of man and woo... and woe...

without the trenches...
there's still that commeradary...
what nuance
of the bombs of ovum...

i lost the ability to feel
an intimacy when...
  a cat had to find a cushioning
sensation of fudge-packing
a corner: while at sat on a sofa...
all that furr-borrow against
a clarity of a crease
that's towing a knee and all
this naked flesh-out...

by the sperm-load of
traffic... wriggling away at the
base posit...
i'm here for the
"chomąto": a collar for a horse:
i'm your paddy sort of
well respected plumber /
hobbit folk...
i'm here for "nothing":
but i'm most certainly here
for a toothache...

there is no war...
there are no trenches...
there is no mud of Flanders...
but i'm here... scribbling
toward a ferocity that:
begs giving countering
explanations...
the arabs are no longer
mere camel jockeys...
their kept monotheism
and their polygamy...
they are rich oil sheikhs...
and i'm wondering as to how or why...
i'm already a trusted extension
of dildo... whenever i trusted
the bone marrow to speak...
when i was a fuck toy...

                now to degrade myself
with a single mumsie...
                h. h. holmes forever solves
the plot...
   "something" is expected
to thicken... i cook a damn good
curry sauce...
the vikings were savages yet
they managed to grease up
a tier above animal...
the stature of poets...
because? the priests
were not supposed to read...

i'd sooner want to see the horrors
of the trenches...
than this... peace-abiding... faking it...
that i haven't allowed myself
to be loved...
how strange it is...
to then "stress"...
animals can stand me...
i don't expect loving to be
in their repertoire of cue...
and children find me...
bewildering enough...
to allow an exchange of eyes...
which is more than
a conversation...

i've been told to trim my Engel beard...
i gather: it is... rather bushy teasing
afro concentration
of: where oh where: my chin and
slobber?
                    
it's really sad it really is...
                  i'm here faking
homosexual erotica "literature": the best counter
to casting a fucking vote...
while i need to hear some
balloon popping in a metaphor of:
when a tree falls...
in a forest... and there's no one to
hear it fall...

                    truant! truant!
                        the tree doesn't "fall"...
there's only...
a need for rain and the forest to
be "riddled" by oaks rather than pines...
so that the rain can fall on leaves
that have to later earn
their status of cymbals...

      but this is not world war I...
i see no trenches...
yet... for fuck-toy that i was...
it's nice to be appreciated as merely as such...
who dare, climb the frictions
of: father status...
and i could have been that
base alcoholic foundation stone
for a son that managed to...
transcend his origins...
i would have: i could have been
the motivational tool!
a drunk with a private library that would
have contestants shy...
in disbelief...

look at me now...
a walking cul de sac prison of life...
not "yet" aborted...
but clearly not donning a niqab...
either...

to hell with it!
let is appeal to the river of heraclitus
and god's (any god you please)
will as you orate arguments
most thoroughly...

i started to itch when i listened
to both sides of the "argument"...
i listened to the woman...
i listened to the man...
                  i'd much prefer an ownership
of a dog when i would not
have to invest in a leash...
or a muzzle...
i'd like selfish-act of presence
that abide by the foundation:
alias glue...
      i don't want selfless acts
of pretty-please...
i want the most base...
selfish acts of overtly-simplified...
life...

    i supposed myself to be...
tangled up with wilhelm's khakis...
no... wait.. adolph prone-types...
the germans / the russians
are no longer the celebrated enemy
for a cultural phallus hard-on?
i am... supposedly... facing an enemy...
that... props and gangash river plough...

this is all i have...
a sickness of christianity...
the whore has yet to reach
the crucible... the beast is already towing
a thoroughly graced feast
of furrow...
in 7 fucking languages...
i arrived towing
the newly baptised nations of africa...
how they became so willingly converted...
i guess to counter:
the east african slave trade...
to erase all demands
for muhammad: middle-class...
come the story out of Kenya:
notably Mombasa...

     my limits of hand...
shaking agreement with shadow
then cusping a retarded
reconstruction of "boney-m" vulva...
i am... a walking... ghost of an abortion...
i need to satisfy myself with:
the fact that... i am not...
a protagonist choice to thereby:
climb...

i exhausted myself on proving
that geocentrism was not...
and that heliocentric is...
but sun up or down down...
gynocentrism is still the fucking...
paramount of narratives!

        as well walk around
sperm-tied to the narrative
of god the father...
god the necrophylia-esque sworn...
it's enough to want a rottweiler
that could be petted as a cat...
no leash... no muzzle...

it's not that investing in emotions
with anyone beside my mother...
i was a bilingual strategist
before a schizoid dumb-down...
like i had to be made
RE-tarded before gaining
the chance for the e populus
choicest of applauses!

i did imagine traffic in the trenches...
fighting a goliath of an SS-man
in the woods...
not this... not this cheap-shite of a:
as man...
when there aren't any problems:
we will... invet problems!
and if they're not problems!
they'll be known as... bureaucratic solutions!
because our hunger / fetish
for bad sex never allowed us to
disavow...
mediocre work of... perfecting an
acting principle of... loitering!

sex does two "things"... it sells...
but it also... clogs...
and by clogging in creates: cogs...
so the machinery of bollocks
expands!
sex selling is the easiest bit...
that it clogs up thereby creating cogs
is... a "subconscious" desire
of this... multifarious... diadem...

homo similis marries...
         cerebrum fungus...

       there! that's your fucking homo sapiens
story!
there! ping pong latin-esque quadratic!
homo similis qua fungus cerebrum...
similar to man... quasi ape...
as being... a fungus theft... of a brain...
on the "reverse"...
"god" only talks to the brain-damaged
or the brain dead...
or we evolved...
by being invested in / infested by...
a fucking talking... mushroom!
sputnik neon-lights!
arbitrary-counter-bites!
        it's a duality of arguments...
that a brain-damaged exhibit (a)
"conversing" with god
is less credible than
a brain-placebo-sucker exhibit (b)
"conversing" with:
emptiness suckle... or:
the sensible approach of...
the veil! the mushroom enzyme!
right now! no one is more sensible...
i count the affairs of the brain-damanged
in conversations with god
assured new progress as those...
"freely available"...
toying a pawn of chess...
with amazonian psycho-pharmacology...
n'est ce-pas?!without the trenches...
there's still that commeradary...
what nuance
of the bombs of ovum...

i lost the ability to feel
an intimacy when...
  a cat had to find a cushioning
sensation of fudge-packing
a corner: while at sat on a sofa...
all that furr-borrow against
a clarity of a crease
that's towing a knee and all
this naked flesh-out...

by the sperm-load of
traffic... wriggling away at the
base posit...
i'm here for the
"chomąto": a collar for a horse:
i'm your paddy sort of
well respected plumber /
hobbit folk...
i'm here for "nothing":
but i'm most certainly here
for a toothache...

there is no war...
there are no trenches...
there is no mud of Flanders...
but i'm here... scribbling
toward a ferocity that:
begs giving countering
explanations...
the arabs are no longer
mere camel jockeys...
their kept monotheism
and their polygamy...
they are rich oil sheikhs...
and i'm wondering as to how or why...
i'm already a trusted extension
of dildo... whenever i trusted
the bone marrow to speak...
when i was a fuck toy...

                now to degrade myself
with a single mumsie...
                h. h. holmes forever solves
the plot...
   "something" is expected
to thicken... i cook a damn good
curry sauce...
the vikings were savages yet
they managed to grease up
a tier above animal...
the stature of poets...
because? the priests
were not supposed to read...

i'd sooner want to see the horrors
of the trenches...
than this... peace-abiding... faking it...
that i haven't allowed myself
to be loved...
how strange it is...
to then "stress"...
animals can stand me...
i don't expect loving to be
in their repertoire of cue...
and children find me...
bewildering enough...
to allow an exchange of eyes...
which is more than
a conversation...

i've been told to trim my Engel beard...
i gather: it is... rather bushy teasing
afro concentration
of: where oh where: my chin and
slobber?
                    
it's really sad it really is...
                  i'm here faking
homosexual erotica "literature": the best counter
to casting a fucking vote...
while i need to hear some
balloon popping in a metaphor of:
when a tree falls...
in a forest... and there's no one to
hear it fall...

                    truant! truant!
                        the tree doesn't "fall"...
there's only...
a need for rain and the forest to
be "riddled" by oaks rather than pines...
so that the rain can fall on leaves
that have to later earn
their status of cymbals...

      but this is not world war I...
i see no trenches...
yet... for fuck-toy that i was...
it's nice to be appreciated as merely as such...
who dare, climb the frictions
of: father status...
and i could have been that
base alcoholic foundation stone
for a son that managed to...
transcend his origins...
i would have: i could have been
the motivational tool!
a drunk with a private library that would
have contestants shy...
in disbelief...

look at me now...
a walking cul de sac prison of life...
not "yet" aborted...
but clearly not donning a niqab...
either...

to hell with it!
let is appeal to the river of heraclitus
and god's (any god you please)
will as you orate arguments
most thoroughly...

i started to itch when i listened
to both sides of the "argument"...
i listened to the woman...
i listened to the man...
                  i'd much prefer an ownership
of a dog when i would not
have to invest in a leash...
or a muzzle...
i'd like selfish-act of presence
that abide by the foundation:
alias glue...
      i don't want selfless acts
of pretty-please...
i want the most base...
selfish acts of overtly-simplified...
life...

    i supposed myself to be...
tangled up with wilhelm's khakis...
no... wait.. adolph prone-types...
the germans / the russians
are no longer the celebrated enemy
for a cultural phallus hard-on?
i am... supposedly... facing an enemy...
that... props and gangash river plough...

this is all i have...
a sickness of christianity...
the whore has yet to reach
the crucible... the beast is already towing
a thoroughly graced feast
of furrow...
in 7 fucking languages...
i arrived towing
the newly baptised nations of africa...
how they became so willingly converted...
i guess to counter:
the east african slave trade...
to erase all demands
for muhammad: middle-class...
come the story out of Kenya:
notably Mombasa...

     my limits of hand...
shaking agreement with shadow
then cusping a retarded
reconstruction of "boney-m" vulva...
i am... a walking... ghost of an abortion...
i need to satisfy myself with:
the fact that... i am not...
a protagonist choice to thereby:
climb...

i exhausted myself on proving
that geocentrism was not...
and that heliocentric is...
but sun up or down down...
gynocentrism is still the fucking...
paramount of narratives!

        as well walk around
sperm-tied to the narrative
of god the father...
god the necrophylia-esque sworn...
it's enough to want a rottweiler
that could be petted as a cat...
no leash... no muzzle...

it's not that investing in emotions
with anyone beside my mother...
i was a bilingual strategist
before a schizoid dumb-down...
like i had to be made
RE-tarded before gaining
the chance for the e populus
choicest of applauses!

i did imagine traffic in the trenches...
fighting a goliath of an SS-man
in the woods...
not this... not this cheap-shite of a:
as man...
when there aren't any problems:
we will... invet problems!
and if they're not problems!
they'll be known as... bureaucratic solutions!
because our hunger / fetish
for bad sex never allowed us to
disavow...
mediocre work of... perfecting an
acting principle of... loitering!

sex does two "things"... it sells...
but it also... clogs...
and by clogging in creates: cogs...
so the machinery of bollocks
expands!
sex selling is the easiest bit...
that it clogs up thereby creating cogs
is... a "subconscious" desire
of this... multifarious... diadem...

homo similis marries...
         cerebrum fungus...

       there! that's your fucking homo sapiens
story!
there! ping pong latin-esque quadratic!
homo similis qua fungus cerebrum...
similar to man... quasi ape...
as being... a fungus theft... of a brain...
on the "reverse"...
"god" only talks to the brain-damaged
or the brain dead...
or we evolved...
by being invested in / infested by...
a fucking talking... mushroom!
sputnik neon-lights!
arbitrary-counter-bites!
        it's a duality of arguments...
that a brain-damaged exhibit (a)
"conversing" with god
is less credible than
a brain-placebo-sucker exhibit (b)
"conversing" with:
emptiness suckle... or:
the sensible approach of...
the veil! the mushroom enzyme!
right now! no one is more sensible...
i count the affairs of the brain-damanged
in conversations with god
assured new progress as those...
"freely available"...
toying a pawn of chess...
with amazonian psycho-pharmacology...
n'est ce-pas?!