Most peculiarly of most things was that I thought all of this very fishy, daudry, drab, and boresome. This is where I turn on the second table lamp...

In a muster I arrived to the home of my aunt, where at once she drew me into the back of the house, down a flight of stairs made of tusk and bone into a catacomb where she kept a alive collection of wooly mammoths. She said the upkeep wasn't awfully horrendous as she had an invisible backdrop which led to a lion, a witch, and a wardrobe sort of thing. I stood in the gangway behind 10 foot high thigh bones waiting for one of the monstrous red beasts to come greet me, but what arrived was a very large elephant with longer tusks than usual. None of the red sillyness which I had dreamt of seeing in my previous years.

She could see I was not that impressed, and so I was led to another part of her home. Around the corner walked in my uncle in is superb and luxurious dress, reminiscent of 18th century British military fatigues. He said, "I bought the E.T. ride from Universal Studios, but as bringing the whole ride to my home I had them adapt a more suitable version to fit the property. A hangar opened and inside there were four chariots of orange and blue, diamond shaped school buses with their undersides aimed at withholding a V-shaped street. Then in two and two single file order all the classmates of my K-12 years arrived and took seat into the strappings of this 'ride' we were to take. Music played, John Williams even was produced by hologram, and after the ups and downs for several minutes we arrived to what I thought would inevitably be the forest, but rather was what I perceived was a Finnish town. The chariot I was in was stuck in the street, mud, rain, and soot entrenched us. I unbuckled the polyester straps and when I stood I realized that though the seats had built in urinals and toilets they were utterly noiseome to the senses. I followed a local girl to a food mart where I asked how I could find where I was but no one spoke a drop of English.

I corraled the group and told them to wait for me. I followed this girl who seemed quite younger than I to a small apartment in the uppermost floor of a very unsturdy chapel-like home several suburban blocks from our ride. She immediately removed her pants and I saw with my very own eyes that she was hairless and nubile. She insisted that we have a ****, and after I caressed her and complained too that she was far too young, she insisted that the age of consent in Germany was actually 13 yet she was 16. I remember it clearly. The most gigantuous feelings of pleasure as I mended a studio closet for my dining room furniture inside her ripening channel. Eventually after an hour we finished, she offered me a towel and some biscuits, which I consumed joyously.

Upon leaving her home I remembered that she had said we were in Germany, and so I produced a measure of Deutsch that I had been saving in my repetoir for the right moment. As Finnish is not my strongest language I was pleased of this and became instantly popular among the other candidates of our journey. This  E.T. ride is far different than  I remember it having been. Moments later I awoke quickly, a tuft of her black hair on my eiderdown comforter and a veil of tears from the merriment of glee shrouded over my face. After I rolled and balled into the soft feathers of my bedding, I twisted myself again into a knot, and allowed myself to rejoin the soporific treatice I was aiming for.

This is now where I turn off both lamps and go on watching films of a similar style.

Wishing You The Very Best,

Sir Martin Narrod

I keep my family of conscience
I shred my folly of heir
In case of torment or fondness
I never wear underwear.

The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,

or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,

or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******  

as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.

Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.

or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments

from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.

Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.

“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.

at the track today,
Father's Day,
each paid admission was
entitled to a wallet
and each contained a
little surprise.
most of the men seemed
between 30 and 55,
going to fat,
many of them in walking
shorts,
they had gone stale in
life,
flattened out....
in fact, **** it, they
aren't even worth writing
about!
why am I doing
this?
these don't even
deserve a death bed,
these little walking
whales,
only there are so
many of
them,
in the urinals,
in the food lines,
they have managed to
survive
in a most limited
sense
but when you see
so many of them
like that,
there and not there,
breathing, farting,
commenting,
waiting for a thunder
that will not arrive,
waiting for the charging
white horse of
Glory,
waiting for the lovely
female that is not
there,
waiting to WIN,
waiting for the great
dream to
engulf them
but they do nothing,
they clomp in their
sandals,
gnaw at hot dogs
*******,
gulping at the
meat,
they complain about
losing,
blame the jocks,
drink green
beer,
the parking lot is
jammed with their
unpaid for
cars,
the jocks mount
again for another
race,
the men press
toward the betting
windows
mesmerized,
fathers and non-fathers
Monday is waiting
for them,
this is the last
big lark.
and the horses are
totally
beautiful.
it is shocking how
beautiful they
are
at that time,
at that place,
their life shines
through;
miracles happen,
even in
hell.
I decide to stay for
one more
race.

from Transit magazine, 1994

I was in a public restroom at the mall takin' a leak in one of those urinals.
There happened to be a TDH (tall dark and handsome) man standing next to me.
And as we were peeing in unison, I leaned over, leaned back,
Looked him in the eyes and said, "Nice ****, ******."

Why is he looking at my ****?
Is he gay?
Did he just call ME a ******?
Is he confused about his sexuality?
Why do I feel insecure about my **** all of a sudden?
What just happened?

I finished peeing before he did,
So I took my ***** self over to the sink and proceeded to wash my hands.
It wasn't long before TDH was by my side.
We were now washing our hands in unison and he looks over at me and says,
"Nice hands, ******."

Is he hitting on me?
Is he really gay?
Do I really have nice hands?
Does he want to touch them?
Is he just ******* with me?
I don't know what's happening but I like it =)

Turns out he wasn't gay... nor was I.  
We both just happened to be in the business of belittling strangers
With contradictory insults for no apparent reason.
It was a good day.

Early June in Calcutta
means packed streets
of decaying carcasses
and forlorn bodies
pulling rich people in carts.
Record-breaking heat
amplifies the smell
of curbs doubling
as urinals,
and pungent sweat
soaks our shirts
before we even leave
the rickety roof
we called home.

But when I think Calcutta
I picture sunshine
and warm masala chai,
Suporna's smile as she chews
a mashed banana treat
and Rosie's tiny hand
twisting the gold band
on my *******.
I remember thank you songs
and walking songs
that we sang at bus stops
and busy streets,
where the glisten
on our skin
was only outshined
by the sparkle in our eyes.

follow the yellow brick road...*

The terrible freedom unleashed by typewriters.
Condition of complexity judged without criteria.
Radical provocations. Urinals and prams. Contingent.
Anarchist aesthetic. Not truth nor beauty but freedom.
Materiality of language. Multi-hued wheel barrows.
A cuttlefish. A crate. A cassowary. A cigarette. A ******.
Paratactic order. Particular phrasing. Pulsing pastiche.
An infinite conversation without resolution
as with the stupid friend who won’t shut up. Ever.
A transcendent dialectic based solely on proximity.
Ineluctable modality of the near. Only that. Buck it.
An unquiet ghost endlessly self-questioning. No answers.
Moaning in the meaning. A simple stuttering. Sibilant.
Turbulent and unpredictable as waddling wolverines.
Words that only mean whatever is seen. Juxtaposition.
Dissolving into desired dissonance. The magic chord.
Absolute verity in the experience of the fraudulent
for the same reason as the ubiquity of toothpaste.
     The poem as its own universe, complete and whole,
     fodder for the mind, not balm for the soul.

Sadness never signalled us a sign from the cosmos,
left us to decipher the bones of history in quest of omens.
Unheeded, despair overflowed us like a desert sand storm,
buried us in credit ennui and economic laissez-faire.

World leaders formed escalating groups, G-5, G-12, G-20,
still the banks camouflaged in oppressor's language,
invented derivatives against all uncertainty, save their own,
till Wall Street acquired the stench of backed up urinals.

Only when the desperate sallied into the world's streets,
emoting songs that gushered from the wells of outrage,
did rolling blackouts of democracy unearth the buried cities,
freeing a wind that whispers ruin in uncompromising sunlight.

that litre of whiskey last night, downed in one session
seriously did the trick.*

the unacknowledged legislators that we are,
sure enough, we are,
taking quills from angelic wings and hoping
for pigeon **** on us in trafalgar sq. reverse
logic of a black cat crossing the street and the no. 13.
our lineage dating back to the caucus is worried,
will we survive, earn the credential of middle-age
and middle-class?!
i don't know, art and work are akin,
although the former stressors are said as:
i'm working... i'm working! but i'm not getting paid!
in the latter scenario... well i think i'm working...
but i'm just looking busy... and i'm getting dough
for that... smiling a fanciful card trick of the
sociable with a stranger passing along the way
of my muffin / coffee stand, pop-up in a busy linchpin
of economy known as the shop gallery -
now imagine putting a pound coin in the shopping gallery
and a pound coin in an art gallery... obviously
there's a 99 pence store you could buy something
and get enough frank sinatra losing the change
outside... but in an art gallery? a pound coin on the mahogany?
you were asked to donate your own trusted allowance
at the door... donate the quid and admire the canvases,
don't be one of those 191% increase of theatre ticket sales lot
taking a questionnaire then booking tickets to
define old school bourgeoise as exclusively theatrical,
this is the west end - everyone's pompous...
or as aristotle said: tourism begins with awe...
all these tourists are perfect actors of philosopher...
mouths open walking with flashlight frenzies
they almost look like philosophers... awe-struck...
mouths open... a pigeon could just about do a blitz
drop into their mouths;
yet something worries me... for such a courteous
nation as the british claim to fame are...
why seriously throw all the cursors and vectors of curtsy
onto placards on the street for reminder... like this one t.f.l.
advert asking the english "gentleman"
to excuse his knackered limbs
of farting into an office seat for 8 hours for an old lady
on the tube? why... big brother said it had to be advertised,
this english curtsey of the gentlemen with
sexism clarified with tampons and public space urinals -
but as all white big bangs go... i guess it's an
evolutionary fear... we'll never beat the insects...
we can beat the dodos the lions the mammoths...
we can't beat the insects... we already know
there's a worm for every **** ******* eyesight scented
talking hole once we die and aren't cremated;
we're in the atomic playground, atomised i hardly
think is an adequate congestion of comparisons...
then if not atomic then humanoid,
or just black-void to stress known origins...
while mama caucus sells chickens...
originally there was only one bull solomon for the
perfect breed... reverse of man the cows said:
you send men to war like bulls to slaughter
keeping the king and the queen oriental to
poke and point at the next living man dead...
we're the lactose ganges, people dye burnt human
remains in the twirl and sidewinder of nature that
defines us... but let children chuckle and suckle at
our *******... but most of the beef you see sold
comes from those akin to bulls...
you keep one and adorn him with india's tear
that's sri lanka... and churn the rest to war...
while the she of each she that is left for milking,
is then discarded among the bull corpses.

Taco brunch in a bathroom stall
Liquor filled urinals hang from the ceiling
Where IS the ceiling?

Rooms filled with nothing
Empty space, except for a disco ball
Groove in the black hole

Scar tissue covers the air
A hurt earth lingers in the void
Where everything and nothing exists

Possibility ruins imagination
How can dolphins play checkers with cats
When cats hate sea urchins?

Neither rhyme not reason plagues my mind
There is nothing within to plague
Just another void amongst voids

Why is that star shaped like me
Whilst I roam within shadows?
No

Bone started to crumble
Into monumental skyscrapers
Destroyed by a lost ant

Dear, all other men who use public restrooms.

Why is it, that every time I go to use a stall in a public toilet
there is **** on the seat? Lets set aside the fact that there are urinals
on most every wall for those of you who only need to take a quick
leak and would like to do so in the upright position.
Let us also set aside the question of why you did not bother to
lift the seat into the upright position.

Let us instead talk about aim, now I am a man myself so
I can see this issue clearly.  Unlike a vast majority of you guys,
I don't think I have ever watched a full game of football, and
I am confident I could sleep through the entire baseball season
without batting an eye or asking the score.

Surprisingly, this does not hinder my aim
it is steady and true. Would a bullseye
at the bottom help the rest of you?

Now there are times, I know, that are more difficult
maybe you're drunk, or tired, or just having an off day
and you happen to miss. In these cases there is a simple
saying "If you sprinkle when you ****** please,
be neat and wipe the seat". The saying is juvenile
the meaning is not. For those of you who are now confused

There is this nifty paper keep on easily accessible dispensers
inside every public restroom. It usually even has perforated
edges, in order to help you tear it Hercules. Woman use it
always and you do too, when you ****, I hope. So now is the time
to grab a *** of that stuff and wipe away your insecurities,
for the rest of us.

Sincerely, a Fellow Man

I lost track of time
& fell short of a lot,
like I fell short of
a body that could be
happy by itself.
& I fell short of basketball,
calisthenics, boyhood. Where
growth should be was misshapenness;
where rapid should be was idle;
where scrutiny should be
was massacre.

& I was terrifically sad
yet deemed not officially depressed,
though in front of the mirror I would
see bathed in motor oil the reflection
of my genitals, which is made of
calfskin and bruise. I also tried
various other things, like
licking my armpits, talking
to a tree, snorting
ammonia off public urinals;
every sample of grime I tried
to touch. Maybe just
to see if cleanse was a finite
thing, and if I was nearing
the end of my supply.

& I fell short of buzz cuts
and *******. Also, fighting
after school and legitimate
swagger from a legitimate
boy.
I looked too long
at differently colored lights
and stared too little at
women I was meant to
impregnate by some order
of prophecy — or the privilege
of *****. I trimmed
my nails each week and
waited for my beard to
grow. I didn’t own
any robes, and I didn’t
drink alcohol. I also
trusted too much and
ended up on the last
waves of a beautiful song,
jumping at the right
moment before siren
becomes pause.

& I fell short of bones,
breath, and humanly powers
of affection, and I waited
for someone to explain how
everything worked because
the gospels put the world
in a jar and threw
them between fire and cold
air. I would step inside
churches prepared to listen,
then at the pew I would
get lost in the tar pit
of my subconscious.

& I fell short of being
a son, a brother, a friend,
an avid decipherer of
the poetry that lands on
my palms and eats itself
if I don’t eat it first.

& I fell short of saving
the world every chance I got.

& I fell short of distinguishing
love from pity.

& I fell short of the
day a promise was supposed
to unfold
in the brink of disaster;
and it just so happens
I was asleep when miracles
occurred under my blanket,
and so to me healing
was just waking up to
an alarm clock.

& I fell short of days
I was to remain
in place as the planet
anchored itself to
the rungs of my rib
and flattened like a
gum under my command.
I was my own God, my own
whisperer of lies. I tried
to see beauty with
these eyes.

Each day, syrup.
Each day, sedation.
Each day, escaping lament.
Distortion was the
language I fell into
and bounced on.

& I fell short of
this poem, which I had intended
to make perfect sense.
Maybe to some of you
it will.

for a legendary 70s-80s Sydney nightclub


wearing those clothes
like we did
being there

back then
paying too much
for that shirt

those shoes
pointy & suede
buckled not laces

16 in nightclubs
being tall
an original sister

1959 sequins
sunglasses matching
there was no light

being afraid
of the men
metamorphosis

women used
those urinals
confusion reigned

in a young man
we danced
the music spoke

bartenders poured
all sorts of
concoctions

another track
began
& a floorshow

eyes wide open
miming & movements
others queued

we were hustled
inside
out come the

freaks & early on
we got it all
on studded sofas

on the dancefloor
the fresco was
roamin

we moved feet
to the rhythms
slaves

not knowing how
formative those days
were

never getting anything
but drinks
until later

legal with dollars
juiced up
better lights

victims resting
in seats people
occupied

when a visiting act
blew simpler minds
wallets

we thought that
record was good
then they played

B52s, Blondie, Numan
the floor caved in
from ska

pogo. bouncers
cleared the scene
original grace

as an ape
stomps
up a staircase

disappears into
lookalikes
then a spotlight

highlighted
the real thing
that was us

It pains me to say that my ***** is only half an inch long.
It's extremely embarrassing because I have a tiny *******.
I never use urinals while out in public, I only use stalls.
I can not let other men know that my ***** is so small.

I got so mad at my ex-wife that I wanted to beat her.
She was going to tell my friends and co-workers about my tiny peter.
I said if she exposed me, I'd expose her baldness and that she wears a wig.
My ex-wife had our marriage annulled because my wiener isn't very big.

Women say that ***** size isn't important to them but it's more important than they admit.
A blind date started making fun of my tiny wiener so I started making fun of her tiny ****.
When it comes to being successful with women, I don't have a chance.
If you have a small ****, don't let anybody see it, keep it in your pants.

Da never bought a froggy pool;
We weren't friends like friends in school;
We never played til we showered naked.
We didn't hike and shoot the breeze,
Nor dump or **** behind the trees.
We never hit the links together,
And relieved ourselves in St. Andrew's heather.
We never streaked sorority dorms,
Or stood bare-assed in a storm.
We never stood shoulder to shoulder,
At urinals for a sneak peak over.
Swimming wasn't a thing for Da,
So we never swam in the raw.
And Da was never one to flash.

Near the end he couldn't wash,
I never gave a bed-sponge-bath;
But Clean my teeth, was what he asked.
Let me bring this to a close,
Da was always donned in clothes.
I never saw my old man's ****.
And that's the long and short of it.

it's all occupied with dark fumes of flatulence
      the bus hanger
          it's teething and earning      a low ceilinged thrive

regularly cleaned    the roof portal
   with a large drooping eye
          brags of blue sky
the coaches are idling
   fretful   to be burdened and go

elsewhere
the public urinals
there's a strong smell of iron
are the morning users dehydrated
  malnourished or ill ?
i feel a little flated

elsewhere
in the waiting area
   a neatly turned out teen
    wants to give their seat to the infirm
does not     and hurts inside  averting
(a public act of courtesy
   would   after all   be an embarrassing one)

attention back to the importance
my friend has ungreeted me
  i have wished him ease
  and he has passed between the cordons
amongst amiable cattle
  he pauses at the authorities verification
who   in turn
   tails them to load up their luggage
                    and become their driver

                             - goodbye my friend

.if you had any, you'd also know, that the act of urinating, while standing up, is equivalent to a video of a woman ******* in the shower... although... in this scenario: water isn't coming in, it's coming out. ****! i hate being lectured by circumcised men that aren't rabbis!

i always wondered whether
   richard brautigan
was right about laughing
in bed, with one of his girlfriends,
giggling at the work
  of richard von krafft-ebing
when it came to the act
of a man, *******...
peculiar case: after that shot
of lead went into his head...
  not that i'm laughing...
perverse ****** acts...
   apparently...
      i should be inclined,
   as the passive recipient
      of the homosexual amour...
impotent masturbators...
hmm...
        as one deviant said
to the other:
               just give me the 2D
framework of a *******...
the other scenario?
  of a 3D woman...
  oh... you mean the type that...
might...
    "suddenly" become pregnant,
akin to the "******" mary?
funny story, that,
it's been going on for well
over 2000 years...
   i mean, the simple bias
for curiosity just, gripped me...
then i started thinking...
but was richard von krafft-ebing
circumcised?
was he exposed to a strobe-light
effect of flesh,
just... *****-nilly... parading?
did i ever think about *** like
that before i heard of whittle richie
prior to being "indocrinated"
to the freudian cluster- / mind-****?
it (or he, i.e. me)
   can get an *******
with a *******...
but with a woman, say,
    a nurse, or a, whatever...
he's got a limp ****
     for some time,
   before the arousal kicks in...
and hey presto! little jimmy
  has a birthday cake
and a hogmanay bonanza of:
metaphors, fireworks, metaphors,
fireworks!
- i'm that sometimes has
a melancholic "******"
when listening to templar chants...
like... i'm giving birth...
through my head,
   to a foetus, that's actually
a vacuum...
but it feels so good...
it's like: you weep for the pleasure,
and you know you're
enjoying the lament...
because, right at the end,
when you stop...
  you leave a sadistic signature
of a quivering giggle...
point being... over-exposure...
which began, in my life...
around aged 7...
started jerking-off aged 7...
after having found
a *****-mag. in the catacombs
of a church that was being
built...
     but it never became
a scented candle moment...
it never became a web-cam.
*****, live streaming,
earning money moment:
    which some girls frequent...
no...
  it was straight on
the ******* (throne of thrones),
done the no. 1,
done the no. 2 (sort of)
doing the no. 3
   (dilation) -
   ploop...
      done the no. 2:
useful, really useful,
    this, god the ****,
  son the phallus...
   and a holy ghost of *****...
next up: every time i *******
i begin to wonder:
that butterfly effect, "thing"...
you know... a butterfly *****
its wings in one place,
and a tornado happens
to take place in another...
so... basically only women
shooting blanks (****)
  get to enjoy the standard
deviant act of ***...
but...
     i'm starting to suspect
that... having a *******
is a bit like donning a habit...
what the monks wear...
now i'm guessing that
pearl jam (that grunge band)
released their album
vitology when reading,
if not the work,
  something akin
   to von krafft-ebing's
psychopathia sexualis...
i'm guessing:
naughty boy touched
his fiddly bit...
   yeah: as "naughty boy"
always does when he's
standing at the ******
aiming for that: 100% accuracy
of a welsh longbowman
in the 100 year war
against the french...
look... they even paint
bullseye in some urinals...
gotta aim: j-        -ust
   about right... squint the eyes...
but would circumcision
make men more...
degenerate, over time?
if there were no jewish
rubric involved:
  it's like a... "treat":
that "extra" skin can come off:
snippy snippy...
but you have to follow
these rules...
   what happens when
those rules are no imposed?
hey... i'm starting to stare
into blank, which i once called:
the feeding abyss
  thinking:
         sure, the added
impetus...
     to... search for the supposedly
"lost", "extra" weight
of the body...
  a soul "apparently" weighs
21grams... what's a *******?
i'm seriously going to start
calling it a habit...
          (NO EXTRA B FOR
INSINUATION OF: HABBIT,
was shouted over the megaphone).
homosexual feeling as an acquired
manifestation in both sexes...
p. 188 of the psychopathia sexualis...
love those words
mentioned - parathesia
  & hyperaesthesia...
or... sometime -esque of what
a man feels, within "god's gratitude"
of owning a habit...
you cut that **** off...
well... what are the chances
of aggression being, triplet?
****... the arabian girls were so
*****... they first had
to snip-off parts of their genitals,
and then made them
      put on a niqab...
             ***** as... well: ****!
all of them could be
the equivalent of a genghis
khan in terms of:
    in the *****,
of the Mecca Surrogacy club...
as i suspected:
surrogacy: the elevated form
of prostitution...
but at least now two
gay-lords (meet the parents
ref.) are *******
     and incubating...
me? as free and as brisk as
a ******* sparrow at this point...
i just want to see
how far relegated i will become
when more, and more
human freedoms are unearthed
and applied to: zee vill
               aus zee wolk.
   so that's all good;
    it's already one thing
to have anaesthetic type of ***
with prostitutes, once a year,
or perhaps two...
   it's another to be told:
you ******* because
you're having gender disphoria
or... you're the *****
in a homosexual relationship...
funny that...
   maybe the whole
  "erectile dysfunction"
is related to mingling in a society
of circumcised males...
who subsequently have
no religiosity,
  no moral authority
ascribed to them,
  as related to the orthodox hebrews?
you know...
i'm starting to think...
i could probably find
a common parlance
with an orthodox jew...
given: he's circumcised,
          and i'm not.
- because that's what
this: extra bit of "flab" is...
   you don't feel a need
to explore: "further" territory...
you're not strapped
to a ******* *****-machine
conjuring up new ways
to fill up that absence...
    the ******* van gogh /
st. peter's sentiment
of the ages...
       my bet... in the furore
of the events...
   jesus wasn't circumcised...
hey...
i gamble... but not on horses,
or dawgs (as...
   ***** ****** would
                          put it:
                  yeah... i like dogs).
so yeah...
not many jokes about
    circumcision, of males...
  and... not many uncircumcised
males... making jokes
about habit comparisons
and: the exponential rise
of ****** deviation
  of circumcised males...
being *******...
   that... the one ****** "deviance"
they could have been allowed,
of sitting down,
taking a ****,
taking a ****,
and bashing one to the grave
of: "imagining" genocide
was stripped from their,
should they ever encounter it,
state of rejection...
   **** me, shylock asked
for a pound of flesh...
   i'm asking for what's...
****... dunno...
  how much does ******* weigh?
yeah... 21 grams?
the same as the superstition
of the soul when it leaves
the body?
    cool...
                 that's not much...
- so my sole ****** deviation
is to do the nos. uno, dos, tres...
but ***** over there
was a web-cam,
scented candles...
    income...
    and... what appears to be...
something more than
  the missing *******...
            i look down:
oh... right...
              so i keep the *****...
for all their use...
  i'll be excluded from
the castrato choir of the vatican:
******-dooby-do;
i'll just ghost-**** my way
                 out of this scenario.
- so what wouldn't be
a problem with circumcised men...
their hindered libido...
their subsequent
                      rebellion against
their hindered libido...
no religious structure...
the woman no being in the mood...
and the subsequent
possibility of outlet
   of a simple: uno, duo, tres?
****... i guess i'll never know.

I like elephants, wood, and rust.
I like elastic feelings and good, clean filthy textures.
I like peaceful rage and boxes with glass (broken or not).
I like detailed abstraction and smells that make you sick, but not literally.
I like words that are shaped like people and wind that doesn’t move or make a sound.
I like gravely voices with sandy tones, meaty bones, and eyes of stone.
I like chalk and dust and asking questions without words.
I like structured flow and red-ripple eyes.
I like amputated thoughts and snaking through forests.
I like the words ‘expunge’ and ‘spleen’ and coarse vengeance, but not together.
I like egg-shaped objects and touching washable whiteboard erasers with my cheek.
I like all human faces but not all human people and unnamed creatures we haven’t seen, in places we haven’t been.
I like writing secret thoughts and making words emboldened with my tongue and lips.
I like real life fiction and burning bridges to places I’ll never revisit
I like pencils, but only HB or above. 5H can **** right off. F makes me unsure.
I like the smell of poison from the lips of disturbed creatures.
I like people with cats for a head; tigers, lions or domestic.
I like the theoretical idea of punching a horse, for the way it sounds and smiles at me.
I like pegs and what they bring to the table and comedy that takes itself seriously.
I like circles and all their relatives. Even ***** Uncle Oblong.
I like how language makes my breath smell and squeezing hope out of sponges.
I like to name things that are mine, but then use things that belong to others. Staplers mainly.
I like darkness and light in all measures; even when drank from a well in a shoe.
I like climbing into clouds and discussing anything but the weather.
I like how randomness is a concept thought of by someone else.
I like to unravel thread and then eat the evidence.
I like the fecality of machines and cogs that catch rain.
I like to listen with my mouth and reply with my veins.
I like the honesty of chaos and the cynical nature of fingers and toes.
I like swinging my mind fluff at innocent bystanders.
I like falling into gold by tripping over dead-end roads.
I like round numbers that are sharp and spiky and hurt when applied freely.
I like getting trapped by my own volition and eyelashes that live alone and care not what you or I think.
I like it when clouds become aggressive and spit disdain on the revolution you started.
I like slatted fences that don’t let things get them down; except falling dust that is just a thought.
I like universal understanding of things nobody understands and how your blue is my yellow and you stole it, so give it back.
I like how the letter Q is so shy, despite its ***** size.
I like to find the veinality in all things; with my eyes and then my sweaty blood pen.
I like stealthy science that is really a ghost we invented in a room made of futures and pasts.
I like forced relationships; especially if a monkey or a spoon are involved.
I like to glue my face to walls to see if anyone watches. Don’t worry, they always do.
I like reaching milestones only to find someone has scratched out my name and replaced it with an arrow pointing backwards.
I like big licks that are really lips that got kicked.
I like wrinkles that twinkle when sprayed with the slap of life.
I like that we all pretend that we know what’s going on, but that if we did, we wouldn’t have eyebrows.
I like hidden rooms that hold everything we were trying to hit. Except that horse I punched.
I like to drive a truck gently down a stream, only to tickle a deer on its belly with my headlights when I get there.
I like finding things that are so me, it brings painful heat out of my smiling face holes.
I like reflections in glass, of things that aren’t happening now, but will after lunch.
I like the rhythm of word *** followed by the ******* of a donkey-punched idea.
I like the iron will of freedom and how the camel **** of life sends us all back to the ***** sea.
I like the familiarity of a number and how they let us down, but we kiss them anyway.
I like pockets of air in black-like snowflakes in the fog.
I like seeds, Velcro and moon sand.
I like burnt umber, but only because we once were friends. He stayed. I left. *****.
I like paper and news, but never together and strings on rings dancing like feathers.
I like visual echoes and all other types of see-sounds.
I like stories both fat and tall, but not hairy-backed. I’m not an animal.
I like the sounds comics make and soundless comets that like me.
I like how one rule is made to break another, like a seagull might be used to grout a tile.
I like how a hundred things can be small or big, depending on whether you are lying down or on crack.
I like indents and outdents, but nothing beats a trombone.
I like scissors and their forgotten cousin the compass. They weren’t really related after all.
I like inflammatory statements such as ‘best before’ and ‘backspace’.
I like toast and brittle confidence, especially as a mid-morning snack.
I like chilli, flutes and harmonious ornaments.
I like running a mock and mocking a run. Oh and raspberries.
I like over-elaborate job titles invented by under-elaborate job-nockeys.
I like a pinch of this and a pinch of that. But if you touch me, I’ll cut your fingers off.
I like red apples and the smell of disappointed parents.
I like peanut shells in their own personal hells that are destined to do well.
I like sabre-toothed sauces and burlesque mornings
I like tree bark rubbings made from the fallen bodies of birds.
I like reaching for the hips of a star and releasing gristle from my teeth, in equal measure.
I like that swans break arms but never a sweat.
I like cherry protein and scratching an itchy thought.
I like snake skeletons, spider ***** and darkly lit minds.
I like half a man wrapped inside the womb of a stag. Why? Because I just thought of it.
I like divining a feeling with sticks made of rope inside houses of hope.
I like running downhill on palms of marbled ham.
I like cosmic justice in my box of tricks, with tea and biscuits.
I like making it worth peoples’ while, all over their face. But not with cheeky juice.
I like coming to an end, turning around and sleeping.
I like animals that have people for a soul and speak mythical wisdom by staring.
I like drawing what I think and making sandwiches that sing.
I like resting on my morals and dancing on yours.
I like stains on both the mind and my table.
I like visual symmetry, left aligned and crooked; valuable teacups and sage.
I like one-worded concepts like ‘calculators’.
I like appendages that swing and drinking *** from a tin.
I like water and vinyl and female urinals.
I like having no favourites, seasoned chips and music.
I like delving into lives like a fish flying on the back of a bird. Business class.
I like tapered limbs but not jeans; roasted egos but not beans.
I like scary hares laid bare and children being horses without sticks.
I like magic which is smooth and soup that is crude.
I like ninjas in shelters and watching shadows paint pictures.
I like how nothing ever ends, but everything bends. Even teardrops.
I like puzzles that sting and seaweed disguised as hair.
I like to leave people with a thought. Not you though.

I want to say thanks
To my bullies in the third grade
You shoved me into urinals
Punched and pushed
Even called me the nword
I hope you never get flipped a bird
To my middle school I thank you
Your closed minded views
And repugnant use of my name
You kept me down and broken
I hope you stay so outspoken
To my high school class thank you
You turned cold and distant
Even isolated and shamed me
My ex even made a meme of me
For a project in class
I hope that helped her pass
To college thank you
First I broke my arm then
My friend had *** with my girl
And I was homeless
I hope your parties aren’t foamless
To my old friends thank you
For leaving me out from a trip
Never hearing my pain
And always pointing at me to blame
I hope no girls call y’all lame
Lastly thank you me
For being weak so I could grow strong
For being scared so I could find bravery
For being lost so I could build a home
Thank you to you all because now
I never feel alone

reassuring taps of gentle footsteps upon marble
lightly echo through the clean air and fluorescent lights

a step past one door, warmth encompasses me
comfortable space, people in this town are few and far between

stop a moment, think
before another door. enter

to a ceiling much too low
so much i have to tilt my head to avoid it
there are urinals along the right-side wall
Eve is standing before one, just to look
a shifting glance, attention is brought to me

my angled eyes set at Eve’s level

maybe this way i can see
why the fleeting phantoms stay just long enough for our eyes to meet

You down there

Elegant and cozy inside your dumpster divinity

I can see the pain painted boldly across your faces

Each scar and crack tells a tale of times indifference

Yet you wear them like a badge of honor

Sifting through the remnants your eyes glimmer with knowing

like these collisions are meant to be

You fell into one another never having a clue

Hate and fluid swapped

On to the next one

I see you flow out of sight

Into corner clubs and shopping centers

Emerge some time later clutching pies and stomach

***** into the gutter and nod at the monotony

Humans harbor hungry hysterics
Small pain for huge comfort

The bars fill one by one

These rainy days make for awkward gathering

Nobody knows anybody but human nature insist we share common spaces

Walls fill and stools turn
***** fueled banter
Listen and never learn

long gazes propped on the elbows

Faces filled with contrition and self loathing

Avert your eyes skyward please
It's peace may soothe for a time

Humble and elastic

Like that chewing gum in the urinals

Watch it bend and contract
Product of a misplaced perception

I prefer these roof top views

My constant sky gazing may be cause for concern

Better I can see the tragedies coming

But we all must come down at some point

I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where you need to jog up three black carpet handicap-ramps just to reach your table.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where it takes 14 minutes for the waitress to arrive, and 72 minutes for the food to come out.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where they change their mac n’ cheese recipe every week just to **** you off.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where all 300 TV screens are airing adds simultaneously.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where you ask for queso without salsa, but they can’t hear you; over the Flex Seal commercial blasting at full volume.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where every wing sauce besides honey-barbecue tastes like Jalapeño Takis drenched in McDonald’s buffalo sauce.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where it’s Kids Wednesday, everyday.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where the bathrooms have approximately 4 urinals, 2 baby changing stations, and 17 ******* TVs.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where desserts always on the menu, but never in your mouth.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where the party games consist of a single, rigged, claw machine, full of nothing but green and pink rubber *****.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where the bar smells like congealed grease, olive oil, and a rusted frying pan.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where the only customers are bald-white-guys and fat-black-women.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where the one birthday clown is a 54-year-old Indian *** offender.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where dreams die and ****-babies are born.
I want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, where their iceberg lettuce is grown under black-light.
I want to go to Buffalo Wi-
Wait, are you not in the mood for chicken?