.comes the floundering over foul language, like it's a sin to speak with a cascade of oath taken words, to: never mind the beat and rhythm, that will continue, as long, as long you play the solo... never you mind keeping-up-appearances, why be distracted, better yet: why talk during ***? isn't that worse than saying ****, casually, in a conversation of: pardon my french? i will tell you, it's far worse dragging "god" (words) into the "satanic" pit of actual procreation, than it is to say **** and let it be treated as a conjunction, akin to: and... since what words are sacrificed on the altar of *****-*****? bad, boy, who's your yummy, mummy... who's your daddy... i tell you: **** in between some jane austin snippets, and those prunes would be on, fire, should any words be uttered from their mouths having been staged completely ****... no... foul language is free language with all the chanel and gucci to attire you with away from furr-skins... but talking, uttering words, while procreating? that's just plain scandalous! i bet those prim goodie-two-shoes care more for: pardon my french during conversation, yet they probably squeal like about to be castrated pigs in a slaughterhouse come the synagogue of ******... ******* never wish to accomplish syllables or vowel cubism with contorted mouths during ***... but they say: brush your teeth while speaking... if hey-zeus saw hypocrisy in the jewish sects... full circle... who are the modern day pharisees? somewhere in h'america... beastly contortions... if not pedophiles, then at least the sort of pedantic hypocrites that could share the same tier of Dante's inferno... why talk, during ***? why not eat the ****** during the zenith? wow, don't you think? because bukowski might call me a star-gazer... well... if you look up and see what i see? you too would be looking up... but just in order for you to get a feel of what i feel? three song summary when i look up at night at the sky:
   penta - come in,
     gloOMy PhAntOM - only the beginning,
Matutero - pure evil...
             hell... a fourth song: matutero - exorcist...
i'm no ******* copernicus...
   or a galileo...
                              still: to keep one's mouth clean
is to not utter god: words during the wedding
of "satan" to his shadow...
                                 to keep one's mouth clean
is to not speak during *******,
     *****-stars know the deal...
   tell me what you want, and i will not give it...
don't tell me what i want: and i will surprise you...
even after the act, she said...
'this has only happened to me once'...
when she was paid,
   and didn't expect to reach ******...
                    2nd man in...
  1st man with a hydra in his mouth for paying
an extra 10 quid to perform oral ***
on a *******...
                      good... evil...
well: good is as good as it gets,
but good can also imply: the purity of evil...
evil of the highest quality is in a position
to move down an incremental path toward
good: as spectator...
       as a tease of what is itching the incremental
path toward evil: the omniscient, omnipotent etc.
god...
      oh sure... night sky *******, romance my this
that and whatever *** looks more like:
pork chop cleopatra meets
   cherry 16 tight trim of milk and quicksilver
reflection teasing...
                      you'd be gagging for the goosebumps
and the prickled tiny hairs... performing...
what plant-speciments do with their...
   phototropism...
                                    against all: stereotypes...
            this, lunar base of imagining, not otherwise.
so this is to be my antithesis Golgotha?
for who stands on Har Megiddo
certainly not the skull-baron of the crucifixion...
   blitzkrieg imagery: and suddenly...
   the words... become...
   s               a
h             r                                       l
                   p                   e
                           n      
simply?
      for the supposed foul language used
as barrier between flow and conjunction
necessity... a rhetorical tool of the modern use
of language: no one is standing in any
oratory pulpit speaking to the "masses"...
      but... if i could invent an inverted niqab
for the tongues of christians during ***?
reduce them to moans, groans,
exfoliations of an onomatopoeia...
               less daddy please, who's the naughty boy
*****-***** *** tantrums of:
having ****** so much, the next ****
acts like an anaesthetic to numb what's already
become a numbed pain / pleasure non-differential...
well!
                like i really might need to venture
into the dark-web...
   i'll just bring myself to the party on the "safe" web...
and some poo'em i wrote once,
which doesn't even compliment what i just,
just now: pulled out from my bowels...
again: there's zero-net-worth of feeling in the heart...
emotions? bowels...
   the heart is too preoccupied with rhythm...
akin to how:
    the brain was a metaphor for the soul,
even though the soul is a sigma,
of all known organs and its preoccupation with them,
or not...
    given the current explanation of the brain?
coordination and what not?
evidently the soul is, equivalent to a metaphysical
and biological definition of an *****,
given: the brain doesn't entertain the existence
of thought...
       so... if the brain is not responsible for
thinking, then nothing else in the body is...
                  so soul, or the sigma "conundrum" /
is a metaphysical *****, or whatever you want it to be...
brain = fatty sponge... that can die...
when attacked by killer proteins in the light
of Alzheimer's... like a sort of inverted anorexia...
weird... starvation? fat goes first,
then the carbohydrates... no, wait...
carbohydrates first, fats second...
and then... proteins cannibalise themselves...
that's starvation... in Alzheimer's?
the proteins attack the brain sponge-fatty-blob...
so the brain is not involved in thinking...
so... well, mein gott: god i guess...
   some external source of "inspiration"...
motivation, will... oddly enough?
that coincides with both the + and the - of
such a source of thinking...
             both sides: theistic and atheistic have it
covered... right now? chosing the middle ground
is the only sensible posit to succumb to...

what's the difference between
a polyamorous society
and a polygamous society?
  well... there's not much
of a difference...
   i've been a subject to the former,
and the "covert" latter...
suddenly prostitutes are
above priests and psychiatrists...
well...
  either being sold the body,
or being bribed with
prayer or the pharmacological cocktail...
only because:
i was...
         "being uncomfortable"
for the rest of society...
    polyamorous societies
descend into make-shift
polygamous societies...
             the whole incel problem...
that's really representative
of a polygamous society....
  20% of men get 80%...
    sure... lesbian frolicking
in a harem,
    strap-on-******...
     and eunuchs are missing...
but...
akin to a manic street preachers'
song:
   the walking abortions...
   in all honesty...
the top-down influence
of a polygamous society has crept in
and created
the polyamorous society buffer zone,
so shy right up to now,
but:
before the **** hits the fan
   waiting game...
and how much
of the madonna-***** complex
is currently true,
and how much of ******* dysfunction
is due to...
  being pulverißed
by overtly sexualißed material
exposure?
                 hell...
  if i'm always going to be stitched
into a frankenstein hard-on
potential...
when it comes to the actual deed?
why wouldn't the answer suffice
mostly associated with a *******
and not a woman on her third date?
because i'm pretty sure
that erectile dysfunction isn't
a problem with my experience
of prostitutes...
    but it is... with "free" women...
given that i'm no psychopath...
  and when *** is staged,
it follows that there's a case for relationship,
intimacy...
           a ******* hard-on
is an objective fact...
which is why prostitutes rarely
fail to "conjure" it...
         the violence is simmering...
it's... titillating, nibbling at the toes
of Venus like some
sado-******* fetishist...
        **** me...
   the nazis dropped less bombs
on London via the world war I
zeppelin raids than
how many ****** insinuations
leave me quasi-limp-**** / ******...
   well... not so much ******...
***** just keep bulging with
goosebumps,
   i sometimes forget the ******...
which isn't even associated with
the actual *******...
   it's neurologically associated
with tingling sensation
            of the shaft...
    ***** has nothing to do with it...
    should have asked
me when i was 8...
                  "self-harm",
or...
                 what others rarely see...
no wonder i gravitated to
reading marquis de sade in my early teens...
but like chuck rhodes
said in billions...
             truth...
            if it's not comfortable,
and if its not a wager...
a shadow compensation...
  if its not the intellectuals'
demise of truth being treated
  as a fluctuation,
  a perpetual change,
   bias one minute,
        critique another,
                         a noumenon,
                                  then... what is it?

oh i'm pretty sure
that the current society,
the current:
polyamorous society
is a direct consequence
of a polygamous society's influence...

i don't even want to begin thinking
that man,
was the pinnacle of all lifeforms
on earth...
   notably in this region of "debate"...
because there's no "debate"...
is there?
     not with the elevated mating
norms of... say...
swans... how you actually can...
find widows and widowers
in the swan populace...

          with man having evolved
from monkey:
  well no surprises...
swans have devolved from
dinosaurs...
   the feathers are the fake...
but like lizards...
  born from an egg...
no?
                 swans understand
monogamy...
           humans?
    not so much...
         well... if you're lucky...

but i'm pretty sure:
oh i'm pretty sure
that the current society,
the current:
polyamorous society
is a direct consequence
of a polygamous society's influence...

am i, bothered?
clue me in...
    revolting *****' song: *****...
could a **** ****
a ****...
         without a strap-on?

pictures full of smiling Ghosts.
reminding of all that's Lost.
drowsy clouds encased in Glass.
deep cracks that shall never Pass.
reflecting eyes of Despair.
possessing a painful Stare.
belonging to tired Pulse.
of good intentions - bad Results.
foolish veins that like to Trust.
beautiful mind crushed to Dust.
perhaps made from Hematite.
smart, but never quite Refined.
filled by thoughts so bitter Sweet.
merciful, yet guilt-filled Deed.
memories that taste like Lead.
and wedding vows left Unsaid,
to fading smell in Pillows -
of Widowers and Widows....

What have I done?
what's happening to me?
Am I diseased with
the sickness that's infiltrating
the whole nation

A nation of pill popping zombies
that has addicted itself
to the loophole
of "a pill for happiness"
"a pill for desensitization"
"a pill for nerves"
"a pill for life"?

Why have we become a generation of junkies
whose drug is legal
inflicted on us
but degree holding powers
because "they know better"?

Is it normal for humans like me and you
who feel
who see
who taste
who hear
who smell
to be controlled by a singular button
to be confined to a manifesto
of the "latest trend"

Are we all hypnotized
into morphing into the
"perfect body"
"10 ways to get smarter"
"look like this, don't eat"
is it a blueprint set by a superpower
to transform us to identical robots
to make it easier to control us?

Are we slowly walking down the path
of being identical?
Are we losing the only essence of what makes us human?
Are removing our imperfections
and surgically implanting
"my lips should be like this"
"my thigh gap is a must"
"my brain should have a set of guidelines"

What has become of us?
I pity the fish that
flow with the current
I cry over the youth today
I mourn the artists
of yesteryears
I grieve with the widowers
of lost souls

There's still hope
or so I try to believe
and encourage
the dying breed
of
perfectionists
the humble ones
those whose kisses only
land on lips
and not
*****

I have seen my share of old men
Sitting early in diners:
Widowers, perhaps,
Or never-weds,
Seldom women,
Excepting tired street people,
Tattered bags sprawling
Disheveled out of the wet,
Leaving only when the manager
Steps up with a bottle of soapy water
And a cleaning rag,
The polite symbol of
"It's time to go."

Fast food,
No place to rest,
Up and moving before the family crowd
Can see the riff-raff
Who sat these chairs earlier,
Who hunker now on some lee-side wall
Against the chill spring rain.

Absent minded
by my own volition.
Warmly embrace
mental attrition.
State of rest
is my mission
on listless and free day

hey hey!
Big Bill
a slingin' his heart chords
Endless visions of bright sunny fjords
sigh
I am yet unescaped
            mind neatly taped
to a lonely widowers table

   mind is unstable
           find an old drunkard
untell this dark fable
i cant sleep and im feeling...
rrreaal tired.


blank unaware

can't help but

stare

into

distance.



I am absent

I've heard that my body is a temple.

that disciples once traveled through, they used my ribs
as stairsteps and slept sound in the soft
ventricles of my heart, I've said I used to be soft
and this is mostly true, mostly lies,

you can lay a  f i e l d  o f  c o t t o n  
over  concrete  or cover  granite  in
s  i  l  k  but that does not change the
consititution of what lies underneath
and I have been cold
a bear trap constantly reset, I have been a wolf masquerading
as a girl, slick bricks of ice wrapped in wool

there has been hell in this holy city
and I have been raging through the rooms
scattering caltrops in the halls, wrapping widowers
in smoke, steaking kisses, slamming doors, wreaking
havoc where there need not have been--

Have you seen me? call the troops, have you seen me? fists clenched
temple burning. A chest full burning brambles, hot marble walls.
there is hell in the holy city.


hell.

Quick silver streams over our hair and the blinding secrets of his lines sting us like vaccines.  Revelations Devine in doctors painters and poets whose grand appointments fixate out illness.
You were allergic when reality took his medicine paintings but you covered me in magenta quilts stitched black
Around the lateness of twenty years in a dark widowers red rest warning me about chain less camels and Chinese factories killing our newborns.  I agreed when you said the helpless close up and die shameless.

As a non-golfing husband I revel at tales
Of sunshine filled days chasing small *****,
Some in the rough others in sand,
All these brave girls fighting nature's pitfalls.

I hear of the times the flock of wild ducks
Hindered a drive that was perfectly hit,
And what of those trees that magically moved
With a subsequent shout 'I just want to quit'.

But then I'm regaled with feats of great skill
Such as the time a Birdie was made,
Out comes the flask, big glugs all around,
Magical moments that no-one would trade.

They say Golf's a passion a lifelong pursuit,
One day may be heaven the other pure hell,
Neither cool mornings nor that full midday heat,
Apparently stops that will to excel.

Yet there's one thing I notice each week,
Yes the real pleasure from playing the game
And what's not to like from those magical views
But without one's good friends the day's not the same.

So to all poor Golf widowers awoken by shrilling alarms,
Then never quite knowing what time we'll see our fair brides,
There's a much higher calling we can but embrace,
'Happy wife happy life' the true gift this pastime provides.

There's old junior Bobby
Waltzing fine felt elegies
Back stage fronting
Towards his morning
Patrons of widowers
And their crows
Feather coffee
Trying so hard
To tell young
Men what
Their Rose gardens
Once did before
Our now lady returns with
Smiles hoping
The one letter she took
Out of her name
Creates better tips.

i reserve the "vote" for the freedom
of speech to be most preserved
among the sparrow...
and who had a name of a capital
better in the anglo-ßaß moving east...
warsaw.. warsaw...
joy division... david bowie:
warшawa... no SHarp enough:
for ya'?
             peeping "tom" elsewhere
from the local greenock town centre:
it would require a baron cook...
to "unfind" the continent
of auzzie-swahili-pseudo-zulu-lawn...
at least: or the least it's "not":
misnomers as conjunctions...
piła wojny - piła wojenna -
a warring saw...
saw of war...
warsaw and loon'don...
the bowie song breeds
regurgitating the blade runner "oops"...
called: east of berlin - west of moscow...
the swans: having observed the widows
and the widowers: will claim
the vote on where monogamy best
serves a genesis -
beside the pressure on the hasidic jews
borrowed from the scripture -
and no loud mouth "christ"
making friends among gentiles...
whatever would have become
of christopher young's compositions
outside of the territorial terrain
suited for hellraiser II: hellbound...
the joy comes from:
funky troy - ashes are ashes -
token tokyo voyeurism and:
that song of every other mollusk
not to be eaten by a Beijing horde...
because the rice left them happy...
but enough of rice will only allow
a man to travel, before he has to grovel
so far... to travel half as much as...
sparrows have my vote
for their freedom of speech...
the swans can be left alone being majestic
in mourning...
the ducks will continue to quack...
the geese will much prefer
to snorkle and quack simultaneously...
but then... better found
when strutting and in all those
feathers in a well ironed hugo boss
mademoiselle grise and madame noir...
and if not: grand-mère heureuse dans k(h)aki...
cherry on top...
cherry on anything.