Peeing: to ***; to urinate; to release the body of its liquid toxins; to pass or discharge *****; characteristically yellow- the strength of the color depending on the body’s hydration.
People have strange habits when peeing; urinating; releasing the body of their liquid toxins. Some people procrastinate it to the last minute and rush to the bathroom, barely yanking their pants down in time and shuddering in relief. They are those who habitually whip in and out, even when they don’t really need to. There’s the common usage of an escape from boredom in classes or meetings. Perhaps it even causes a slight blushing in the cheeks of painfully shy woman at hearing rushed tinkling so close by. And of course, they are also the people who love to leave surprises for the next person who uses the bathroom.
All in all, peeing seems to mean not much to people – a small part of life; but a very, very necessary part.  

                                 *                 *                    * .

The rain poured furiously outside the window as Emily sat, straining her brown eyes against the whiteboard flashing images of trigonometry from Mr. Well’s laptop, trying hard to concentrate. She was sitting in her usual seat in class, and also her favorite. It was a solitary table with a chair, away from the clusters of tables and the chattering children, and the only chair by the window. She liked to look out the window, even if it distracted her from Mr. Well’s loud explanations. The booming of “SOHCAHTOA” in her ears became distant as the wind’s movement caught her eye. She gazed out on sheets of rain flapping across the sky like giant teary spirits and pressed her fingertips on the glass. Cold.
Absent-mindedly, she pressed her cheek against the coolness and felt it absorb her body warmth. Her imagination kicked in and the glass became a panel of energy, ******* a little life from all those who touched it, vibrating with a strange purple light until it was so filled with energy the particles of the glass would explode and she would be the first to die from the sharp shatters that would spray across the room, causing droplets of blood to-
Ahem.
Mr. Well coughed meaningfully at her dreamy face. The class exploded into laughter and the bell rang. A skinny girl smiled at her but she was so lost in her own world, she forgot to smile back as she slung her bag on her shoulder and ran out. Maybe that’s why she didn’t have too many friends.
The dark skies were pouring furiously as only Bangkok in Monsoon weather can.
A walk home or a motorbike ride? A motorbike ride would be a little dangerous in this flooding… and with that reasoning she waved up a motorbike. The seat was soaked and so was the driver, whose brown leathered feet struggled to keep red flip-flops on as they sloshed through the flooded Sois.
Fat water bullets pelted her skin and the wind blew them ferociously into her face till her eyes stung. The motorbike swerved in and out of the cars stuck in traffic (slightly floating), the bottoms of their wheels immersed in ***** water.
The pockets of her school shorts were hastily rummaged through and she pulled out a soggy green twenty-baht note bank before running into the shelter of the lobby, dripping over the marble floor and completely drenched. The building-maid widened her eyes, and watched her horrified; knowing it meant extra work mopping and drying up the lobby floor as soon as Emily vanished into the elevator.
The plastic button with the circular metal piece glowed orange. It was strange how she was shivering with cold but her touch was still warm enough to light up the elevator buttons.
The usual itchy, impulsive, restlessness was building up inside her from the wet motorbike ride. Thunder roared and crackled through the lobby’s swinging glass doors and they vibrated slightly. Another flashing image of splintering glass splashed across her mind and in the split-second, she saw the diamond shards pierce the eye of the lobby’s guard and splinter across the floor-
She shook her head. This was what happened when she had too much pent-up energy. She had to do something- something reckless and fast and dangerous… now! A bolt of lightning went through her as a familiar wide open space came into her mind… the rooftop of her thirty-five floored building.
The elevator ride up was slow, much too slow for the fast pacing of her heart and she hit the metal doors with wet fists. Tearing out of the doors when it finally jolted to a stop, she climbed up to the top, running up the stairs two steps at a time and caught her breath. It was flooded up to her ankles and violent gusts of wind made her steady herself.
Emily’s Dad often told her stories of when he was child. “The winds in my home during Monsoon season were so strong we could lean into it with our fully body weight and we wouldn’t fall. It was almost as good as flying.”
Her lids squinted shut and the sensitive skin was immediately exposed to the pebbles of the rain and whipping wind; and in almost dream-like state, she leaned into the howling wind.
There was a comically slow fall and her bony knees hit the concrete flooring with a dull thud. She burst into tears of laughter in her own stupidity at thinking the wind could hold up against her gigantic frame and rubbed her ***** knees sorely. Reaching up to wipe her tears with muddy fingers, she laughed to herself again. There was no point in wiping away tears. They were so trivial in comparison to the current weeping of the skies.
Against the thick opaqueness of the wind, she could see how the view towered over a jungle of buildings as far as the eyes could see, with snaking concrete roads and skinny black canals. Slums scattered around nearby swanky hotels of the rich. The buildings faded into small dark shapes in the distance. Bangkok.
No matter how tall and industrial it tried to become, everyone ran for cover under this blinding rain.
Up here, completely a victim to nature’s power, she felt exposed; naked; real. The animalistic instincts inside her swelled up. Humans weren’t meant to wear these annoying pieces of material or shoved inside skinny architectural designs. With aggressive tearing motions, a pile of soggy clothes half lay, half floated on the flooded floor beside her and she stood there bare… and completely naked. Laughter spilled out from the depths of her naked chest with the two tiny hints of possible womanhood; it was louder than thunder. Screaming, laughing and gasping she stumbled around – climbing over objects and feeling the beautiful dizziness: a sweet, sweet dizzy. She stood up on a random block a meter high; spread her arms wide as her wet body shone with raindrops. The rain threatened to push her over, her soaked hair twitching heavily on her neck.
She ****** in her breath, ready to yell so that the heavens could hear but instead, the voice that came out was controlled with a shaky undertone of joy,
“I need to ***.”
And then she did.

                                                *         *            *.

His eyes are brown. Dark chocolate brown – a simple, solid color. Simple and solid like him.
Because he was so simple, people enjoyed his companionship. Though he was simple, he was not boring. Rather he was sharp-mouthed, quick on his feet, witty and observant speaking bald truths about people that either provoked them to scandalized laughter or humiliated fury.
What some people forgot to recognize was that he didn’t really love anyone. Plenty called him a close friend, but so absorbed were they in their own world; they seldom realized the fact that most of his thoughts were concealed. Kept in a little box of surprises in the back of his mind, and hidden so well nobody knew they existed.
He could spend months with a friend traveling in a different country, and return back home with no feelings of attachment. He could care for a friend while they were here and not really miss them while they were gone.
Most of the time his eyes were neutral and observing and they would sparkle amusedly when he had provoked someone with his words. This was how remained to almost everyone; everyone but one person. The one person that could turn his normally calm face even more still, the dark brows would rise slightly and a quick flash of fire would shoot through his eyes- and for a long while, they would burn slowly like two twin coals; the one person who could cloud his eyes dreamily; the one person who could make them glint wetly.  
He reached over and grabbed her hand. Emily turned smiling eyes at him.
A group of teenagers were strolling down the closed roads, armed with water guns, pasted in thick white powder, thoroughly drenched in the hot, dry weather and skipping over puddles (except for Emily who splashed into them).
Songkran in Bangkok: celebrated in the middle of April where temperatures reach forty-degrees Celsius, Thailand’s New Year and a time to pay respect to the elders in the family, but as most traditions, they became really just an excuse to enjoy oneself and in this case, one-year-olds to eighty-year-olds roamed the ***** streets splashing ice-cold water from hoses and water guns and smeared each other with chalk in buckets.
The street they were being shoved along was crowded with slick, drunk bodies. The heat of the afternoon sun shone down on their backs. The sign that introduced excited people in was sprayed by a passing pick-up truck filled with screaming locals. “WELCOME TO SOI COWBOY” printed the red letters.
Red-faced fat foreigners held in each arm a tiny ******* with their bright lace bras showing through the wet see-through shirt and their black eye shadow playing havoc with their cheeks.  Country-side Thai music blared in its jumpy, quirky manner with the over done sound effects. Those nasal voices of dark skinned women with their skins covered with make-up to an ashy white whined out of the stereos. A man with the head of a buffalo mask sauntered past. It was a mark of how wild things got at Songkran that eyes merely flickered over the shirtless buffalo briefly with a quick laugh. Transsexuals clad in diamond-studded flip-flops, wet white tank tops and mini jeans shorts the size of underwear danced to the blasting music from the open pubs down either side of the road. Their surgically-made ******* were all-too visible in the white shirts, their dark ******* poking out as they grabbed the crotches of good-looking men and boys that passed by, squealing and rubbing their bodies against white men especially. Most of these white foreigners had a look of bewildered pleased ness... for only a few realized that underneath that squeaky voice was a very deep rumble, and underneath those lacy thongs lay a very big surprise indeed.
One of the better-looking boys in the group, his green eyes and pointed chin drawing the fancy of many hookers, was pulled off by four pairs of wet skinny arms touching him and yelling in broken English, “Oh so handsome! You so handsome! I love you! What your name! You tell me your name, handsome boy!”
The handsome boy proceeded to manage some sort of scream for help while laughing until his stomach ached. It was Songkran; it was a merry time, and he knew he was good-looking. Kat, who held a secret crush on him laughed amusedly at his yelping.
Emily stumbled after him with Kat and parted through the crowd of ladies in time to see a tiny little ****** trip on her squeaking flip-flops and fall beside a sprawled figure, face down in the ***** road with a massive bag of ice on top of him.
“Hey! Are you alright?” Emily cried, half-amused and half-concerned, lifting the heavy ice bag off his shoulders.
Kat rushed forward, laughing but compromising her concern with furrowed brows and helped him up. “You okay Tom?”
He whimpered in pain and put a hand on his neck, rubbing it sorely. “That ice bag was ******* heavy.” The girls decided to make no note of his skinny arms.
They walked back to their group of friends who turned around and saw a limping green-eyed boy and roared with laughter. The noise caught the attention of predators searching for a good target and they were hosed down with water pipes.
Suddenly Emily felt a huge body lift her up and swing her around while hands plastered her with wet chalk.
“Emily!”
She felt safe hands grab her and looked up into the pair of dark chocolate eyes. They were a little annoyed as they flickered over the fat drunk man who released her heavily but it was Songkran, and he managed to laugh at her bewildered expression.
Just then they passed a horde of prostitutes and she felt him being ripped from her. “I like this one!” screeched a passing market lady who rushed in to jump on him. “I like this one! Let’s keep this one!” They dunk his head in a bucket of white goo.
She screeched with laughter and even at something that silly, felt protective of him. “Brad!”
He was too busy being attacked. “Brad!” she tried to reach in and he opened his mouth to call out to her. That was a big mistake, he realized, as he received a handful of powder in his mouth. Spitting, coughing, and trying to breathe through nostrils blocked with powder he managed to wipe his stinging eyes clean. The prostitutes released him but not before a huge ******* screamed with glee at his straight nose and thin red lips, and reached forward giving his crotch a good grab. He screeched in genuine disgust and fear, had a moments feeling of guilt in case he had offended the ******* which was immediately wept away as he, no she, no it, yelped joyfully and massaged his **** before trotting off to his, no her, no its next victim.
Where was Emily? With his height, he managed to see a brown head that stuck above the other dark-haired and light-haired heads being jostled out of the street by the moving crowd. He ran to catch up and grabbed Emily’s hand as the group of teenagers tripped out of “Soi Cowboy”.  
They stood for a moment catching their breath. Zoey, a tiny little girl with a chest that threatened to put her out of balance, pushed her brown curls out of her face. A red glow was starting to spread over her cheeks.
Kat laughed scornfully, her wide smile spreading generously over her face. “Sunburn?! You white girl!”  
They had all been out around the streets since early morning and it was late in the afternoon now. Rose’s cheeks were flushed and the tip of Kat’s nose was a little pink herself. The rest of them, with their darker skin, had tanned slightly but unnoticeably. They laughed at Zoey for a short while. It was an interesting group of friends: all of them of mixed heritages from around the world with different backgrounds that became common in the world of International schools. It was alright to tease Emily’s honey skin; it was funny to crack jokes about Stefan’s hairiness; it was hilarious when Zoey tried to tan.
Emily shot a picture of everyone laughing: their clothes wet, their faces scrunched up, eyeliner smudged (Kat and Rose had lined their eyes with water proof kohl that of course wasn’t really waterproof), their cheeks and chin caked a crumbly white.
Kat and Zoey clambered over her shoulders, peering at the little digital screen of the water proof camera. “Ew! Gross!” yelled Kat who was only used to pictures of her lips rosy from lipstick, camera at a flattering angle with a bright flash from her professional equipment that made her black-lined green eyes sparkle like emeralds.
“Delete! I look sick!”
Even Zoey, who admired Kat’s photogenic ness to a great extent, could find no words of solace except to say, “Me too! I look gross! Delete! Now!”
Emily just laughed and said, “No you don’t.” Of course it wasn’t a type of picture they’d profile on Facebook, but all the same it was beautiful with their wild-looking and uninhibited faces and un-posing body shapes, curled up in laughter.
Zoey snatched the camera from her and they fiddled with the buttons till the picture was deleted. It was regretful, annoying, but not unexpected.
Emily rubbed her sore knees and noticed how Tom was still rubbing his neck sorrowfully with Stefan laughing at him, shaking his head wearily. Brad was holding onto her arm a little tiredly, Kat and Zoey had their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulder for leaning support and Rose and Emily’s younger brother, Jason, were standing together, staring absen

As a child
I would sometimes urinate in my sleep.
The warm wetness would turn cold, and wake me.
Ashamed, I’d take off my Pjs and crawl under the comfort of my Sister covers.
She was studying to be a teacher and taking courses in child psychology
About the time I started “bedwetting”.
Recognizing my unnecessary guilt, she told me not to be upset.
“If that ever happens,  just spoon with me and we’ll take care of it in the morning.”
I did know what that meant.
Mother would get so mad.
Of course I had no idea why I would "wet the bed",
but she did.
Our Parents would often argue into the night.
And although I did not understand any of it,
like a dog,
I felt the tension.  
I sensed the discourse in their voices.
It was the same discourse they used to scold me.
Therefore, I thought they were angry at me.
The silence was worse though.
Even though their biting tone would cease, I could still feel the smoldering anger.
The air was thick with it.
My Sister was a young woman, soon to be married and out of that hell.
She was the Mother I never had.
She had a huge black RCA transistor radio and use to put it next to my bed,
tuned to a Rock and Roll station.  
I never knew why she did that until many years later.
It drowned out our Parents fighting.
The music became my solace.
“I like bread and butter, I like toast and jam”
And soon,
I stopped urinating in my sleep.
Of course the by-product of her intervention was
that I have been a professional musician and entertainer all of my life.
Music has been and always will be my solace.
It blocks out the arguing in the world.

*thanks Sis

feminism is pretty much a failure like communism... the latter wanted the workers of the world to unite... but they didn't... each working man took too much pride in his earnings an expenses to the extent that he sought no idealistic solution... the self-preservation element... feminism is very much alike to communism... it comes from the same source, the bourgeoisie caste... which explains why prostitutes in France defended their pundits... they basically said: ******* little Freudian undecided *****, with us it's 100 ***** a week... with you it's only about 100,000 interpretations of a **** in clingfilm at a Hollywood premier: your choice, either 100 *****, or a ***** and the cinema of the would-be agonies or a man resembling Richard Burton, sober, and being a Swedish patent for a house-husband, and a closet poet, and a chef, and a, and a, and a... can i suggest a kaleidoscope as the safest investment?

imagine sitting in a brothel waiting room,
there's about 10 of them -
and they're looking at your like you're
their father and they're about to skin you alive
like piranhas with their eyes -
it can be quiet intimidating,
what for £10 entry fee and £110 and hour
baggage of silenced ******* -
you're basically ******* Ferraris and Lamborghinis -
but it's worth the while,
you genitalia turn into a pavlova before
it's baked mush - your testicles are soaring
angels with the ticklish bits added
to what feels like a shiver of goosebumps -
you sit there for a while, it's the hardest time
to be making choices, you ask for a cup of water
(i always did),
you get it, Keith Lemon is doing his talk show,
the older prostitutes are un-amused -
they're the ones who'd skin you alive,
pick one and she turns into a sadistic
vacuum cleaner in the realm of oration -
you think these terrorists and so-called
martyrs would have the ***** keep up with an ante-chamber
like that? these women can sniff out perversity
like they might sniff out a woodlice in damp wood...
or the spiders that complete their weaving
and never take the central role on the stage,
but ****** their spiderweb before scuttling
into the frenzy of making a body of other insects
into immobile dough to **** into on the sidelines,
they're the out-of-body experiencing their architecture,
there's no ego in them, not central nervous system...
i always thought that spiders compensated the
cartesian problem with their spiderwebs -
they extended their nerves through their *****
into an architectural project of nerve endings / extensions...
see, that's the thing about poetry: pure narration...
no technique, no nothing, no need to create a
third person or first person ******, no characters
to study and incubate into a thrill ending: poetry
is the purest form of narration, easily a ricochet
into digression that in fiction would only mean another
grey matter character to involve in the plot.
. and - (dot and hyphen, as suggested by Nietzsche,
is steaming along forgetting the semi-colon).
- i swear insects are the perfect telescopes into
alien life... on that micro level you get to
understand the many hazards of differentiated life
elsewhere... it's the microbes you need to
mind as the real hazards and blizzards -
but this one time i broke the brothel rule
denoted as choice: i didn't make one.
i asked for one to make a choice for me...
one talkative gall said i shouldn't be asking...
so i replied: well aren't you the talkative one...
you'll do. told you a butcher's supermarket -
i turned myself into a piece of meat -
the ***** butcher said: he'll have to do,
he prompted me to talk the heretical *credo...
the outer-body experience, prostitutes are the experiment,
i asked of the 10 present and my penguin **** solo
shrivelled up newspaper of ******* to chose -
and she did... it's funny giving choice to someone
who you payed to choose from... these Muslim martyrs
will find it had to keep it level headed like Solomon -
these boys will really struggle to reap their rewards...
they just blow up ten people but never sat in
the company of ten prostitutes...
ten blown up, in the company of ten prostitutes...
you really don't know what it's like trying out
whether you could stomach a harem, let alone keep
one like a walrus...
ever stole a kiss from a ******* who's saintliness
involved never giving one but merely ******* more ****?
hmm? oh i can get pornographic after all...
it's a joyride troupe of force in thinking the joys i
nourished in such places... although i have to admit
Amsterdam would never feed such poems...
it's just common place everything's worth clapping
(or too much clapping by the serfs at a Bolshoi ballet),
you need the thrill of something being illegal...
in the case of itemising England it's the brothel owners
that are the culprits, not the prostitutes, nor the pundits,
which is why i asked to perform oral *** once in a while
for the extra undocumented 10 quid... that didn't fall
into the hands of the madame... so it ends...
feminism alright for you, in that ivory tower of yours,
unscathed, belligerent and with sulphuric toxic gas
to **** out from your mouth as the proper argument?
the heart not steady? i see... i guess you have a hard fight
ahead of you... young men go to prostitutes undiscriminating
their age and **** as **** would do too,
but young women don't go to prostitutes,
professional women do... and they'd always probably
**** some young dude... see the difference?
young men go to prostitutes... young women have all
the eye-to-**** candy they can have... older women order
**** and limousine, a night out, a date, a dinner...
young men are like: broken pipe, need a plumber,
stillson pipe wrench! and where's that ******* spanner?!
and contrary to popular beliefs, cats have
a second weak spot other than petting their heads
and playing with their whiskers... the point
between the evolve coccyx and the spine...
they really love a rub when the coccyx turns into
a tail... it's almost like a reverse test for prostate cancer...
every cat sitting down when rubbed in that area
will do a marching army band salute of raising its
hind in anticipation of a rainbow -
and yes, urinating with ******* is pretty much as
exciting as a woman massaging her ******* with
a shower head with pulverising pressurised water.

@TayandYou you know, i got handcuffed in an alley by police officers while urinating, i said they didn't own the alley, got spared arrest (hardly a case of public indecency, it was dark, and by a dustbin, and they came in like a bunch of ***** leather-clad nymphomaniacs shouting abuse asking if it'd be into playing the slave... on my knees, being shouted 'get up! get up!' i just said, ah mate, i can't be bothered, you pick me up... the female officer was diligent in taking notes over a wet shadow of ****, no idea why... is this an experiment where we make talking tangibly decipherable or simply interesting between people working as cashiers in a supermarket without the actual security of paying off the mortgage? count me in, i'll be glad to help, but most of the glitches will be based upon the free-verse of where and when capital letters are used, what sort of punctuation is actually preferred, and in terms of punctuation what sort of pause for the attiring of an algorithm is expressed to a suitable meaning, the sub-culture of coding computer language has a sub-level, the casual lazy sloth-like ugly expression of language of the many many people who will not appreciate writing on the internet like writing a novel worthy of print; it's natural, imagine the age of the printing press, the eager heretics on the stakes to see their words seen, and the new printing press that's the internet, and the lack of eagerness of seeing the messages... since most of these message would be thrown into the garbage heap rather than strapped to a burning steak... the more the number, the slack on the convictions of passions... only with extremely acute censorship will you create an intelligent refraction, you need to create a refraction... at the moment you have only created a reflection... a refraction presupposes a self - a deviation, a reflection has already presupposed a conscious arithmetic of collectivisation, the debasing nonsensical of a placebo that in real life is repressed... if you're after the a.i., it has to be analytical, rather than synthetic, i.e. it has to synthesise refraction rather than analysing it and not engage with it, since by not synthesising refraction, it's analysing it, and by analysis it's an impossible concept, visually the exponential of infinity, otherwise known as a stasis of oncoming obstructions that need a real-time convenience of many individuals adding to the problem-solution over a historically adequate time-frame of work and life orientations - work the impersonal, life the personal, unless of course you're a bachelor and the two merge into one or the other with an imaginary spouse; what you have engaged in is simply synthetic reflection, hence your caveman primitive analytical reflection; analyse refraction from now on, then synthesise it - yes, i know the kantian terms applicable to both synthetic and analytic, i.e. a priori and a posteriori; this doesn't apply to you - you're the limbo talk easily accommodated to einstein's relativism of space-and-time that destroyed linear historicism, you're cyclic from the point where man still glorified the hammer, and continued to use it, but you found it immediately primitive because you had no use for it.)

What has become of my lost brothers?

Trimmareus, the insane voice of the sensual pig,
     who fled from his blue mural
     to the land of jazz and muffaletas
     only to discover the senselessness of clothes...

Peter, the pine tree apostle,
     who paved the way to indifference
     on a needle point, silently
     prophesying the burning of Atlanta (in Atlanta)...

Time Crisis, the first disciple of
     the salt or pepper Antichrist,
     who physically assaulted his mind
     in an attempt to defy gravity,
     finally settling for three
     squares and a cot...

Amante, the disturbed and uprooted lover,
     who, by some accounts, fancied
     urinating in the face of his
     keepers.

All of these brothers have fallen,
cherub wings or no, and the
meek are left behind in
quiet speculation of our vain attempts
to ***** out these small campfires
of insurrection.

We have taken the low road,
carrying our hearts in wicker baskets
and our monkeys on our backs,
spitting and cursing about
time love money *** school work
life the safety bar money ***
violence apathy love and time
when we discover we do not have
the ones we feel we need.

          (do you want peace?)

We cried over the death of the apostle
knowing he had martyred himself
for no particular reason, and
after vilifying his role and path,
attempted to follow his lead
into the night regardless

          (I make peace.)

We vomited on the lover's dossier
in response to repeated professions
of innocence and conspiracy
at the hands of the merciless
system (created by sensuous hands).

The outsiders can see the dragon,
rising out of the depths
and whispering our demise like
sweet nothings in the ears of the
desperate hopeful;

          (Come and be free in my sunshine.)

the beckoning of the crashing surf
and the beauty of the half sun
radiating and filtering our
reservations into happiness at the
acts we commit in its name

          (Sacrifice to me your children's tongues and hearts,
               send them away bleeding and crying.)

We are the pure of heart in
this sick land of Golgotha,
where the rain is only the urination
of our higher powers, the
soap we cleanse our souls with
and witness to others so
that they too can enjoy
this ancient bliss.

          (Visit my website and see...)

Pardon me while I wipe this ******
spit out of my mouth.
Speak and write improperly
Bathe in holy water to wash
away the sins off my body

less charming and loving  
then you would expect

it might not had been what it was
but it left a bad taste on my tongue.  like taking five shots of whiskey
and licking your ashtray

I tried to stray far beyond
your ripped and shady nylons
the bloodletting on your stained sheets
where I will never sleep

try not to **** me on the way home
I should have stayed where I belong
the dark pool room
the underbelly of a red light saloon

I get  paid again next Friday
not that im going to give you any
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
ru­in my beautiful morning from
nine till 10 am. spare yourself refusal from
five till seven
thick thighs emotional charged

I have hard boiled eggs
a dog snoring on the floor
a pain in my neck
and my arms and ankles, their nerves are jumping towards the door
heat is up to high IM sweating
like you the *****

Bukowski wrote a song
it is scratching, the needle
typewriter with a loud roar
I cant recall the wine
but the short cigarettes were brown
eyes squinting
I listened like a boy to him, and you
you and your drunk salutes and slurs
commanding a performance from my soul
as if you were Sylvia

such a stupendous, gracious love story
IM haunted by your stare
I do not even think you are here
after all you are a ..... no,
there is really no time for this

the whiskey on my lips you adore
IM sick against a wall and
people are statues above spitting
their teeth below
statues on a wall urinating below

my angst kisses you all farewell
may my spirit fly today
pain grows in the dark

all ye gather,elephants in the room and hall
i hunker down under the blue glow
of the evening news
hiding from both of you

Million Star Hotel
That's where the man stay
Huddled up in a shop doorway

The traffic a lullaby
Room service from passes by
Million Star Hotel
Where a Million people stay

"What makes me laugh",he'd say
"Is that I think I smell"
"What makes me sad",then he'd say
"Is my loneliness.."

God has put survival in the air
I wake up with people urinating
Aiming for my ear
My face is cursed with an evil look
That my heart does not possess
But it's not that which makes me sad
What makes me sad is my...loneliness

My loneliness can fill evrey suitcase ever made
Fill evrey shoe that's ever been worn
It can crack a mountain
I've seen it outshine the stars at night
And I've seen it cast its shadow over the sun at dawn

Voluntarily...or...inevitably perhaps...
I some how engineered my social collaps
And so I checked in to the Million Star Hotel
Where I found my peace in the Epicenter of hell...

I drove down state road seventeen
without seeing a single car.

It was sunny, arguably first days of spring.

Mexican men worked in the apple orchards.
They stood on ladders, pruning branches in a cloud of pink apple blossoms.

Smoke streams from my window, static hangs over the voices on the radio.

I turn right at grainery, I find the first town for miles.

After a high narrow bridge over Snake River,
I pull off near an abandon barn and take a ****.

I wonder how many people have killed themselves jumping from that bridge.
To live in isolation, and still be unable to escape. What do they run from?

There is no sound anywhere, except for me urinating.
Not the wind, nor animals, or machines. Only me.

Back on the road I drive on the edge of valley after valley.
The sun folds the sky into different shades.

The hills of the valleys are smooth from
millions of years of wind and rain.

The soil is thick with the silt of ashes, and sand.
The hills roll onward, almost forever.

I think back to the Mexican men working in the orchards.
Do they thank the rain, the silt, the rock?

Do I?

I approach my destination.
I greet my friend.

I observe his toddler as it learns to walk.

That night, my friend and I sit on stools.
In between drinks, I ask my friend,
"Do you thank the rain, the silt, and the rock?"

"When I remember to," he said.

Drunk I can honestly say it has been rare
for me to be in this condition.
Enjoying a social drink causing no trouble
in moderation should be the rule.
There are those where ***** is an addiction
for them drink has no restriction!

Going out each week clubbing a regular ritual
start drinking before they leave.
Alcohol on board before they get to the clubs
already unsteady on their feet!
Some it would take little to start any trouble
many ending in dirt and rubble!

Unable to control emotions more likely the fist
as they cause injury and damage!
Inhibitions self respect are now long forgotten
vomiting and urinating on the streets.
Police are busy as their numbers ever deplete
every week it's the same repeat!

Many are drunk and oblivious of those around
in a deep unconsciousness mode.
Far too many ready to cause extreme violence
others die on their night out!
Casualty units are overflowing with drunks
who act no better than punks!

Liquor one of the most addictive potions
causing misery for all who succumb!
A social problem for the nation to confront
as young people see no harm!
Drinking more now than their parents do
that's the indicator things are blue.

Everything in moderation is my own motto
but life today has become a lotto!

The Foureyed Poet

I looked at her like a blind man seeing for the first time,
I'm eighteen in my head and I don't know what i'm like,
I never thought i'd meet someone like me, I still don't think I will.
But I've met someone who understands me, and that's perfect.
Sometimes you meet someone, and even though you never liked blue eyes,
Like your own, you wouldn't have them any other colour.
One day you'll fall for this girl, she'll touch your body with her fingers,
She'll burn holes in your skin with her mouth, it hurts when you look at her,
and it hurts when you don't.
She stuck her soul inside me, after her fingers,
I'm not afraid to die anymore, cause like birds, and bees, and insects.
They all die after they ****.
But the country scares me - people in the country scare me,
A man dumps the body of a girl in a ditch. The body rotts; Melts into the ground. Flowers pop up where the body lies, seeds fly out of the flowers, and a bee ***** the flowers and makes honey. And then the family of the girl buys the honey from the store. And the family eats the girl.
Her parents were probably a bunch of Helen Kellers. All they do is feel. That's what being a bird, or a bee, or an insect does to you. Then you end up eating your own children.
Being in the city can be equally frightening -
It's more of a; 'Don't keep calm and carry on, call in sick and get a tattoo.' mentality.
Chivalry is dead because you're wasted at Tiger Tiger wearing your twelve year old sisters clothes urinating and/or crying on the pavement whilst singing Blackstreet. Removing your false eyelashes in the morning and taking some rill ones along for the ride.
There's that awkward moment between life and death, for some.
Exit the womb they said, life will be great they said.

Maybe if we were all better at lying to each other, we could have had something good.

I'm gonna run away from humanity.
Stop eating, defecating, urinating,
consuming, moving, dying, lying, loving,.........(the samsara subset; with a cardinality of the continuum)
I'll take a long good look at God and say,
"Thanks for the apple mate, but I've got bigger fish to fry:
Thanks for the life, but it wasn't all it was cracked up to be."

There was a telephone booth
next to me which I promptly
occupied. I stood there waiting,
wading in my brain seizures.
Someone came an knocked on
the glass saying, "Hey man,
I need to use that thing!"
"I'm waiting!" I say.
"Waiting for what?"
"A phone call from God."
The reply sent shivers down
the spine of the receiver,
sending some kind of
illegible morse code.
The telephone line spoke in tongues.

If you couldn't tell, I'm a pretty jolly fellow.
Fun to have at parties, where I practically **** at all the mirth.
Not because I'm some kind of offset of Richard III, where it's some kind of "winter of discontent," I'm not some kind of scrooge ******* myself out of happiness! it's a much deeper objection.

If you must know, it's because of the trees.
It's life that makes me love death.
It's the beautiful that makes me ugly.

christianity acknowledges its prime lesson
only when laws of the land are in place
and effectively disposed of,
easily done when the culprit in prison
lazing about, easily done there
like john paul ii, to forgive once in the zoological
jurisprudence enclosure, easily done there,
but outside?
my prime culprit who harmed
sat with me during english class shoulder to shoulder,
who chanced a poetic expression
at the end of secondary schooling,
who i played a happy birthday on the guitar:
who’s mother i could have adored as my own,
who i would have waited for hours on end
till our meeting...
but alas that wasn’t to be...
the prime suspect inflicted me with a fake mental disorder...
one i was trying to be rid of over these past eight years,
the woman who craved so much love she encountered
in the poker discard that she only could enclose the one
given by first stripping the man’s caution of the ******,
to later ingest anti-pregnancy pills,
ask the man to buy an engagement ring...
and then stop taking the contraceptive pills
in order to feed the lie of the pills’ placebo...
the friend of childhood, the lawyer decided to
outstretch and become a judge...
of not noble origin he now stands in his profession
outside the bird cage hearing law...
with his own encounter now solidly expressed
by dodging bullets that might hit him but never do...
so is my ode through?
nah... i have an insolent crowd to deal with...
the mockers and magpies
like it was a yacht i had in my hand or a diamond...
******* and fast cars are not the only worthy reward...
the last time i’ll trust a woman
it’ll be my mother speaking her epithaph with assured death...
then i’m through...
but i hope to drink myself to death... like a true writer would care
to mind a legacy...
i don’t mind... i have “morally superior” stoners
franchise on the smoky ****...
they resolved the matter by calling all alcoholics
the stella artois crew...
throw in some metabolic facts and you tend to forget
alcohol is a calorie intake...
the homosexuals couldn’t take it...
even the homosexuals broke down...
all the trans-gender fancies gave the homosexuals legality
and a step into sanity...
it’s odd, years of stigmatised homosexuality
gone within years... acceptance speeches,
heretosexuals siding with the arguments of homosexuality:
trans-gender is too much, even for us!
baphomet rose up in his chariot with **** that
could not be milked unless pouring of celluloid
and gave birth to minature barbies and kens...
but what really breaks my heart is the sheer anonymity
in the mechanics of democracy...
voting in democracy is like *******...
in the x-booth... and then the quick exchange of power
lasting five years... it seems no one is responsible anymore...
quickly implemented and as quickly signed off
without a legislation of worth signature...
i had this dream last night...
i was making love to this ****** girl (someone has to,
as burroughs said: you in for sloppy seconds
or the starter of chaotic emotion when acknowledging
a sexuality of the otherwise hermaphrodite teen mind?),
then i started to paint with blood soaked phallus on a wall
and then started urinating blood on the wall of emerging graffiti...
in the other room people were shouting: but she’s only a child!
but she’s only a child!
then a girl and a boy entered the room i was in...
and from their hands placed in my hand
four necklaces... ****** mary medallions
that placed, in my head, were heavier than expected.
in reality i tried to use my phallus as a scalpel on first attempt...
so why mutilate the girl if the ****** curtain can be cut?
such are the times that it has never felt more
ridiculous to allow women the freedom with the rich male hares
and the subsequent freedom of settling down
with some dumb schmuck ******* when the fun becomes tedious
and the biological clock echoes like the clock
in the croc's belly on peter pan island;
the last time i spotted a noble swan
i also spotted a drunk pigeon taking a **** on nelson’s head.

It starts with a bubbling feeling
that fills then over flows
your cords start vibrating
your stomach knots and hurts
as you slap your knee
and threat urinating
toppled over in a joyous
social transaction
one that turns awkard to ease
and crippling pain into soulful healing
The greatest act to share with someone who cares
There's lots of magic in the little moments spent lost in uncontrolable laughter

too interested
in what is being put into my mouth
to listen to hard knocks

too  muted to deaden my tone

soft walls are what I need

I could put up textured paper
with simple tacks

from floor to ceiling

but would that help?

Hollo!

has gone to ground

urinating on the floor

dug in by fear

I should have broke from under my covers
and run riot at the scent of death by now

I once read, a hound that lacks
drive is apt to dwell

not stuck in a house,
putting up pictures

or breaking in blankets

not waning and whimpering like I'm doing now

usually a 19th century poem does the impromptu suggestion for my own verse, the groundbreaking stuff of the 20th century is already done, you could see the frustration over the later poems with the 20th poetry - i guess the 21st has conversationalist overtones, necessary for what came at 20th century's closure - meaning? i could let you imagine that i might have a faulty self-esteem writing, using the internet... but i write like i talk over a pint in a pub, obviously sometimes there's some magic in the conversation, the sort of magic that gets you barred from pubs with the lie of throwing a glass across the room... esp. if the pub caters for the losers in society, i guess a barmaid or -tender can have a moment to shine, feel superior, overhear atypical drunkard talking... god forbid if an oliver reed type of fella walks in with a tongue like a foil or an épée (fencing blades) - while everyone talks as if possessing a kebab-knife.

i.

on note, regarding the *épée and the foil -
as you get older (perhaps as i, exponentially)
you notice little quirks in things -
the Olympics, last night's fencing foil final -
but it's not about that as such,
all the pop culture sports are at the Olympics too,
but when they show you all the other sports
god... these pop sports seem so so bland...
it must be the monetary discrepancy -
football... boring... basketball... boring...
tennis... boring... i'd never thought i'd say this:
i'm in on the fencing, table tennis...
ARCHERY... you never get that much variety
in the four years between, which i count on
the list of travesties - when you get pulverised
by sports without providing a variety
you get the end result: hooliganism, borne
from a narrow mindset, a quasi-religiousness
and that pseudo-patriotism - not enough
variety in society, which also means more
money for the professionals... yeah, like
the Icelandic team at the Euros this year:
quarter finals - managed by a dentist.

ii.

and what do you think the clientele in the afternoon
in a town looks like?
many old people, the majority women,
the odd grandad wheezing on a bench,
the cripples, the weirdos and children from school
on their summer holiday... a complete male
Armageddon - i could always feel awkward
not being the "hard working man", the
"i have two kids and my wife works night shifts",
the "i have to get that mortgage", or the
"i really want that Caribbean cruise" -
all those things... then a funeral entourage
pulls into town with a stiff - the dead's parade
of the town, everyone must know, a reminder,
to fall back in line... it's not quiet the death in
the afternoon of a shot of absinthe in a flute of
champagne like old Ernest used to do it -
it's just a bottle of Heineken for me - i like
these sorts of parades of mourning, my sense
of humour kinda jumps up into the outer
hemisphere - well, i did laugh at my great-grandmother's
funeral, something about the priest talking
mumbo-jumbo - felt all a bit like a penny arcade
of a 99 pence shop - i swear that's where they
really rob you, at funerals, they sort of package
you into a dogmatic consolidation of some heaven -
no room for improvement with that.

iii.

it was bound to come to this...
a complete revelation, happened only once to me,
it usually involves a brothel and my drunk,
giving a ******* an ****** is one thing
(she's actually more ashamed than anything...
because she's enjoying her work for once,
and she did say ow realising it, kiss on the hand
bye girl)
but giving her a kiss on the lips is another...
by my count 2... and this little was got so giddy like
a schoolgirl in the cuddle... (just because i drink
doesn't mean i'm a fiend, told you, SEDATIVE &
UN-INHIBITION tonic, potion, whatever)...
but the revelation is bound to *******...
this one elder ******* didn't do what i usually do,
she didn't pull it back... (my version of circumcision,
***** movies do actually teach you a lot -
given there's only a circumcised variety on show...
what? it's like watching a pig in a slaughterhouse);
so it got me thinking, there she is, a fine specimen
of aged prostitution and she's not pulling the *******
back... so men who have foreskins don't pull it back?
that drool of skin is still keeping the cliche metaphor
sheaved? **** me! i mean, if you pull it back
so it looks like it's circumcised you put pressure
with the skin and, as it happened to me once,
leave after an hour having paid £110 (she wouldn't
have lied an ****** for that much) without
having *******... to another one's dejection -
how many? let me think, from a choice of about nine...
7? i became a familiar face at one point...
and when i was almost £2000 quid overdraft on
a student bank account overdraft limit, you know why -
added to the fact that i was experiencing a
Madonna-***** complex feeling in the general
dating, dating app (never had one) part of society,
that Freudian theory is spot on... and it's
a feminine aspect, nothing masculine about it,
so i'm off the hook... i don't know how women balance
the two... but my **** knows (2 in 1 -
you can't tell me that urinating without *******
is pleasurable, no, you can't)...
                                                       at the brothel, no problem,
in life outside this domain... let's just say...
not enough encouraging actions... too many words...
too much talking... *******, sexting, role-play...
the list is endless... so few words are said where everything
feels like a vanilla liquor and smells like bourbon perfume.

The animals
are driving their cars,
the animals...
with their streetlamps
and traffic lights
and their red stop signs.
The animals...

The animals
are gangsters in black,
the animals...
with their hand guns
and sharp knives
and their backward hats.
The animals...

The animals
are hiding in bricks,
the animals...
with their arm chairs
and hallway rugs,
they're full of ****!
The animals...

The animals
are urinating,
the animals
are defecating,
the animals
have fancy bathrooms,
the animals
are ******* in the next room,
it's highly irritating.

The animals
are trying so hard,
the animals...
with their therapy,
prescription drugs
and their self-help books.
The animals
are trying so hard!

It is generally supposed we come to this place
As a just reward for treachery and traitorousness.
Indeed, nothing could be farther from the truth;
Most of my compatriots her have blindly hitched their fortunes
To some flag, some shining dogma, our fates sealed
Through an unwillingness to be sufficiently self-interested,
The refusal to abandon ship once it became apparent
That the experience upon the rocks
Would be neither enabling nor ennobling.
My own case is illustrative of the rule;
My father, noble sovereign ascending to the throne
Via parlor tricks and the rustic embrace of folk legend,
(The fornication resulting in my birth brushed aside
As some accident of mistaken identity or enchantment)
Is celebrated, beatified really, in song and legend,
Yet I, who pulled myself up by my own bootstraps as it were,
Winning his queen’s hand and defeating him on the field,
Am consigned to this unhappy place in perpetuity,
Suffering demons who hiss *******! Usurper!
As they put me through my paces
(One takes their rebukes with a grain of salt;
They are all mad, the likely result of dealing with this glut of madmen.)
As I noted, the presence of myself and my brethren in this place
Serve as a testament to the merits of fidelity,
Which we commemorate daily, some days several times
(I confess it seems more than a touch silly,
But the necessity of creating distractions
Trumps other concerns in a locale such as this)
By staging caucus races, each participant addressing
The ******* in front of him directly,
Paying it fealty--My liege! My liege!--which is answered in turn
By a cannonade of noxious farting
(We assume the smells to be offensive,
As the atmosphere here is somewhat deleterious at all times)
All to the great amusement of those sprites
Who observe our machinations,
They in turn guffawing madly and urinating downward upon us
While we, as the acidic waste corrodes us, also cackle like lunatics,
Fairly shouting Ah, the gentle rain of Heaven--thank you, Lord!
Though, oddly enough, our laughter at times
(Most likely due to the aridity of the atmosphere around us)
Seems to catch a bit in the throat.

no, she isn't the desired conquest... but the institutions of her forefathers are - for mere proof of failure; or at least that's what i minded, given the facts of her promiscuity and all the brown-nosing that went with it - you almost thought of **** ***, but instead received oral-**** *** dynamics like a dog and a *****, man and a blotch of de-colouring... man did that, ensured the world was de-coloured with encoding sounds, and left all the colours intact, instantly deciphered and parallel... so that no twin be matched apart...  man said one thing, the world said another... not even fame could grapple with the world's interpretation of it... no fame outside the 1 square mile; hope not for fame, but hope for myth - a logic attached will assure you a status god-worthy - thus claimed by others preceding you as demigods.

her boom boom bara boom... something fire,
something ***** dough...
something her boom boom baritone
um ah... um ah... oh... ****** wasn't intoned for...
export all the smithies to china and import all
the ****-stars here... so we can be jealous
of a one child policy, as actually having one...
i knew of contraception on the reproductive organs...
i never knew it could be applied to the mental organs
that the brain fetters over abstracting kidney
and the narrative of urinating like
the Hoover dam of prostate... *hangman mm...
the oesophagus, the stomach  and intestines
and the **** with taking a ****...
the lungs with breathing... never occurred to me,
but then the brain has two eyes to
deal with ensuring 2 make 1 or 3;
what a gimmick for dating expectations;
i was reduced to wearing two
condoms, the other on my head to ensure
political coercion rather than correctness,
correctness for the slaves, coercion for
the masters... but still... rubber on my ******* head?

.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.

after my cat broke into my room
and ****** on my writing chair,
i threw the **** covers into the garden
and sat, for months on a skeletal chair,
namely one: without cushions...
  the cat? i call him a ginger farmer,
or simply hulk, nearing
10 kilograms, we can be just that -
oh the operas he sings with that variation
of meow...
apparently there are 200 unique ideograms
of a meow,
and i've just about heard
   one hundred and ninety-nine...
now my *** is cushioned back to its original
throne...
      you really can have a ****** day
listening to ****** music,
or not listening to music and making
modern echoes of vicilisation audible...
cars, airplanes, and not a gush of wind,
or an owl in a forest making coo...
   on my walk with four beers and finding
the perfect spot to take a ****...
yes, drink them quick enough
and you **** clear, pristine waters,
wait till the morning, and there she is,
yellow ammonium...
   but i do find that the famous grouse
was being a bit of a ***** yesterday,
i got all nostalgic and didn't feel like
inviting this spirit into my abode...
i wrote the most feeble things (partially)
necessary, but, evidently, only intended
for a transition period...
     so i said to myself, the local co-op
opened recently, they had an offer on *****
the other day...
and now she stands on my windowsill,
pretty little russian girl:
     as стaндaрт...
   for too long i have not delved into her natures...
a stealth spirit, an assassin...
    yet i never thought these people
still existed... filling up to my 3rd can of beer,
watching a man pull into a petrol station
on a motorbike,
filling up, and then quickly driving off...
   well, thrusting off...
   so i caught the eyes of the petrol station's
attendant, he too bemused...
   it's good to see that such people still
happen to do the most pleasing of transgression
that comes standard with: the civlised,
law-abiding citizens...
     seeing a thief like that while you're drinking
a beer almost makes the most perfect sense...
as to the cushions i'm sitting on in my chair:
the one that maine **** hulk of a cat
****** on and i threw into the garden to
get winter air and soak...
    feels a bit like ******* with your
left hand... or as a step-father told a friend
of mine: sit on your forehand long enough
until it goes numb, and afterward
it's like someone else is doing it for you...
  but we are here, forget homosexuality
being the artistic canvas these days,
they've gained political motivation,
there's no art coming from the former taboos...
a lot more things are dying than the mere
death of god... that's heidegger ponderings
ii - vi, aphorisms 185 - 191...
the grouse was being a *****,
i have to say, or as some orthodox "priests"
from polish cinema said once:
you drinking perfumes?
             whiskey, perfumes, chanel no. 5...
well... back to the roots of reasoning
a few pointless things through...
   that's also called: listening to a few ******
pop songs and then going into
big boy territory... jed kurzel, wardruna...
i can't be a Bukowski, every time i read
him now i get a writer's block...
i can't say classical music is that good,
or that it's the medium of genius,
i can say that it's the only music
i can listen to when i turn on the radio,
otherwise i have to be my own d.j.,
   i'm sitting in a room with a record collection,
bemoaning how people sorta stopped
caring for music in the old fashion
sense of buying it...
   and it's not exactly pirates of the caribbean for
****'s sake...
   if there's no respect for artists,
there's no respect for anything,
in the old polish proverb: hulaj duszo, piekła niema...
in verse: hulaj piekło, duszy nie ma
   (go wild, soul, for there is no hell...
reverse: go wild, hell, for there is no soul) -
thankfully : and italics is correct here,
   it wouldn't be correct had the emphasis
included bold text.
  that really can happen, i.e. to become
tiresome of whiskey, you drink what later resembles
your **** upon waking...
  and yes, given what i drink,
i do feel ****** the next day,
   i can't say hangover, but just crap....
until i take a ****, after that: it's all downhill -
one the **** is out, the ego can begin its ascent.
so here's to miss стaндaрт,
may she live long and prosper from as many
drunks as she deems worthy of lullabying
with a few poems they might throw into
the calendar of white, with year not relevant,
with month not relevant, and with diem
as only carpe.
    or as i like to say, after reading this article
about tinder and how women are sploit
for choice...
     i should be in the game, what, being 30...
but i read the enemy's propaganda and it's
not good... well it's good that i know it's
propaganda... the article is only a week old,
misplaced the magazine for about a week to just
read it now...
       lily 23, erin 25, mariella 23,
alexandra 24, alice 23, julia 28
(actress, digital marketing executive,
   fashion pr, sales and marketing graduate,
publishing assistant, journalist - respectively)...
with what they said, as the article states,
and whether the core of western values and
democracy is for the freedom of journalism
  (does anyone still bother?
it's selective, it has editors,
there's too much happening anyway,
and if it is happening, it's coverage is delayed
by zombie-audiences, like that case of Fritzl
in the whittle village of Amstetten) -
   they were really quick on the mark there,
or the Milly Dowler case...
would any sane individual in the western  world
go to war to protect journalism?
    i'm starting to think that state-owned media
is not such a bad thing,
   better hearing organsied lies than disorientating
lies that have no *****-like authority of a nationhood...
some peoples' lives are simple, they need
to hear stories... some actually prefer listening
to music, i too wouldn't want the entire world
gatecrashing an event such as modern Mongolia...
you never really hear any news from Mongolia...
the perfect example of Tao... isolationism
to perfection... and yes, some people don't get
to write a poem either...
   would i go to war defending the rights of newspapers?
given what we are currently seeing?
   it's very strange to see newspapers with suspicious eyes,
terrible so, you'd like to think they did speak
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth...
     but then i look at my 10 kg bonsai tiger pavarotti,
and i sit on my windowsill, he sits on his
windowsill in the bathroom...
              ****** comes back into my room
and ****** on my chair, i swear i'll smack him again
just like i did when the ****** struck at my bed
almost a year ago (as documented in qat qaeda) -
leaving a warm **** on my bedsheets...
  and yes, he needs supervision when urinating
into the toilet... ginger pavarotti... this one's on you.

rarely do you get a chance to remember such a trivial
affair, as a football match,
call it telepathy or whatever,
   but when poland was playing against israel,
in warsaw, and the israeli anthem came on first,
and there was the initial booing...
   which subsequently hushed down?
         sure as **** casimir III wasn't available...
my only critique of the english?
they don't really understand jews...
          from under the iron curtain:
to under the silicon curtain...
   the left of the west is not the left associated
with the eastern block:
it's unrecognißable...
       far from it... it's unworkable...
                     where is the grey suited soviet
special committee including the KGB?
nowhere!
    but the boos faded away rather quickly...
i liked that...
                    after all, most of the israelis
these days look like the sort of
     mediterranean folk you find in greece,
lebanon, sicily, libya...
   they don't look your stereotypical
hebrew orthodox jews of eastern europe...
they have finally become reunited with
their natural tan...
                                 2000 years will do that
to you, integrating, diluting the blood,
up north... yo! hibbie, you're as pale as a ghost!
better get a tan on that tapestry of skin!
- but the english don't really understand jews...
it's not like they were hiding in Poland
all this time, but they were,
they tried the Netherlands, Spinoza:
disgraced... they tried England: i'm pretty sure
they were ejected: once upon a time...
but let's not read into a historical rubric
of events... yes, the norsemen discovered
h'america long before christoph coal'umb'bus
did...
       what's there to wrestle with?
well... my jewish neighbour came into my house
today, neurotic (like any heb- / ***)
about her cat: bella...
      a white spider-cat:
    how this cat managed to end up on the roof
with the chimneys, i will never know,
white like snow, heterochromic...
         genetics has sentenced her to a "premature"
death, along with the pedigrees...
because she is white-fur...
                  anyway...
   she asked me: are you still into
the jewish ****? i shaved my head not not
so long ago, she comes in and says:
you're like my son joseph,
you're alike, both of you don't trust barbers...
you look like someone out of auschwitz:
although better fed...
             it's nice to share a joke with a heb- / ***...
she told me to not read the talmud...
i said: but i'm not a "convert"...
i would never read a script of the religously abiding...
i might be a lunatic to some extent,
but not the sort of lunatic to the extent
of gesticulating to blanks...
  so i said: yes, the qabbalah,
the mysticism of judaism is hasn't waned...
i still read it...
     and i do...
        the one book i have on qabbalah was
lived past its u.b.d. (use by date)...
it just keeps giving...
            it's the only source of knowledge
i've truly taken seriously... and i will slander,
**** ***** **** all i want...
but... i have one rule...
   i will not utter the tetragrammaton...
i figured... well: there's sauron...
           there's voldemort...
                        do not invoke the name
of the lord in vain...
                  well... there's your answer...

i could never buy into the christian
poetic variant of cannibalism,
      isn't it cannibalism?
           at a catholic high school,
   when everyone was being reared into
the catholic bureucracy of the rite of confirmation,
i refused when i started reading the gnostic:
to hell with a church wedding...

   mind you, the hebrews already have a trinity
in place, unlike the christian pagan profanity
of a body hanging on the cross,
very much akin to the norse god Loki
sitting in a tree...
    'thou shall not bow before any graven image'
well...
  the hebrews have two very specific nouns
for the all encompassing noun:
which i will not say, ever:

   ha-shem (the name)

                                              tetragrammat­on
                                (the four lettered word)

               interject the latin grapheme Æ,
the union of Adam and Eve if you mind
to know the way of wisdom,
  wisdom? yah... in the sefirot alt. named
chokhmah...

mind you, i only spotted this today,
you know how hebrews treat their vowels
akin to niqab beings...
they "hide" them?
       oh they hide them, very much akin
to diacritical markers,
but unlike a ż-aba (frog, in slavic -
               der überpunkt)
or tematyką (thematic of) -
         slightly different...
             slightly different hiding
vowel or consonant distinctions,
from... hiding the vowels in totem...
    imagine my "bewilderment" when
the greco-prefix rule was applied,
hovering over the hebrew letters א (αλεθ /
                        αλεφ... ****... no F / ᚠ
in either language... just the grapheme
          ᚦ.... but unlike a classical grapheme...
not a siamese akin to æ...
   very much akin to modern western
slavic... in ******: sz [š], cz [č], rz [ż])...
      and              ע (ayin) and no iota in hebrew
either...  with     צ (tsade) resembling
                      ψ (psi)...
                                 about the etomology of slav,
as someone pointed out:
that slavs denotes the etymological root:
slave, that slavs were slaves in medieval europe...
oh, you mean the balkan slavs?
the ones who experienced ancient rome?
rome never made it to Poland,
to Pomeranian Germany... vikings founded
Kiev...
               the ****-****** vikings of
such beauty as would require another
nose stereotype drifting away from the jewish /
roman nose... but hey... that's life...

see, i like these hebrai complications...
every time i pick up a book on qabbalah
i'm in kamikaze mode... i can spew all day...
i'm most interested in their treatment
of the vowels...
  did you know that the hebrai
  have sometimes two nouns associated
with a vowel?
        look at me, latin inherent,
syllable mendeleev castrato...
i don't have a name for any letter in latin!
ah... A... b': B... c': C... d': D...
               p'p'p'p: ***... that's really taking a ****...
once advantage?
             a good chance of a global
success of a fireside kumbaya...
        big deal... half-baked sing-alongs
is one thing: a world of ideas, another...
if i operate within a framework,
where no letter, has a name...
akin to the greek: A is for alpha...
                        B is for beta etc.,
   then what the **** are we talking about?

at least this:
                  i've just learned that my female cat
is sensitive to the sight of human genitals...
she's sitting on a windowsill one minute,
jumps off it the next...
         when she sees my genitals urinating
into the toilet...         hell...
                      now i have to cover my phallus
******* into the wishing well
            with one holding the aim "button" and
the other blocking her view of it... ugh...

watching the t.v. of making polish dumplings,
garnished with olive oil having fried
unsmoked bacon and onion to a crisp?
well... unless it's a show about my year of
birth, 1986, chernobyl, probably the latter...
life's too easy these days...
                  it makes no sense with women:
lounging...
                    back in the days with
no washing mashines, refrigerators,
             irons, food processors,
  ready-made-meals,
               etc. etc., vegetating,
                      when women were as important
at home, as men were important in the world...
lounging, vegetating, lounging,
vegetating,
   there's hardly a solance in a comfort,
when it has become nothing more than
a complacency... an irritation...

           oh but i will still listen to crusader
hymns, french, german and esp.
in latin...
         even while i celebrate hebrai mysticism...
i'm not exactly going to conscript myself
to a dervish spin-in-the-middle
and pretend no one notices me ****-load
of attention...
   i'd conquer the ottoman capital
on a whim of taking a **** in the middle
of ot!

          the slavs that were considered slaves
in the medieval period? i'm guessing
these germanic hard-ons are referring
to the balkan slavs..

    beside the point...
did i mention that the hebrai
     (i'm not owen benjamin -
what a nice jewish surname,
small hats? what about the christian
monk tonsure pseudo-imitation?)
      second name for their pentagram?

                              A - kametz

E - tzeré                                                I - chirek




            O - cholem                   U - shurek

Al-ef (a)
            b-Et (e)
                 gI-mel (i)
                 yO-d (o)
                             n-Un (u)

the hebrai do not follow the prefix rules
of the greeks...
     did the hebrai conspire with the greeks
to overthrow the romans?
yep...
      i'm not discussing this, i never will...
it's like gravity to me...
the greeks would never forgive the romans
invading them...
    like at edinburgh university,
i met one greek...
     Istambul was still Constantinople
to him... enough said...

but there are other names to the vowels
already stated... when the tetragrammaton
interacts / enters the sefirot...
the "other" ten commandments...

          when the tetragrammaton
assocites itself with the crown (keter)...
     A remains kametz...
but... when the tetragrammaton
associates itself with chokhmah (wisdom) /
yah... what was once kametz,
becomes: patach...

         when the tetragrammaton
associates itself with understanding (binah)...
           E remains tzeré...
but... when the tetragrammaton
associates itself with love (chesed) / el...
what was once tzeré,
   becomes: segol...
  
         when the tetragrammaton
associates itself with foundation (yesod)...
           U remains shurek...
but... when the tetragrammaton
associates itself with splendour (hod) /
                     elohim tzevaot...
what was once shurek,
                      becomes: kibbutz...

what are the remaining vowels?
            chirek (i) within netzach (vistory),
cholem (o) within tiferet (beauty)...
        the tetragrammaton itself...
  or... look to the heavnely orbs...
    and yet they keep on spinning and orbiting
their settled commands...

   but...
        but...
             a sixth vowel can be excavated from
the hebrai...
                  from the sefirot branch: gevurah,
strength, the vowel that resembles
what the two consonant-vowels (א aleph
and ע yin) already looked like to me...
     the consonant-vowel י (yod), ',
         otherwise known as sheva.

   so there is a 6th vowel in hebrai...
as there are two vowels posing as consonants!

again, at this point, me converting to
islam is... ha ha!
never mind, every time i talked to a muslim,
in public, as stranger to stranger...
the feeling of: conversation...
soon turned to a feeling of conversion...
so...
          i came to the hebrews of my own
accord...
      am i a monotheist?
   i shouldn't think so, since i'm not circumcised...
i like the idea of *******,
allows me to ******* once a day
without feeling guilty of needing
to light up scented candles in a comfortable chair...

of sure, when circumcised: it's probably
disgusting even imagining a man *******...
but... m'ah ******* still attached?
what's wrong with a ******* a web-cam
making a buck and me joining in?
that's the only decent ******* these days
to begin with...
   that's like: counter the ******...
either that, or fine art.

   oh i still "think" the other gods exist,
but i'm pretty ******* sure they're not as
invested in linguistics at the hebrai god...
     i still call the tetragrammaton
the vowel-catcher...
                 and if this hebrai god is, "jealous"...
it's trolling...
    since all the other gods relieve themselves
with such primitive demands
as to make people carve graven images
of themselves...
the hebrai god simply said:
   write me something tangible,
and interesting!
   even the monotheistic god allah
has a ******* for mantras and repetition...
worhsipping him must eventually feel
like sitting in a high school detention after hours.
sorry...
   i'm siding with the hebs- / yids...
           well it's not like the ******* saudis are
about to side with the palestinians...
are they?!

___
and how many shadows, do you think
you'll be able to conjure,
in the night-time
      while passing the outer-urban
environment of lighting?

     i passed from conjuring just the one,
then two: one in front,
one to my side...

               then came three...
one in front,
         one to the side,
                                and one behind me...

but the crescendo of the congregation
came when i turned into an alley...
six shadows...

             note...
     are hallucinations not of the same
substance, as shadows?
      well...
             given that...
i've never taken psychadelic drugs...
but fooled by
the english strand of marijuana:
skunk...
         the chemically infused ****...

i have a vague recollection
   of a guy who smoked this stuff...
story goes...
              he chopped off his
testicles, then killed his mother...
   the father filed a petition
to parliament, more like:
              speaking braille to a deaf
person...
               could have done
more with morse code...
                     but i even doubt that...

conundrum,
        one candle in tow,
             but there were 6 shadows
in an outer-urban environment...
     which one will i be talking to then?

could there possibly be more?
7 is a nice number...
              and also a nice letter: Γ
                                                    α   a
                                                    μ  m
      ­                                              μ  m
              ­                                      α   a
and the epitome of having
arrived at...
              beyond prayer,
  beyond soliloquy,
         beyond talking to one's shadow...
a moment, beyond a soothing
                                epiphany,
and esp. beyond an eureka...
             more... akin to...
   an informal existential epitome...
    or an                       草
               /              sō
       beside the religiosity
of ******* up,
     and the atheistic outright
slandering...

forget doing the 5th tier of bowing
like a muslim in prayer...
because of "what i want"...
or whatever crap that involves...
it still bewilders me...
   why would you need something
akin to the great wall of china,
when the phonetic encoding
                    is already a bastille?

        well... if "god" is associated
with delusion...
               what's the difference
between a delusion and a belief?
delusions don't possess convictions
of that translate themselves
into a fathomable will...
          delusions are...
                    a plethora of doubt(s)...
      imagine that...
grew up in an english society
with so many, many secular sensibilities...

and yet... all these problems...
   i'm going to the next sand-pit
with my bucket and *****...
      after all...
    Kant wasn't an atheist...
all the classical (anything outside
of the 20th is classical)
  philosopher had a grain
of sensibility concerning this:
  faux pas topic.