1. you failed to mention:

    the golden curls on that full stop bum sac

    sometimes all you need is an expensive hat

    lengthy rehearsals are the best part of romance

    remove the fear from sex and what do you have ?


  2. narcissus and jasmine blossoms
    unbridled enthusiasm
    worried about wading in strange
    poorly paved
    overgrown thicket
    specks of onanistic prose
    sandpaper yearning
    stick-people measure
    angles of sunlight

    • Worried about painting
      In the prose thicket of Bob
      But Bob isn’t Bob or Bob
      Never knows how
      But that snaking pull
      From up on high
      Snatches collars and painting
      Dogs sunned in sunlight
      And poor hog light
      Made of paintings and prose

  3. bob said that his real name was klaus kinski
    luminescent bacteria
    damaged poets
    brooding romance
    voyeur without the pleasure
    paintings of detachment
    little lady with grubby fingers
    she puts the full stop to sac

  4. klaus kinski would hold a flashlight under his chin
    and say things like:
    “i don’t look like werner herzog…..do i sound like him ?”
    lots of people would laugh
    the lady with the grubby fingers never laughed
    what a turn on
    who wants an attractive woman ?
    you end up frustrated trying to keep her in luxury
    you have to punch and kick and fight other horny people trying to steal her away
    “she’s all mine” and then she takes up with someone younger/richer/better hair
    you could get a pet but you are too lazy/crazy/cruel

  5. as time creeps by we discover deceptive appearances
    the wholesome natural traits……..don’t eat your young
    the decorativeness of the female
    i once bought something at Macys-egotistical-force
    what life ought to be
    virility not awkward vulnerability

    • Time licks a crotch. Sometimes slowly sometimes fast but decorations are like decorum, and females are not meant to be used you know young sir. A question of virility knocks on the door, barges in, and steals the sheets again; later, you find them hanging in the yard next door, where they are blowing in no wind at all. Tickles and tackles and holiday smatters of crab apples, that is opinion only, as though but and indistinguishable from a raygun bunting rainbow rescue of birds stuck in space, of the first mission that went up to save them and got stuck too, multiplied (multiple one), grew, turned aside and travelled through, that hole in my filter fabric space yard filled with sheets. What a mess.

      • eye do think you’ve confused cock for clock
        females are like automobiles/drive them like hell/get a new one
        males are like big babies/simple to outsmart/better than a watchdog
        the part of your anatomy that knocks on the door….that’s the answer to the question
        eye like: when the sheets disappear, look next door
        while you’re over there, look for your plaid shirt

        • What the heck, do I sound like a lumberjack. I would like to be a lumberjack. Yes, parts of my anatomy are more solid than others. I would like to be Gandhi. He had a sublime manhood, it is said. Very peaceful. He was not very true to any one woman though. That’s okay. Cocks and clocks, what the difference. Just a matter of time. And foreskin. Before foreskin, what did we have? I don’t know. I really don’t.

            • Gandhi lives. He preaches from a bible written by Willie Mays left testicle. Often I see him in the market, all bald and shit.. He is very righteous. Gets down now and then, he’s a good dancer. He likes Mennonites. That was inevitable. Gandhi is still into women though. Hairy Mennonite women. He likes the smell of horses. He sleeps in a barn with his bibles and corn. It’s all he eats now. No monkeys there. Not a single primate has been spotted by our friend Gandhi. I give him a ride now and then in the wagon. He likes it when I go fast down the hills. Fucking ingrate.

  6. presuming that she can be pinned down and dealt with
    for a few bucks comic moments can be added to the tragedy
    a sofa cemetery
    bottles of booze
    struggle to achieve intimacy
    quick demonstration
    feeling torn

    • Pins are meant to be dispensed gently. Comic moments congregate with pins that levitate to space, with tragedies laced in the spaces created in haste. In a cemetery, ducks crap on dolomite, mourners pass the bottle, and they don’t feel intimate? Intimacy robs robbers of the wealthy, spins suns on the head of purloined pins, in this great struggle of forearms and backhands, in this troubled winning that we do over dead bodies laid backwards and forwards, towards sun and away, faulty faces blackening unacceptingly fast or slow depending on you.

      • the lady being pinned down causes you discomfort
        the truth is that she is a horned beast
        primitive license states you have to deal with her in a rough manner
        repressed and incestuous mumbo-jumbo just ain’t gonna cut it
        stop guessing riddles and be a MAN
        tyranny will be old news

        • The monkey will respond, then. The monkey comes from the jungle but wears pyjamas. Do not mess with the monkey. He likes the rough go of it, though he is gentle with his women – and sees nothing wrong with it. Do not tell the monkey to be a man. The monkey is not a man. He is a monkey. That should be plain. Long ago, the monkey made his way here to sit on my shoulder and throw shit at the walls. There is nothing wrong with that. He does not go for incest. He does not go for it. Monkey is watching. Monkey is always there.

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