it's a truly bewildering experience -
to have to sit without a definite sense
of urgence with regards to
an indefinite prospect of a tomorrow...
imagine having to go to sleep
with a plan...
as most do...
tomorrow? house decorating...
the kitchen is finished,
the bathroom is finished...
now it's time for my bedroom...
the last time i decorated my room was...
13 November 2015... just hours shy of
the Bataclan massacre...
i was painting my room crimson...
an eerie sensation upon waking:
with no knowledge of the massacre till
the next day...
i guess it is only fair that
i brighten the room with a colour akin
to shy mint or pale rosemary...
as my ex-girlfriends younger sister
once exclaimed with regards to
my fashion sense... 'he's always wearing
clothes that are of the earth's colours' -
which was true... brown, green...
the odd chance of blue...
perhaps it's my green eyes
that draw me into a sense of calmness i derive
from green and brown...
again... there's a tomorrow that i know
of today, what i will be doing...
and... that's hardly a good canvas for any
sort of poem...
even reading the short biography
of Jack Spicer doesn't help...
or any of his poems...
even though i do conceive that homoerotic
poetry has no comparison...
and here's me: cis hetronormative blah blah
baba yaga spin-offs...
but it is what it is...
i could never fathom love poetry:
hetrosexual, love poetry...
such mundane tasks:
so little intricacy and complication...
for simply: the pieces fit...
the love isn't chiral...
thereby one love counters
the other love - it feasts upon it -
perfectly matched and...
a poem is no worth gesture
to a woman who would desire flowers...
or the world the oyster
and the moon pearl on a finger stuck
to the gold orb of perpetuated: vows...
promises, compliments and:
oh the sex... the sex just has to be...
purr-fect.
when it came to poetry,
the old guard, the old gays,
the gays under the radar,
pre-civil rights gay-dom...
a sense of: intellectual integrity...
the sort of poetry that said:
even if not gay...
at least an expansive bastion
for exploring the self and a "self"...
or however the existentialists akin
to jean-paul sartre would frame it...
on a brief sidenote:
modern decorative paint?
well - the chemistry has become so advanced
that you don't need a primer white
to start off, and, if you dip enough
of the brush into the tub:
you won't even need a pale rosemary
green to tackle and cover
a crimson rage that lends itself to
the Bataclan Massacre:
this is beyond "islamophobia":
a phobia is not so much a fear:
as an irrational fear...
and i "suffer" from arachnophobia:
which is a funny fear...
i fear spiders in confined spaces:
notably a shed... and a certain types
of spiders... some larger than a thumb...
who's bodies are not peppered with
soft skin and hairs...
those lanky anorexic fuckers that lurk
in the dark and spend the days
sleeping without eyelids...
don't ask me about the genus...
their spiderwebs are like cotton candy
and not beautiful with an intricacy
associated with the classical theology
argument for "intelligent" design...
i hate those candyfloss spiderweb spiders...
itchy fuckers just to think of them:
oh look, fives shots of whiskey having
finished the three ciders and i'm singing
and giggly in my insides like a sparrow
come the english april!
i'm also acrophobic -
but when i was working as a roofer
on the industrial scale (scottish widows hq
in london near st. paul's? i did that roof)...
every time i stood on the edge of the roof
i was firmly rooted in a daydream of
throwing myself off the roof...
my acrophobia is weird...
three films to illustrate: yes... films...
free solo: a documentary
(i used to climb trees as a child
and i did some basic rock climbing)...
skyscraper...
and a tier above these two:
the walk (2015) - philippe petit semi-biopic...
that's when my acrophobia wakes up...
when i see heights on a television screen...
it's worse than a horror movie...
i get these needles biting into my feet:
stay grounded is the message...
i can't watch heights on a cinematic screen...
i can fathom heights in real life...
but not on screen... the horror movie genre
doesn't even compare...
after all: the greater succcess of a horror
movie is not the visual props:
it's the music... a horror movie is defined
by music: imagine watching a horror movie
in the cinematic history segment where
movies were silent... Nosferatu...
a volcano exploding is actually beautiful:
but the sound that comes later?
like with lightning and thunder:
lightning is beautiful - the thunder is what
terrifies people... also the absurd instance
when you see lightning... but hear no thunder...
but that's the whole point of
the ancient greek notion of a phobia:
the irrational fear is... a comical fear...
even a few people have conceded:
islamophobia is a misnomer that requires
a prime antonym, proper:
rage... i have one story...
when the 7/7 attacks happened in London?
my then girlfriend called me up...
she just missed the no. 30 bus explosion...
she was late for work...
now? she's a happy mother of 5 girls...
it's not an irrational fear when there's a clarity
of reason from the opposing side...
a phobia is a funny irrational fear,
like the ones i "suffer" from...
islamophobia is a bogus misnomer
term...
on a lighter note?
ha ha! well i'm a male...
so when i might write something about
masturbation? clearly! there's no money
to be made with a webcam that a woman
would otherwise make...
on the throne of thrones i checked...
what? scented candles and an armchair?
no no... on the odd day:
do the no. 1 the no. 2 and the no. 3:
piss, shit, ejaculate...
then take a shower...
of the three? no. 2 is my favorite...
perhaps that's why i prefer
homoerotic literature (notably poetry)
and will never try the act...
even... kissing men is as much fun
as kissing women: if not more...
but recently watching a video...
the deplorable choir... 3 women...
blonds... hardcore country h'americana...
no stiffy...
rose lips sorta pale skin,
heavy make-up...
long legs...
cowboy boots...
i checked over a period of four days...
porn? no... i need snippets like a muslim...
hands are still for me the most erotic
aspect of a woman...
so i checked... classical western
beauty... dutch german schveedish yadda yadda...
cleavage... shy show of snippets of leg...
nothing explicit...
with the western women? western beauty
standards?
sure... a forced ejaculation...
but little yield: certainly too little to become
a sperm bank donor...
but...
(jeez, give me a break,
i'm a late bloomer)...
wang ying, kaho shibuya,
ai shinozaki...
now... if i'm "white", what are these women?!
i swear to god i already stated:
i'm piglet white, and when i drink a bit too much
i turn into king crimson,
and if i get a tan i look like a thai mongrel...
we're talking south korean and japanese
porcelain dolls...
whiter than snow...
and apparently, unconsciously,
i can ejaculate more from looking
at porcelain girl's cleavage and snippets
of wrist and thigh than the whole: shabang
of a western tired beauty of blond,
silicon and ruby rue lips...
their beauty just exfoliates with an aura
of innocence...
again: no webcam, no dildo spare...
piss, shit, ejaculate, take a shower...
move toward wanting to do things that
do not pursue me like some anorexic leech:
i'm just tired of wanting,
i always wanted to stop wanting,
i just require to have what will feed me not
wanting...
again: no scented candles...
dilated anus, massaging the prostate...
mind you: i did start to masturbate when
i was 8 years old...
i'm pretty sure the whole sensation
is muscular... since the same sensation
has travelled with me...
since when i first felt it and didn't ejaculate
anything...
but yeah... standard western tired beauty
blond ruby lips h'americana doesn't do anything
for me...
my my...
this poo'em is starting to look like
a perfect dream... disinhibited and painfully
honest... i was once asked to attend a.a. meetings...
and i thought? what the fuck was i going
to say? say "something" in order to feel shame,
pity, penance? am i a monk
trapped in the 21st century from the medieval
period? am i supposed to lacerate myself?
poetry: what other medium?!
i already have a plan,
even the people i know started catching on
to my expression of being a: reformed alcoholic...
i just drink less... i still drink...
but i drink less...
here's to going to an a.a. therapy session...
F.Y.!
going to an a.a. therapy session would
never provide without the sort of self-will
and self-determination to rekindle the 20+ year
old me in the body of a 33 year old who
would only love to travel the continent
between weekends,
foreign city, foreign country, foreign tongue,
alone... i don't need some bullshit
introspection therapy...
i've seen how the faculty of
memory is erroded by pedagogy...
i like my memory to be intact...
my little cameo cinema... and it goes as far
back as when i was 4 years old
and Lothar Matthäus played for Germany
at the 1990 world cup...
not to mention Martin Wolski's Polish Zoo
satire show...
so another round of whiskey and
ginger ale... and fun time saving up for
a trip to Prague!
- poetry is the medium that is worth
the punching bag of a Wladimir Klitschko punching...
a fickle medium, a fickle lover,
a fellow insomniac always restless...
but a rubber ear:
i.e. easily stretched and always
second to incubate the gravitas of anonymous
intrigues.