...
elbows... that parts of the body men can biceps and triceps...
*******... running out of money fast...

escorted by one of the gorillas (bouncers)
to withdraw some more cash: account empty...
******* my pants... literally... i ****** myself...
over excitement or whatever...
sneaking out onto the streets of Athens:
a city i've never visited... we must have been driving
for about half an hour...
yet my drunken GPS woke up...
how i made it back to the hostel:
i will never want to know...

amnesia...

i return to this memory because i remember the coach
trip from Greece... via Macedonia...
Serbia... via Hungary... via Slovakia...
the snow of Serbia: just outside of Belgrade...
looking like a ghost when i encountered my grandparents...

it's a burning in my mind:
i was so cautious whenever i visited Paris...
when i went to Stockholm... i was always so sober...
but in Athens?! random strangers?!
*******?! **** it...

i remember this girl talking to me dropping a green
peg onto the table: insinuating:
i'd like a private audience with you...
i even remember what song was popular in Greece
back then: Rihanna's: only girl in the world...
it was playing on the bus from the airport...

but "we" freefall like a sack of potatoes...
there's no hands flapping...
that boy was lucky: thank god he didn't end up
in a wheelchair... being fed protein milkshakes
through a tube...
lucky *******...
   i sometimes wish the branch i was sitting on didn't
break and i managed to hand myself to
the eternal night of the gods...

but like drunken GPS: how it gets turned on...
don't ask me:
i must have migrating bird genes...
how do storks migrate back to central Europe?
storks... most associate with ****** mythology...
i must have a pea-sized-brain or something...
since... first time in Athens...
and... driven to a ******* minutes from
the city centre where the Parliament is...
**** my pants... and still manage to walk back
and get a good night's sleep!

it's a bit like when i first came to England aged 8...
what knowledge of the English language did i have?
maybe one... or two words... having seen them
written down...

you want to know the slang term for klawisz?
i.e. klaveesch? a button... a key...
on a keyboard... or a piano...
in Poland it usually refers to someone who's
a prison guard...
everyone: or rather, everyone ought to know
about the failure of the Stamford Prison Experiment...

i'm not a klawisz: in this "work" i'm "supposedly"
doing... i'm the mediator...
i never ask for assistance: those... sadistic little
busy bodies i could twist a wrist off if i wanted to...
talk... talk talk talk...
violence comes last: first comes metallurgy...
first comes roofing...
first comes: the art of judo...
first comes compromise...
brute strength comes last...
  but all these ******* i'm working with are:
technically: "rapists"...
i don't agree with their techniques...
talk... talk... we're civilised people... or: i hope...
i believe anything can arrive at a compromise...

i'm already working with people who have
complaints... made complaints...
like that one time against Liverpool fans
when they played the semi-final at Wembley against
Manchester City...
i had a woman from Liverpool walk up to me and kiss
me... she wanted to feel what ***** on a man's face
felt like... and when they were walking out
en masse... ugh... childish *******...
one started tapping me on my shoulder to my right:
i looked left... "no one"...
then some other started tapping me on my shoulder
to my left: i looked right: "no one" there...

i love that we can return to being children!
that's the whole point!
i know i' return to being a child by being
easily irritated!
but at the same time... this easily irritated me
understands that: it's archetypical!
i'm not serious about: whatever the hell this is...
but people can be... dealt with:
without employing: even the least amount of force...
with my own eyes i can attest that:
convo... mere convo...
if by staging this macho you create a subversive
allure of authority...
guess what... i'd rather **** than showcase a taste
of strength...
        
no no... none of this: you think you have authority therefore:
i have no authority to ****...
but i'd rather **** than showcase
a sputnik's worth of authority...
because this showcasing: this grandstanding is:
a load of *******...
it concerns people who never had
to wrestle with themselves to cycle for 4 hours...
who had to break themselves...

that's all it is...
it's just in plain ******* sight!
why didn't i get laid when i dropped round her house,
twice... when i defended her integrity on one of our
trips back:
on the way toward the shift the guys were
making ****** jokes...
i told her: i'm coming back with you: don't worry...
what did the boys talk about? ******* cereal brands...
she didn't have to posit her elbow on my knee
and relax... she didn't have to do anything:
drink my wine... laugh...
giggle... smile... sing in front of me...
she didn't have to invite me into her home...
she didn't have to make me want to drop her
Valentine's flowers in the middle of the night...

she really didn't require me to make her
feel the requirements of feeling protected...
apparently any football hooligan is immune
to the argument: imagine if i were you mother...
a different story if i just stand there and... wink...
oi oi... ups to two toe nothings, eh eh?! wink-wink...
wanna giggle?!
i know a proper rattle that even giggles me
about...
    i like to... put out cigarette buts on my knuckles...
you... want to try?!
it truly is a: transcendental experience
of "emotion"... well... more like feeling...
well.. more like...
              can i break your knee into cartilage?!

but she was so perfect! ginger 'n' all!
ah man... a ginger girl... just 4 years older than me...
a ******* bombshell!
she already mentioned that this guy wasted
20 years of his life to approach her with enough:
******* or... ego or... ****** or... unicorns...
and i was like: **** it: bungee!

   eh... no wonder... what a glorious shrimp: ginger: imp...
there's another one on the horizon...
but this one is less cougar and more: mousey...
but ginger and freckles is like...
cumin and coriander... powder... curry base!

well i get what i can get... alttürkischrabehaar:
old turkish raven hair...
i was born with a fetish for blonde haired girls...
sorry... the story twists...
gingers... Celtic gingers... time's up... the night's
most welcome.

I wanted to stay inside his light switch,
inhale his frequency and sound waves,
feel his steam rise and gleam inside my cells,
his earthbound land a garden of love flowing
into radiant seas, his thick muscles defined –
so artistically exemplified, intricate, aligning
with the stars, shouldering desire and passion,
intimate perimeters.  His sun-bright existence
a stillness pressed on my cheeks, a hovering
shadow over my head, the highways of his angled
abs glowing like lovely constellations, stunning
interstates over hard beating poetry, his arms
strong and muscle *****, raw rocking.  My rapturous
love drug making me faded, flamed, fluctuating
in open space upon his milky brown fineness,
drowning within his luminous, liquid labyrinth,
sleek smoothed, shimmering, even the iridescent
wind circling his rich, luscious thighs.  His diamond
ankles exploding onto mine, radiant ripped ***
a wondrous ballad playing on my biceps, ice skating
on my triceps, jubilant, drumming diction raining
upon my spine – the cool whip of his voice
a vivacious beat on my tongue, a breath
of astonishing metaphors born of great
taste, blazing attraction and gorgeous alleyways,
alluring cologne pulling me into his body
of amazing destinations.  To feel his humongous
**** swaying in my hands, precious veins outlined
and framed, hypnotizing, swirling skyscrapers
of Mandingo love lighting me up, making
me embrace the power of his heavy artillery,
thundering torpedo, snake loving passion,
a craving attraction, the head so dashing,
a ravishing brass instrument gleaming
in the nighttime sky.  His sleek flesh fit
for a king, growing magnificently towards
pleasant Pluto, towards glamorous Venus,
climbing into the depths of my bones,
into scintillating tunnels where cool blue
seas glisten around vibrant palm trees,
mind-blowing metaphysics, bridges
of biology so hard and strong, stealing
me away from outer galaxies into his tempting
treasures, manly mansions filled with extreme
fascination and glow, soul flow, a whole world
of endless escape calling me closer into his kingdom
of satisfying desires.

what do women call them? mombods?
frenzied... ever frenzied by reality:
a reality with a doubled-up emphasis:
a reemphasis... i love reality:
cubism in its simple term of:
"awkward" bodies...
           i should know a little about that...
i was fat... then thin... then fat again:
now i'm a bullish bulk of a man in his prime...
i will not do any torso work except for
press-ups... i like my lamb-stomach pouch...
plus... body-hair doesn't look good
on a six-pack... plus a hairy chest:
i sometimes go to work with an unbuttoned
shirt... ooh... people noticed i have a hairy
chest: like someone sprinkled pepper on it...
yeah: two legs too and a beard...
one of the guys started cracking jokes that
i'm a lookalike to some actors from the 1980s...
***** or film?
but a hairy torso doesn't go well with
a six-pack... i'd have to shave...
i saw one br'uh on the train the other day:
i seriously distrust men who's bicep girth
is either similar to their calves...
biceps triceps... whatever...
   i distrust the look of men when their arms
are larger than their legs...
absolute ******* posers...
they must be pumping some sort of juice...
some variation of steroids...
but my god... a plump woman:
i don't mean a single mum sort of beached whale
i mean: ****** plump plum of a woman...
i lose my mind...
              it's truly a hot summer if i'm
thinking about *** all the time...
i just can't stop... it's like a second quest for
rediscovering gravity...
and all the glory of a "cis-hetero-normative":
ah ha ha "*******" that comes with the ancient
whisper from Ovid...
i just discovered this trend on twitter...
i don't know whether they're scam accounts
or whether they're authentic...
oh man... these women are thirsty...
about time to play...
(a) watermelon man - Herbie Hancock
(b) backdoor man - Howlin' Wolf...

   and you're telling me? you're telling me?!
the African man not exposed to the English
language and "slavery": coal-miners?!
i thought the Polacks were the industrial "*******"...
working coalmines and the metallurgy...
you're telling me? you're telling me?
the African man could have conjured up jazz
in Africa?! the African man could have conjured
up the blues?! in Africa?!
you're telling me the African man:
and oh! oh the misery! could have conjured up
these fiendish: liberating arts with his African
speech?!

well... if the Hebrews received reparations from
the Germans for the Holocaust...
i still wonder... who the **** is going to pay "us"?
the Germans won't own up...
the Russians won't own up...
are we asking for free money?
   no, oh no no... we're asking for more strife!
that's how you live: proper: you strive...
if a lazy body: then an agitated mind...
if a lazy mind: then an agitated body...

that's how life: works...
look at me... i've returned to listening to the blues
because i'm thinking about ***...
i can't stop myself thinking about tomorrow's
shift and what will follow...
i figured it out... keep agitating that dangling "thing"
several days prior without climaxing...
then after the shift drink 75cl of apple cider...
wander around the brothel...
then buy some whiskey, take a sip... walk in...
and? perform...

         oh to hell with chemical additives... ****** my ***...
there need to be: plans in place to perform
on a whim... with someone you never slept with
before... oh... but there's one honey in my eye...
that one from a ******* i had...
the one i wanted to do solo...

my god: listening to the blues and thinking about ***...
it's almost as good as drinking ms. amber
or eating self-made mint chocolate-chip ice-cream...
blah blah: n'ah n'ah... moaning about a past...
always with the past...
if it weren't for the Africans exposed to
the English language we'd have nothing worth
of modernity...
these weaklings moaning and groaning
walking on nuggets of what ought to be feet!

if it weren't for the Africans exposed to
the English tongue: complete strangled by it...
why didn't they try a Canadian taste of bilingualism?
or the Swiss try at triangulating Italian,
French and German?
like Napoleon said:
a man who knows two tongues is worth
the worth of two men...

by now i'd be stuck with the ******* moths of
history still pretending to like Mozart...
or Bach...
             but listening to the blues
and thinking about ***... and drinking...
and then going cycling...
i just want to gear up to some lazy motorist
who might tell me i'm a terrible cyclist...
i just want to heave out a terrible mouth:
an ill wind of breath: i want to vent out anger
for anger's sake...

while cleaning the house: dearest Mary...
you like cleaning the house? my mother asked...
no, dearest mother...
i hate cleaning the house...
but what do i love? i love a clean home...
i abhor sloths... i abhor people with no self-awareness...
i abhor people with no self-hygiene standards...
but i also love flies... isn't that a pretty picture...
wrap me up in a fleece of flies
and tell me to run into a morphed spider-web
with a black widow sitting at the centre
all pretty: feminist...
borrowed themes from the insects:
the modern woman as the Mantis and the Black Widow...
sure as **** nothing mammalian about her...
well... beside the prostitutes...

i hardly think i ever paid for lies...
it's a sure good sign if they're moaning
and groaning with their mouths already full...
now all i have to do
it pretend to play the violin while stroking my beard...
i can't escape it: the blues and thoughts erotica...
peaches and cream...
mint and chocolate-chip ice-cream...
pork and thyme... beef and rosemary in
a Turkish Lavash dish, wrap...

*** and tiredness... nicotine is better than
caffeine...
                  plump plum *** of a woman...
pigeon voyeurism...
it's not like you'll ever see crows mating...
in the open...
but pigeons do: ***** *******:
of the 100 rejections you see...
there's about 2 that make it with all that flurry
of flapping wings trying a ballerina's balance
of doggy-pigeon style *******...

oh... oh: i feel so liberated with all these women
feeling so liberated...
    i can have multiple ****** encounters
and feel no shame... none... zilch... nada...
thank you: woman...
i don't need to be your wage-slave-labourer...
i'm just going to cycle to the Chadwell Heath
bicycle shop to inquire about the cost
of fixing up my £500 TREK mountain bicycle...
i'm getting tired of the road-bike...
i need to get off the grid... Havering County
Park is beckoning...

i'm freed! thank you, woman!
you have you little ****-boys and i have my serious
women who like *******, proper...
there's the money on the table:
no dinner dates... no cinema dates...
thank you!
  thank you thank you thrice thank you!
no commitment...
let me just tap into this thirst pool of single
yummy-mummies... these
yummy-sloppies...
                  hell: i might even get some **** for free!

i need to watch this twitter trend...
i mean: if i simply exposed myself like they expose
themselves... it's infuriating:
not impossible to deal with: just ****** infuriating...
here comes the donkey:
and here comes the stick and carrot...
  it's like that with these doubtful women...
already coupled... probably married...
mums: definitely children on that Titanic of a
sinking woman... yet she wants more: more: more...
validation points... more validation points...
is she still ****-able: question:
is she still able-to-****?

                       do we really need to explore
the dimensions of latex gimp suits?!
i don't think so...
                        wholesome... porridge style *******...
starve a little... then blow your head out with
a shotgun of slobbering on a dozen oysters
that compose her one pretty little ****...
floral patterns and spring in her eyes and mouth...

one more ******* "******" starts telling me
he's the victim of some white *******...
i'll tell him: you little dip-****...
the African man would have never enriched
humanity with the blues and with the jazz
if he wasn't exposed to the English tongue!
it's not like these people worked the coal-mines!
my god... oh! bemoan the labours of cotton-picking!
my god! each cotton bug probably weighed
the worth of gold back then!
it's not like people are not in the fields these
days plucking up cabbages!
waste of breath / space sort of people argumentation
practices: always ******* awry...

I wonder if he knew that I was watching him,
the way he strolled around the room in his stylish
clothes, the swag in his stance when he was surrounding
me, his silly smile that cracked me up all the time, the tinges
of his skin tone.  

I’m lost at the mere sight of his flawless frame,
how his dreads hung below his head, the way his bulging muscles
escaped out onto the exterior surface of my skin, the dexterity and
complexity he possessed within.

There was a synchronized pattern sifting in the air around me pointing the way towards inner drums rumbling in his heart, as I sunk deeper into his world.  I could hear the musical symphonies blazing the nighttime extravagance, my eyes mesmerized and shimmering, glowing like oil slicked portraits.

I leaned back in my chair and stared at the orchestration of his jaw and lips, how it was crafted to perfection, how its detailed depiction led up to the arch of his nose and chiseled cheeks, the way his dark brown eyes were perfectly positioned to excellence.  

I continued to observe the flex of his biceps and triceps, how they seemed to create various worlds of imagination, how if I could touch them, they would spark a new life deep into the interior of my soul.  His strong knees were on the tip of my tongue, the striking shape of his head was caressing on my chest, the smoothness of his back spine was hypnotizing my mind.  

The more I studied his frame, the further I saw how distant we were from each other, how his immeasurable features were far out of my reach, how his inner soul began to pull away from mine with heavy repulsion, how I tried to cling to his surface, but everything was rapidly fading away into closed doors.