My friend Greg is musically talented, a singer-like R-Kelly, and because of that he acts like a dog, around women. Who stand by fire hydrants. He plays with his instrument in front of people on the street. And sometimes, the piano too. When Greg plays, he always wears huge sunglasses. That’s because he wants to impersonate Ray Charles. Plus, it’s cheaper than doing ******. Although, he does make a lot of money and he wants to start a band. Band-Aid company. But on a serious note, Greg teaches lessons to his students. They have tiny fingers, so it’s hard for them to reach the keys. But that’s okay because they’re in his pockets. As a musician, he dresses in black clothing. Excuse me, he dresses in African-American clothing. Before shows at open mics, in front of the audience, Greg sometimes throws up. Gang signs. In all honesty, Greg gives a great performance on stage. He just pretends the audience is naked. And then he gives them five and half minutes. As his friend, before he stepped onto the stage, I told him, “break a leg.” He tells me, thank you for pushing me so hard. As he hops around on crutches. Greg’s really good playing the piano, but the audience always gives him a slow clap. But that’s what happens when you play for retards. He considers himself a feminist womanizer. He sleeps with a lot of women. But don’t worry, he always asks for consent, before he roofies your drink. I know this from experience. He’s a good friend though. Once, I was dancing with a girl and I slipped and fell to the floor. Greg rushed over to me and stuck out his hand And I was so grateful for his friendship, until he grabbed the girl’s ***. But you can’t blame him, it was really dark in there, how was he supposed to know that was his sister. Greg loves Shanghai Noon. He’s a huge fan of Owen Wilson. And me. Greg thinks all Asian people look the same. When he saw the Walking Dead Season premiere, he sent a flower-basket to my parents. Greg is so charming. Like the toilet paper. His favorite sport’s team is the Chicago Cubs, his favorite women are the Chicago Cougars.

shock. denial.* it didn't feel real. somewhere in my head, you were still a very much real part of me and even though i knew we had "broken up", my heart did not know it, my body did not know it, my fingertips still searched for you just as much as my eyes did. i lived in a numbness, denying the permanence of the situation and even though i knew we weren't getting back together, i knew nothing at all. we had to end up together. we always ended up together. and there were days where i'd reject advances from other boys telling them i still had a boyfriend. there were days something great would happen and i would run to the phone to tell you. there were days my soul was crushed under the weight of the world and i would run to tell you. my phone lit up and i always saw your name despite the fact that you seized to call. every voice sounded like yours. every face mirrored yours. for weeks, i went through life believing nothing had changed; even though, objectively, nothing was the same.

pain. guilt. do you recognize the panic of waking up in the middle of the night with no air in your lungs and your body covered in beads of sweat? do you recognize the pain in your chest when you realize he isn't lying next to you and that you've made a big big mistake? you play back all the times it was your fault and somehow it seems like everytime was your fault and you're on your knees begging God please bring him back to me but it's too late? do you know what it's like to be willing to sell your mind body and soul just for one more night with him alone? you're considering a variety of drugs because this is too much and the pain in your head behind your eyes makes you feel like you'll die? your body is raw and your throat feels like someone has grated it? your limbs fall to their sides and there is nothing left besides pain. chaos. guilt. the deep guilt of never being enough, perhaps if i'd done this differently, perhaps if i'd done that differently, perhaps...

anger. bargaining. i hate him i hate him i hate him i hate everyone i hate myself i hate you and this and i just want to get out of here. i hate. i am so full of ******* hate i want to break...myself and others, there is this rage i cannot get out it still stuck in my body and i want to shout i am stuck in this hell and i'm falling can't you see? i'll rip him into pieces, how could he leave me? and God, God, how could you put me through this? no human can handle this alone but ****, it doesn't get more alone than this. wasn't i good enough? am i not good enough? was it my fault for never being enough or was it his for never wanting me enough? he never loved me enough. he's a monster. he's a narcissist. a womanizer. a cheater. a liar. a fraud. (i'd take back all those words if he just came back to me). (what can i do to make you come back to me?)

depression. reflection. loneliness. i can't get out of bed.
i know he's never coming back. i know we weren't meant to be. but i can't go on. i can't just...forget. i can't get out of bed.

reconstruction. working through. i'm waking up and cleaning my room. the world doesn't have the same kind of light and my eyes will never be as bright, but that's okay. i'm waking up and realizing that maybe the best part of me has been taken away, but there's always a new day and all i have to do is just...one step at a time. you know? one step at a time and sure, he'll never be mine but people come and people go and he has a part of me that he will never know, but i cannot hold on to hurt, i cannot hold on to pain and i would be in vain if i told myself that there was more to this, but maybe this is the end. my fingers will bleed from the journal entries. my tissue box is empty and wet. my friends have heard endlessly about what you mean(t) to me and sometimes, i still wish i was dead. but the sun still shines and i see that you are no longer mine. i love you, still, but one step at a time and perhaps one day, in the distant future, i will be fine.

acceptance. hope. he is gone. he is going to walk down the alter with someone else one day. he will hold her and kiss her and her children will have his name. he will carry her to bed and she will wake him up with breakfast in bed. he is hers. she is his. she will be his bride. his wife. his widow. i am his widow- of a relationship that barely lasted a few years- i am his widow, too. but just as new flowers grew in that patch of dirt so long ago, i will grow too. one day i will find someone who will hold my hand and take me to new lands and one day i will find happiness too. not today, not tomorrow, but one day. and being across the world from the one i once knew, i know someday, he'll stop thinking of me too.

*and in between there stages of grief will come those days when i can't leave my bed or talk or walk or move my little finger there will be days when i crawl into a hole and know that there is no getting out. there is always another day but sometimes it won't feel that way. emotional outbursts and pain feel like they're here to stay. but that's okay. one day, it won't feel that way. one day, it'll start to fade away and maybe the memory of him will always be at the tip of your tongue- but soon, you will learn, the world is full of new flavors for which one day, you will yearn.

been waiting for you a really long time
hoping you'd just walk into my life
or into my room while I'm sitting there
smoking cigarettes  sipping tea writing poetry
like a surprise from Heaven
like a divine gift
like food in the desert from God
like a candy store Paradise for ant
like a video game arcade that's free of charge
like a buffet from all over the world
like a womanizer who never realized he was a Muslim martyr
like a man god who's got a million brides
like a boy whose worshiped on earth
like a toy whose job is to provide pleasure
like a clown whose a court jester
like a poet who never knew it
like a god who was sleeping all his life
like an angel who loved the devil
like a man who sold himself for love
like a fool in tarot who owns the world
like the wind that never stays in one place
like the fire of love that burns the sea
like the eyes that are the gateway to the soul
like the soul that is lost and unlike any other
like the love that is the Only one love story
that God wrote with her own hands.

we draw god’s attention away from what we’re having by showing a short film shot by your youth in which a godlike figure creates the world’s first womanizer.  we kiss and our kiss goes from being medically fragile to being medically nuanced.  instead of paying our water bill, we fill the tub with sugar and wait open-mouthed for what can dig its own grave.

He has a job, he works out,
He paints, he reads,
Honesty is honestly all that he's about
He's cut, he bleeds

A writer, a fighter,
Piano player and drummer
He leaves a dark room, always a little brighter
Tennis, soccer, yes, a runner

He draws, he cooks,
He provides thoughts of insight
And yet, overlooked, dot dot dot He's a crook
Judged by those who have blind sight

Deceitful, lier,
Hypocrit, controller
Disrespectful womanizer
One ****** up troller

It's just an interesting lesson in general.  
Painting an accurate picture of societies funeral

It shows the mindset, the perception
The deception of proper conceptualization.
The inability to use context plagues our nation.

How morals are constructed by biased filters
Right and wrong determined by Twitter, the ultimate thriller.

It shows the true nature of society's situation
But hey you know this already, happy graduation.

Secretary Clinton wants you
to believe that a womanizer
would make a terrible leader

She is sooooo forgetful

This is not the life I planned of living
When I was in my caring mother's womb
Like a flowing river,I keep changing direction
Yesterday I was straightedge
Today I am a drunkard
The wine and whiskey I saw on Television
Are now brewed in my backyard
And fermented inside my aging stomach
Born in the ninety's
I grew up not socialising with women
Like a confession l keep changing
Yesterday I was a monk
Today I am a womanizer
The females I used to admire
Now satisfy my desires

That handsome guy in the club.


Hey baby, come along, c'mon here, closer
I'm quite experienced, but I'm no womanizer
I want to feel your body burning under this halter
Hey, now the atmosphere is like sweater weather

Sweater weather baby, have you heard about this before
If we start that round, I'm sure you'll beg me for more
I'm gonna love you and make your body levitate
Now baby, c'mon here closer, don't hesitate

Worship me as your god, and I'll say you're my girl
Let's turn and dance and curl up and twirl
I promise my kisses are nothing like you've felt before
Oh yeah, I tell you baby, you're gonna beg me for more

Hey, let me buy you a drink, it's on me
If you're from Arizona or Paris I don't care
I'm gonna make you mine if coming closer you dare
Hey, gorgeous, I love you, you're a beauty

Worship me as your god, and I'll say you're my girl
Let's turn and dance and curl up and twirl
I promise my kisses are nothing like you've felt before
Oh yeah, I tell you baby, you're gonna beg me for more

Now we're leaving the club, and you're laughing
Oh baby, it's gonna be such a hot evening.

Jan,18,2014

I really cant say what it is about these girls that get me so indifferent.
maybe it is their presence. I am well to understand how ****** that is.
You would have to understand the mind of a long standing womanizer that never had the luck of women.
now, grown and accepted I do not find myself caring nearly as much as one would think.
the lovely blonde from forty minutes away spent the night last week but I couldnt recall the day and still have yet to find a way to accept that I have gotten this far without knowing her last name.
How is this the future that I had envisioned in school, wanting love from a lovely person just to push lovely people away once they showed themselves.
I guess there is not much to complain about, wine is six dollars a gallon and lee summit is only forty minutes away.

Fair game was never intended.
She wanted to be fierce and independent.
She wanted you to beg for her, question everything.
For you were once in her shoes,
Making women fall in love and question their own insecurities.

Now she who learned from the best, takes steps.
Watch out, she wants to break hearts.
Allison McNary

I hate my memory but check this connection....Asher = Antony Uptown = lovely boy in love = Girl likes other poet's poems, start spending time with him = angry boy begins to feel abandoned tries to talk to girl who's showing her new attraction = angry begins to argue want to talk on phone =  pretty girl writes poem saying she logged out.  

Now angry boy is jealous and furious and reads all ancient poets words.  Angry tries to get old poet to IM as he pretends.  Old poet tells the crazy broad these poems aren't for her.  Angry boy can't get proof he needs of to prove to exgirlfriend" that new love is a liar, cheat and predator.   Meantime ancient Mariner and pretty girl begin to get hate messages and a "warning" of impending doom and hurt from Astral.  Old man and young Muse relate these weird messages to each other.  Mature man writes to Astral telling him step off.  Astral disappears and 24 hours later has filled "blood drained" pretty girl with lies making her believe old man only cheats and lust for more than her.  All of this in little more than 2 weeks of growing feelings and talking all night every night.  In weakened state she cannot see the sequence of events...nor motives for crushing her like this so she writes a players poem and begin to hate her friend.  Old man cannot comprehend how this whole tale unfolded until he projects again...he used his third eye to find the stories first page. Jealousy caused angry boy to create a scenario since he's lost her heart to old man...if I can't have her he can't either thinks angry boy.  plotting strategy to ruin old man's chances = knows unsure girl's fears = use these against her so he can't have her either = become ten women and create some crazy fiction to dethrone the champion of her hand.

Now I see motive for the lies to separate twin flame sensor.  I see an impossible timeline to be the womanizer I'm accused of being.  I see that the demise came about after the lies told to me meet with no response so Angry boy plays on her emotions to hopefully get regain....result is a good soul laying almost dead distraught destroyed and angry so into a shell she hides.  Everybody losses here my love...can't you see what I see.  Look at the timeframe to see the same movie and drama I can see.  But pretty girl won't even give okm man the time of day....I guess I must bow out...young Asher wins again.

This is the story of a singular.
A story of a loner; stoner, a solitary lover
An isolated dreamer that sleeps with thoughts of a **** killer
This is the story of the smile stealer; grin eater; mood killer, sadness keeper
He is the self-professed love-hater.

This is the story of the secret admirer whose iron heart is filled with empty desires.
A womanizer who appears to the blind as a pure semblance of an ideal lover.
This is the story about a game-changer; king-maker
The story of a feminine murderer who shall smolder your rapture and abandon you bitter

This is a story about a man
A man who once fatally feebly fell in the fingertips of a felicitous femme fatale
Fragile
He fell unreciprocated love to a lass whose response was a heart-ravaging silence whenever the dishes brought to the table.

"It's unsaleable. I am unavailable", with fear she opined.
"But it's unstoppable ", inconsolably he uttered. "And I'm capable to unscramble your wounded soul a path for love invariable".

"We rather not go out on the limb", she sighed. "See, intermingled feelings are not tangible And when one because the other she whines and weeps; salt shall ascend upon the other
Will you not be unable?".
Little did she know of his hematite tenderness. Unbreakable!

if only i was in knowledge of the monster that hid within him
i would've been more cautious and my actions, controlled
how oblivious and frail was my heart to fall under his prey
i yearned his flawless presence as it quenched all my thirst
but little did i know his soullessness
he was dead and cold,

the hunger in his eyes starved for my flesh and his sadistic smile;
all he wanted was a body to complete him
he was not made for love, his promises were all lies
he feasted on his prey and moved on to the next
he was but a womanizer, a heartless lover
he was dead and cold

my life once revolved around him
manipulated by his orders, i was utterly in love with him
i cherished what little time we spent together
the exquisite memories that i reminisce, even now leave me in tears
oh how precious were they, but in the end nothing mattered to him
he was dead and cold

to picture him in I would say
he is **** and pusher womanizer
comedian streetwise
strong genius parachute 1st Airborne
Korea and Vietnam
black and white and all religions
player extraordinaire
but, if he likes you he has your back
he is like the Devil the Saint
the best **** man I ever knew.

Every family has at least
One visionary-
One missionary-
One womanizer-
One organizer -
One *******-
One lazy ***-
One bookworm-
One pretty woman -
One Angel-
One rebel.

Every family has at least
One gold-digger-
One beggar-
One *****-
One witch-
One Singer-
One dancer-
One adventurer -
One lecturer.

Every family has at least
One family man-
One handyman-
One *******-
One lazy ***-
One soldier -
One hustler-
One good cook-
One smooth crook.

Every family has at least
One dangerous man-
One generous man-
One family head -
One **** head-
One smoker-
One joker-
One pastor-
One doctor
Or one writer!

©️IB-Poetry
2/24/2018

Canada already has:
10 provinces
3 territories
3 coastlines
Baffin Island
Two Official Languages
The Niagra Horseshoe Falls (Way Better than the other one)
The CN Tower, Stanley Park, Old Quebec and not to mention The St. Lawrence Seaway, Whistler, Algonquin, Banff, Columbia Ice Fields, Montreal, Jasper... and on and on and....
More oil and gas than Saudia Arabia.
A belief in WHO and NATO and Green Energy.
A Great reputation,
and

Kindness and Dignity.

Why in the name of all that's decent would We want to make the United States our Fourth Territory.
To be a Province would take decades. Excess Baggage.

What we don't have is a narcissistic, mysogynistic, bigotted conman, who is a convicted womanizer, fraudster and felon, who has little regard for the betterment of our Earth and civilization, as our country's spokesperson.

We do have a soon peacefully and unwittingly departing P.M.
It will be a walk in the snow for him on rue Pere Pierre...Just in time.

Just Sayin"!

The poem went oh, what a tangled web we weave.
When our purpose is to deceive.
Well, not exactly that way.
But slightly change to be accused of anything thief.

But the author of that phase must be talking about the redheaded fool.
And all the supporters standing behind him.

Mistress here, mistress there and most likely money was the catch that caught them.
We must nominate the redheaded fool as the best presidential player.

Clinton,  brother Bill the southern charmer got nothing on this New Yorker.
The redheaded fool is a known womanizer with wealth.

While one was exposed like *****.
The redheaded fool being at work in the game of cover-up.
People, in high places of position or gossip mags being covering for this crazy guy.

Makes, you wonder what are they trying to hide?
Trying to cover up with webs of deceit.
And the Republicans love to run on the family value myth more than the Dems.

And the fake evangelicals still support them.
Jesus, if on earth would be disturbed them.

Of course, Congress with their own dirt won't work to impeach this fool.
Cause it keeps the attention off of them.

i don't suppose every psychologists might think
that having a strong father figure in your
life implies that you'll subsequently end up:
just dandy...

or how there's this stereotypical fathom of man
on the dating market as:
the hunter... chasing women...
hell... if i had the money Oscar Schindler had...
i too would probably end up
being a womanizer...

my father is a diligent man...
an honest worker... i worked with him one fine
summer in between year one and year
two of studying for a chemistry
degree on the roof of what would become
the Scottish Widows HQ...
i remember parading my colt muscles
in the blistering sun against
the backdrop of felt rolls...
tar slobbered onto concrete and gravel...
insulation take-a-break & min-K...

but i've seen what disappointments he
had to face...
a two-faced cousin that undermined his
entire self-employed: employing
others structure... teaching them...
in a flash of a whim: all gone...
the golden-goose that lay eggs
and was subsequently brushed aside...
perhaps merely a language barrier...

the most good of men...
diligent... ethical by hard-work...
to suppose you: the son...
are somehow to turn out all fine and dandy:
the next cog in the machinery of grinding you
down: grinding you until there's no: halt!
suppose i was the by-product of
single-motherhood...
i had myself a tiger-mom:
i had instilled in me the sort of ambitions
to repay my mother:
like a Raheem Sterling might...

my father is...
i couldn't be my father...
then again instead of going to university:
a waste of time... he went to a technical
college and learned the practicality of
metallurgy... but then the town i was born in:
almost famous for its metallurgy (
most of the Stade de France came from
my little ******* of a town)
imploded... Soviet-satellite bits & bobs
were sold off to the lowest bidder...
a city nearing 100,000 became reduced to:
tumbleweed: return to village-esque:
a city of the living awaiting death:
a city of pensioners...
and the odd: last remaining... new-money...
start-ups...
not even that... a city of priests
and grannies "repentant"...

between True Grit (2010) and True Grit (1969):
well... for the role of
Rooster Cogburn.... if i had a father worse
than the father i have:
you can't really come across as a prodigy
in a field your father already mastered...
you want to become your own man...
poetry... hardly a field to compete with earning
money and the general idea of trade:
poetry wouldn't provide for a company
of a woman or a child...
not since Horace... not ever...
Bukowski made it... the rest of us seem to be
deluded: even he probably knew...
but i most certainly could be my father:
there's no trade in chemistry:
there's only a cubicle...
and... even on an oil-rig off the coast
of Scotland... you need someone to cover
your back... you don't need a chemistry
degree...
for most work... it's not that you've learned:
age old fable: who you know...
and who you know implies:
something being past down, directly...
not by theory...

no... i am honestly without the sort of ambition
that my father possessed...
to receive a letter from No. 10 by
the administration of a David Cameron (ex PM)
celebrating his clarity of paying taxes...
look at me... i don't even earn enough
money to legally pay taxes!
there's no heritage in my name...
i've had two surnames already...
the surnames have become pointless
since in my native tongue it was a joke:
do dupy - into an ***...
and in my acquired tongue my new surname
is also a joke... am i highly responsive?

i have a terrible surname: no wonder i decided
to use up the Catholic mess
of baptism and having a second name...
which would do be justice...
it's not like i was born into a line of
the Merovingian(s)...
so... eh... all these excuses these days...
to imagine the concept of family...
cousins... aunts... seems rather odd...
only today my mother received a phone-call
where she was informed by her mother
that her godfather died...
and she only found out 3 days after the funeral...
my mother's godfather had
5 brothers... my grandfather: p.b.u.h.
was one of them...
another brother of his only found out
a day after the funeral...
COVID is an excuse... not leaving enough
necrologues around a small city...
mobile phones...

               if brother dies and no brother is informed...
family... ha! what's that?
the old days of cousins... aunts...
the fabled Cockney matriarch with
her grand funeral procession: called 'er NUNS
or PETS or some other Scouser loved-up-rubbed-ruby...

did i forget to mention that my father
wasn't part of my life from the ages
of 4 through to 8?
when i met him after this absence:
that's what happened when the Soviet
regime and its subsequent satellite states
disintegrated into the wild west of new-capitalism...
i hugged a stranger...
for all i know: i buried my alcoholic
grandfather who didn't scold me for
piercing his bicycle wheel in order
that he wouldn't have to go to work...
the one who took me into the fields and
watched as i climbed trees
while Bella! the Alsatian barked with concern
as she couldn't imitate monkey!

the great western brain-&-labour-drain...
it happened... it was real...
pressure in the early 1990s...
by 2004 it came around more on the lines of:
*****-nilly...
i've been waiting for the psychiatric
diagnosis to ring true after... oh... 10 years...
i'm being more introspective and reflective
while the rest of the undiagnosed people
are running: rampant: hyped-up pseudo-news...

hell; i don't write: oh woe: my tale is the worst
to be behold: the people with the most
terrible... ahem... tragic stories should never
write about them: other people are bound
to encapsulate it better: hell: they might even
write a ******* opera!
no... i'm writing this because i see a fork
in the road... no one but me will divulge
as much as i can...

i'll pretend my father is already dead...
why? it's a Friday night and i'm packing for
some "adventure" most associated with
a Friday night in the "west":
friends... drinking... random *******...
all that mash-up of cosmopolitanism...
instead? i'm cooked-up sitting in the attic
playing chess with clutter...
moving box X from position Y to position B...
moving "necessary" clutter Z from position
A to a giraffe height of S...
i tell my mother: this is futile work...
there's a tragedy waiting for someone...
(namely me) who will have to sieve through
all this "necessary" crap and leave it for the
skip to decide...

oh i'm waiting for the day... i'm almost gagging
for it... like the day i say: **** it...
go into a forest... eat a lilac mushroom...
drink a bottle of bourbon and do a quick
1-2-3... the artery just behind my collar bone...
the artery in my right arm-pit...
and... don't *******'s me about
like it's some church-bell uvula:
there is no... there is no... ******* "heart rate"
in the wrist... you must aim higher up...
arteries can't be weaved into
the mesh of the carpal bones... *******...
putting the theatre curtain alight
telling me: oh oh! there's a pulse in that delta
of carpal bones... like **** there is...
ugh... ugly medicine practice...
i've already been fed enough chemistry
that has turned my brain into a cheerio-chemo-soup...
because... "some" imbalance...
imbalance this...

DAB... radio... at circa 88MHz i've been listening
to static of some "central groove" station...
it's mostly static... i thought i was listening
to BBC radio 3... switched from DAB to FM
and manually found BBC radio 3 at 91.35MHz...
of course it's still 20th century rigid...
rug-gy... there's static but at least i'm hearing
the talk...
that's what also gave me a downer...
it's not only my parents... i too...
but i wouldn't wouldn't just shift boxes
in the attic to make up time...
time as the space occupied by boxes...
i wouldn't be able to love a woman
like my mother like my father has...
no... first come, first served...
my mother is impossible:
but when she is what she is...
i haven't met a woman: to date...
that might want to showcase her
impossibly me...
most women still pretend they are
mythological creatures: unable to fathom
constipation....
all geared up for the alpha male plunder...
three letters:
alpha... beta... omega...

       i'm last: i'll write in order to complete
the rest of the spectrum...
write too much: or write too little:
of the former:
write enough to create an exclusive club
for those still preserving the constitution
of: hide & seek...
this is a game of hide & seek...
it can't be anything less...

i can't compete with my father...
what happens to a child when he is 4 through
to 8...
but his father isn't there:
his mother isn't there either... from the age
of 6 through to 8...
lightyears...
i had a Dobberman for a brother...
and an Alsatian for a sister...
now i have two Maine **** cats since...
well... it's not like i'm tender with them...
i like to scare them... they like to be scared...
yet at least one of them ends up
falling asleep in my bed...

i keep typing until midnight and
he's more than welcome...
as are all the moths...
would you believe it?
storage of clothing... winter coats...
to preserve them...
from an attack of moth larvae?
laurel leaves...

i hear a voice: 'mateusz... płoną góry!'
matthew: the mountains are burning!
yes... i've heard the end of the world is near:
no nearer to the world: nor the end...
either way: no nearer to the world or: to the end...

my wordsmith ambitions can be matched with
a father as... plumber...
but they can never be matched with
said ambitions: translated into payment!
into the trans-valuation of "all" values...
i can be this poo'et i am:
but it will never scratch the rewards:
of... the poorest job of plumbing...
of constipation blues...

suddenly Norman Davies is a bad historian
for calling US... yes... "us" the bad pronoun
collective Pollack the industrial *******?
we didn't pick cotton...
we weren't the choicest of athletes...
i digress... we're still not..
envy... the blacks will be despised for
their athleticism... the Jewry for their intellect...
come: to the bleaching crux...
third generation having ****** enough
whitey sandpaper... don't worry...
the mulatto "stigmata" will seize to exist...
unless... perpetuated... in placed like: Bra-Zyl...

but the aqua-people will respond...
so much for the kippah...
and the excess of muscles around the pelvis
when running from lion...
no chance of "racial equality"
come: finding a swimming mate... no?

yes... this must be a healthy ambition to counter
a concept of "father": this disillusioned son
i've had to become:
finding people talk about Rumi
while i'm stuck on glancing at the theatre of
******* Rambo
with him
come the resurrected
91.35MHz (in the range 90.2 - 92.6MHz)...
normal people have these candlelight supper
conversations all of a sudden...
some excuse to escape their needlework
paper on paper: forest without trees
analogy SHAMBOS...

if i were not writing words: scribbling them
without agony: teach me to use the hammer
and put pressure on the nail!
all that's currently deemed "work":
seems nothing short of merely:
loitering...
the space-occupying an otherwise
welcome absence...

i can't be my father... i can't be my grandfather...
although my father having celebrated
being gladly tee-total...
my (maternal) grandfather's love for
slobbering of liquor:
translates...
come to think of it...
beside the onslaught of pornographic insomnia:
would i rather drink myself
to death: subsequently write...
or ******* and only write with
a hand spare?
is there a former... or a latter
when giving a reply?

i just see red...
whoever was king david's father...
i'm pretty sure king david gave birth
to king solomon...
king solomon wasn't much interest in music:
therefore psalms...
he much preferred "wisdom" and...
the music of the choir of women
giving up their onomatopoeias of vowels
of the ******...
will anyone entice me to remind everyone
else of the son... the next king of Israel...
that came... after... Solomon... "the wise"...
David was wise...

he wrote the Psalms... he had some
interest in music... he even wrote
some lyrics...
Hallelujah... a one word... bonanza quest...
what undermines the wisdom
of king Solomon: the envy of the paupers:
anyone could be so wise...
if they had a summer harem choice...
a spring harem choice...
a harem within a harem...
a quickie and there also being some...
favourite...
Solomon no ******* Buddha...

can the peers of mine: question my hammer's worth
against the futures of... nails...
would i be able to justify their...
"presence"....
not here: not now...
i abolish all concern for...
casual al fresco cafe culture:

each to his own underground... each to his own:
rat infested hive...
here's one to ease away from:
why so many pornographic actresses
seems to die so young and from cancer?
what is cancer: deciphered as
botanical?
a fungus... mistletoe...

      i will never own up or therefore be:
my father's worth...
for what's... ghost society: woo or woe...
i'll end up sniffing some "pearls" of
moths while i'm clamouring
over disintegrating metaphors of plunder...

this is a relapse into listening to BBC Radio 3....
god: i better be found drunk
defending this pish-poor sort of
a... *******! ******* bunker!
no... my father is the agreeable sober-artefact
of... work hard... pays off...
i'm of the lineage:
think: "smart" ought to pay off...
i never gambled...
hence the "ought"...

in the attic i found a 16-BIT
sonic the hedgehog SEGA cartrige....
MADE IN JAPAN... circa 1993...
last time i heard...
some pristine exemplar fetched a sum
of over $1 million...
for a mario nitendo...
64...

how much for a russian empire
banknote... with the face of Nicholas II
on it?i am almost glad to have been
born dead... thinking about
it is almost a penny's worth of:
the sweet bits in between.

Why didn't I see
A womanizer is what you are
Beautiful words
From your split tounged mouth
Naive is me
For considering they may be true

obviously she revised what i noted...
apparently it was not Finnish enough...
the Finns can umlaut their A:
into an AA
             AA...
troubled femme-fatale... i grizzly my thumbs
and teeth on this sort of...
a virginal approach...

Blindfolded Crossroad
...and blindfolded
curiosity
fantasized..

stripteasing daffodil
in skimpy
nenégligée

'pon concupiscent
crucifix,

as temptation ripped
pious portière
of starlight apart...

unveiling unholy holy
of holies...

(do) you really need that extra acute E on negligee? i'm pretty sure the one would do... i'm a francophobe mind you... but even i have to stress this faux pas... it's becoming to look at bit like a ghost-limb...  which is not much to look at: but... no... sorry... i might be pedestrian in my itch for "perfection"... pedantry... i don't think i'm being pedantic concerning this... although: i've heard this word (deshabill'eh) is an alternative to what you have just... butchered... beyond a worth of a butchers' cut of proper chops... no... it just looks wrong... sorry...

comment   a day agoreplied on Blindfolded Crossroad
So much for critiquing...this is criticizing, insulting and very rude...if you don't really have something better to offer, why not just walk on by rather than stopping by to spill your unfounded frustration, toxicity and venom here...you sure sounded as sorry as your comment and sincerely, I don't have time nor space for folks like you and neither will I tolerate your insolence!
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comment   25 minutes agocommented on Blindfolded Crossroad
thank you, mother... i'll just rearrange the petty idols to fathom your approach of tongue to better suit you... while i... *******... how better to appease you... dearest mother? you best scold me: dear mother... dear mother... i think you're a joke... dear mother ms. anonymous: now i think you're double the joke... thank you... dear mother... thank no one...  thank you... mother: for your virginity.... thank you... dear mother... for the echo of wailing metaphors... thank you that you're sorry... oh: but dear mother: you have all the time and the space... aligned to mind this comment being... returned and read back and by you.
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You said: p.s. you're such a woman... you have so... many... minor... obligations... i most certainly have to be drunk... to stomach an hour's worth of sober you... if not... no man would ever be so offended about... something this... detailed... only a woman might... it's a well earned giggle to find you so... wounded up... over nothing! please tell me you find yourself exfoliating erotica when slightly peeved... i'm only not a womanizer because i don't have the sort of money to spend that might allow me to be one... but... from where you're coming from: if i had... i'm pretty sure i could appease you... more than by merely a "somehow"......thank you, "mother": nonetheless.