can a man truly regret not having children? well... is regret the sort of compendium an atheist would make rubric of: about eternity via the gene bullshit story of - "passing on"? then what is regret... i'll eat a poultry abortion tomorrow - probably poached - i'll sit on the throne of thrones and do the no. 1, the no. 2 and the no. 3 into toilet paper and call it: the genocide of the tadpoles that could have become mammals rather than amphibians... here's to the "other" sex shooting blanks... fucking wormholes and black holes and those ovaries like stars without any lightning juice to gear them up with a somewhat perverse depition of a soul... life / momentum... i am, a man... i can't compete for in the regrets olympics of a 60 year old woman made pop via a t.v. series akin to sex and the city where the only character worth mentioning is the woman without illusions and doubts - the full-hedonist: samantha... god... i remember my 2nd or 3rd prepubescent crush was over a girl named samantha... auburn tickling a rare blonde oiled up curly hair... plump cheeks... but the name... samantha seemed so fucking sexy then... sam-an-tha - bath... alone... bath but not bathing (veering off on that fucked up theta of the west saxons)... a man can't regret not having children... i would: if i could - regret the experience... i can only imagine the experience to be transcending - here's to german transcendental philosophy - the cut of the mill per usual verbiage - what the fuck can i incubate? a tapeworm... i can aspire to turning my intestines to a fucking worm - not even a placenta! no... god does exist... the whole "creative" construct is fucked up... a mouth in the stomach that feeds directly via a tube... and i am an aquatic creature too! fucked up imaginations come from a belief in god... the rest? atheistic / agnostic proverbial - mostly sexually-orientated... sexually / rhetorically minded... hell: i wish i could be the sort of woman at 60 who missed on having a transcendental narrative of being impregnated... i'm left with the stale kantian methodology of transcendence... so much for the foetus: heads up for the tapeworm toddler! well yeah... who wouldn't regret not having children... the antithesis of a parasite? a parasite that will later talk, walk and even do a jesus impression for a nativity play! but a man cannot respect the regrets associated with women... i can't feel regret... after all... i have an escape plan... i become the man-child... i orientate myself around a continuum of rebirth within the already given birth... hell: the man-child complex is not as bad as what women have to wrestle with: the madonna-whore complex... it just implies: i am entombed in the form of a man, but my mind can regress back to the child i was aged 4... i give 4 the year anno domini that the faculty of memory wakes up, ergo? if memory wakes up at the age of 4 - and it can expand and translate the rigid nature of the temporal linear labyrinth - then time becomes squared - consciousness doesn't have to originate with a fixation on a "self"... the emergence of memory is like a reboot of consciousness... consciousness becomes its first ordeal manifest: consciousness is a "something" that can remember "itself"... it's primarily a revisionist architecture - most of pedagogy is bound to tighten the faculty of memory - to exercise memory - to subsequently exhaust memory - rubrics, facts, the faculty of imagination isn't exactly invested it, the arts are not exactly... curated for... memory... consciousness begins with and within the confines of memory - imagination is stunted... for all pedagogic purposes... but is allowed to flourish in its natural environment of: the sort of games children invent and play among each other... or that's how it used to be: before imagination was sacrificed on the altar of placebo imaginative constructions of elder architects - i still remember playing bulldog in the schoolyard at St. Augustine's Barkingside... i still remember playing hide & seek in Poland... i still remember playing labyrinths with bottle caps stuffed with plasticine... or throwing marbles into holes... organic play - not inorganic play - not being cage - even if we plagiarized the children that came before us - at least we... slap-ball... canon palmer sixth form - ages 16 - 18... a very competitive sport... pedagogy doesn't respect the flourish of imagination - it recognises that memory is the faculty that comes first - so it has to army-standard it, make it errosive - i guess i saved my memory by using my imagination of appealing to the many aspects of pedagogy - focusing on the sciences - i had to ensure that i was also good at the humanities - math? eh... D grade antics on the A-level tier... A and A* come the GCSEs... but i can't have regrets about not having children: i ejaculate a fucking genocide everytime i do the no. 1, 2, 3 and 4: taking a shower... i eat poultry abortions: best poached... oh sure, sure... i'm about to regret not entertaining a fucking tapeworm toddler... unless of course that's what modern women deem a foetus to be... a tapeworm... fuck it... plug one in... let me be spoiled for nine months... i'll eat everything i want and blame it on a parasite! huh... lucky me... the rare occassion where a man can say: lucky me... stuck with man-child complex... i have the ego the worth of a foetus in my mind - i'm taking care of this second birth - which resides with the calm and collected orgasm of death... regrets... man can at best understand a woman if he takes the time required: to understand himself... and then allow the woman to understand herself - should the two meet? that's out of the jurisdiction for any sort of prudence on my behalf - a cocktail is a cocktail... messy interludes in the grand theatre / soap opera of life... i never liked soap opera - i preferred the idealist film... theatre? more of an opera man. must be harsh though... having these regrets aged 60... i wonder what my regrets will be when i turn 60... considering that most people start hearing alarm bells once they peak at 30... 33... 35... and their inbuilt ontology starts to whisper to them a message a tier above their conscience about starting a family? i'm 33... i'm not hearing this voice... i'm still stuck on: don't lie and... demand the most ethical conundrums from the most banal situations life has to offer... aged 33 i can say: game over... i'm out! if i have to i can always play the schizophrenic joker card... nietzsche was right... if i am faking madness: i deserve an oscar for my performance... and if i'm not? how many things: do i do not have to do, before the one thing i must do: and die? shrinking: day by day.
sumar summarum: the regrets of a 60 year old woman -
not having kids, is not as bad as the plights of woman in her 40s
having a child for the first time (i should know, my neighbor -
last year her toddler was in agony during the heatwave -
she blamed his agony on me smoking a cigarette outside my
bedroom window... in the heatwave i'd get about 2 hours sleep
during the night, come morning,
i'd run into the garden and try to conjure up an hour of sleep
lying butt-naked on the cool grass in the shade -
the poor thing was exposed to the same agonising sunrise heat
as i was... he didn't even have a fan or any other air conditioning
to filter out the air... you'd expect a woman to know the plethora
of immediate concerns a child has to be met with...
a childless 32 year old man could give an honest scrutiny of
concerns for himself: translate them into the concern of a toddler...
but a woman aged in her mid-40s couldn't identify
with any kind of a maternal instinct -
no... a woman with regrets of not having
children aged 60.... is not as bad as a woman who decides
to have her first child aged in her 40s... after all... come
the child's 20th birthday... what is grandma gonna do?!)
truly, the concept of the godhead
for a woman resides in her
a natural conclusion -
how else -
i just sometimes hope i was
born via the caesarean
rather than being the lucifer-diver
head first through:
no whittle richie
is going to be the girth of my alien
cranium stretching your...
new leased vagina...
i just wonder: how many
cocks would it take...
to compete with a toddler's head?
- but that's the natural conclusion...
the concept of the godhead
(for her woman) is found in the genitals...
and what a splendid affair to walk
into the sort of museum
of words that celebrate oysters
and lilies - i have one in my garden...
i brush against her,
10 minutes later...
have i been making a curry?
what's all this turmeric brush-stroke
tattoo doing on my hands?
and her: not mine, unaware sycophants -
better imagining the bees
than white tadpoles...
but that's nothing -
how i do love hitchhiker plants...
hercules sperm over here -
enlarged out of proportion into
four extensions of arms and legs -
a heart of stone and a lazy
sub-heart of the phallus initiated
by some jelly-like sponge thing people
who study neurology has dedicated
their lives to...
i get the impression that i write
like a failed poet who will make it one
day as an english teacher -
more like: chemistry teacher first -
substitute english teacher on the side -
all these technicalities and
byzantine bureucracies of mr.
compared to others: i'm sensing
a rigidity to this writing -
like it's a rubric tally:
2 x 1 = 2
2 x 2 = 4
2 x 3 = 6... etc.,
besides, i'm more of an advocate for
every woman to give birth via
the caesarean section...
if we have found something
to counter the bible...
that a woman is to give birth in pain...
why are women still giving birth
like mares, like cows...
why can't at least shout to the heavens:
we've found one bypass to your curse!
oi! most godly! industrial farming!
the tractor! fuck's sake... we throw food away!
can anyone imagine a worthwhile
job that doesn't require sweating?!
i imagine all the white-collar bullshitters
sitting around playing solitaire
like they did in 1998's rom com classic:
you've got mail...
i sometimes write and sweat
from my armpits...
i can't imagine any satisfaction without
breaking a sweat...
i'd rather a job like that...
than then have to pretend the hamster
and go into a gym and do a mile
on a treadmill!
ergo? i'm of the Miltonian
persuasion - i'm pretty sure
that the weaver of
"lies" did us a must-favor -
what work is worth doing without
breaking a sweat?
besides... these so-called eternal
curses - became ethereal given the lapse
of time -
while at the same time
i don't really know why working in the garden:
trimming, throwing over-bloomed
flowers that otherwise turn to
the consistency of hay -
allows for time to speed up -
what feels like half an hour becomes
one and a half hours...
always comes to mind -
so it's settled - 9th of September i'll be
taking a haitus to read dr. zhivago...
and some other book -
completely immersed in polenspreschen...
no english for miles and miles...
me spending time with two old people...
saving up money...
and then? a trip to Prague...
why Prague? it only became apparent
to me today -
Miroslav Holub (Pigeon)...
the studen girls will be back from
their summer break...
and i'll be the charming stranger from
england with a book by a czech poet...
or that's the "hidden" intent -
i don't know: shit, just, happens...
there's no game or whatever they call it:
i don't like premeditated consequences...
i don't like schematics outside
the already bogus realm of electron
migration in an organic chemistry
as long as i end up looking in
the mirror with a face that looks
glistening with the juices of the higher
tier of oration - of what is to come
of the godhead-vagina dialogue...
equivalent to: pouring olive oil
into the palm of my hand and smearing
it all over my mandible face...
drawing spaghetti since i came
equipped with spaghetti rather than straws...
Holub! why does everything have to
be so spectacular with you:
so spectacular and condensed?
where is that rambling monologue breather -
that cascade of words without
cascade! the zenith of Bilbao!
- and that's the greatest motivation
to spew, further some "cause",
learn to write - over and over again -
a bit like when drinking takes a detour
and you lose control over it -
after a while it never satisfies -
that's the best motivation for writing:
to be left completely unsatisfied...
i can't imagine sex to be
any different -
wait... no... it's not...
to prove the point i'd
ensure that when visiting a prostitute
i was unable to ejaculate
for an hour -
and you should have seen
the expression on that face when
she was unable...
hell have no fury for
a woman scorned -
on the topic of prostitutes:
finally! a responsible adult!
all i heard after a while...
s.t.d. this... s.t.d. that...
at least these women...
encourage responsible sex...
and i'm all for it...
with the foreskin?
i can't vouch for "m'ah pleasure"
being less with a condom -
in all honesty?
she could have done more with
a full latex body suit and a zipper
opening for her godhead altar oyster cum
it would be rather foolish to conjure up
the sort of associations a woman
associates sex with -
i'm hardly going to go en route
of a marquis de sade -
Miroslav! why not Milan Kundera?
we shared at least that:
the unbearable lightness of being -
she would be the one with her eyes
closed - while i:
i had to see everything -
and god all that mechanical scrutiny -
the engineering of an orgasm -
never a chance to accept -
always to give -
going back to that ancient dialectic
between Zeus and Hera:
who derives more pleasure from sex -
man, or woman?
ahem... the answer came down
with Prometheus like a burning itch
on a circumcised Hebrew phallus -
you should be asking
the uncircumcised man -
what is and what isn't found outside
the realm of: not needing a partner
couch cushion of genital "excess" skin...
an uncircumcised man will tell you:
i still have the other ring of flesh...
surrounding my 11th finger
as well as my 11th toe...
i just imagine
the gallery of circumcised dildos akin
to someone imagining fingers without
surely: they're not necessary,
this, this or otherwise how basic
and anti-poetic, how sterile the whole
written enterprise can become
heaving this burden of:
less clumsy toffee scripts of
and more the basis for tucked under
a tortoise shell anatomies of man
knock-knock... who's there?
the fifth "horseman" of the apocalypse -
charging on a donkey...
god knows what he's bringing -
it's hardly a contemplation of either
comedy or seriousness -
requires purchase on credit -
rather than via debit...
point of interest:
i can't remember the last time i bought
something on credit -
owning credit cards seemed pointless
to begin with -
perhaps that's why buying something
on debit feels some much more
appealing - guilty - but appealing -
i never could grapple with the frivolity
of "buying" on credit...
buying on credit always feels like
why am i juxtaposing? together? a collage -
beside one another?
however many mediocre poo'ems -
at least together they can come together
and become an orphanage...
all my poo'ems are like
derelict houses or abandoned children -
my hearts aches for: empty -
i want my bowels to take over
any emotional critique -
instinctive and therefore
reflexive - rather than domesticated
and therefore reflective -
oh the sour grapes of ideals...
high-brow feelings of
counter the bio-rot-truth...
the many faceted approach -
i took 4 approaches of sketching
Rodin's the kiss when it was rented by
tate modern london...
before she, yes, before she decided
to put all manner of ropes on the damn beaurty...
cornelia parker & the mile of string...
i once envisioned a happy
birthday girl opening a door to the bedroom
filled from the floor to the ceiling with balloons...
rather than... soap bubbles...
well: rope... a mile of rope...
as if the reinterepretation of
a niqab... sure thing...
if a woman's most revealing asset
are her eyes?
i bed to differ - really? hair?
you look at all the older women -
isn't there a line of pixies in their 60s?
cute in youth...
standard once ageing...
hands though... hands...
those petite porcelain pocket-minders...
no gentler bud of a flower readying itself
to bloom and blossom...
i'd be left with three knuckles and a missing
pinky finger -
no wonder jerking off can become
so intimidating sometimes...
but no movies -
i like the active imagination of still-frames...
or the very finest italian porn from
the 1970s... when sex looked like fun:
seemed very sensual...
even had a fucking story!
i mean... you've seen one take from
all the president's men -
the watergate scandal informant -
and you'll know he has the same name
from the PS1 classic: metal gear solid...
tonsil fucking i call it... ugly as...
sober francis bacon painting a fridge...
i can only imagine furthering a cause
considering a new genre:
faux pas art -
i don't know -
ever dance with the devil in the pale
moon light? i have -
i once played the dervish on a cold
england night in a field....
tom waits quixotic ramblings
comes to mind -
there's all of this:
there's the rubric man,
there's herr zensor -
and there's the "offense" taken by
people saturated with all
this pornography -
pulling at a violin's bow expecting
to ramp up the sound with
a frizz from the tightened mane -
yet all the more weird -
hardly fwenchly expecting the absurd
whenever they don't see
a marker to replace the U
in the dyslexic ridden word akin
brave! brave! truly brave!
a bit like eating mash potatoes
mind you... the chinese have a wise
saying about using chopsticks...
when asked why they will not eat
with a knife and fork...
we do not bring weapons to the table...
right... right... because you couldn't
stab a man through the eye
with a chopstick...
chopsticks! ugh... no wonder they
are the sort of people who
require stipends of a continually
take a break from eating using
chopsticks: you'll soon find...
it's the most sadistic form of eating -
what comes at the other end is:
the one handed-crook-crow-grip...
a disfigured clash of cultures...
and if the child was naughty
in a chinese school -
he wasn't made exemplar with a dunce's
hat standing in the corner of a classroom...
he was told to count 100 grains of dry
rice using chopsticks!
i guess you live
by the way you eat:
chopsticks are sadistic instruments
of the culinary journey of man:
akin to the faux pas done by westerners:
you don't eat sushi using chopsticks!
the best sushi i ever had?
when i carried a knife...
how else was i going to eat
the wasabi, pickled ginger, soy sauce
and a slice of lemon on a bench
at the collier row roundabout?
a truly mouthwatering experience...
what's the penatly of carrying a knife
in public in england?
but since i don't like to gamble
or gamble in general...
i need a thrill this one night...
so i took a knife with me,
bought some sushi and a lemon...
don't ask me the how or why...
a few people walked passed me
having a feast: none seem all that bothered...
as with every country...
there's the script international -
and there's the script intranational...
on the outside?
in the international script? model nation!
model revived europe nation!
envy of the western world...
internally? the intranational script?
i wouldn't want to live there...
the script from england?
intranational script? everything is falling
apart! this that and the other!
perhaps you are what you read:
but if you want to become of any worth
to yourself (forget the others) -
apply that - outside the realm of journalism...
these horror stories of england
must be happening on the moon...
or in the mariana trench...
horror stories: yes -
but to the levels of the supposed fever-pitch?!
at least in england you can spot
a dittohead news anchor
sighing in the most subtle way...
you see the exhausted face when
it has to state a blatant lie / exaggeration
(aren't they the one and the same?)
every country has two parallel narratives
running the media crunch-conundrum catherine-wheel...
i think i'll end this here...
from the looks of it... 3 refills later,
2 cigarettes to boot...
yep... just what i thought...
a depiction of:
a lion with a goat's siamese head
and a tail of a serpent...
so: nothing out of the ordinary.