Jane Austen:
The Queen
Of letting the perfect be the enemy of the good!
The fantasized, impossible perfect, that is…

Each letter drenched in soggy menstruation soup,
The waft transversing centuries…

But her readers tend to taste quite good!
Probably due to their blood-pink romanticism,
Causing constant douching and tending,
Since ‘You never know,
Mr. Darcy may walk in at any moment!’
Etc.

So if you like fresh, well-tended cunt,
Read some of her ouvre, why don’t you,
It will help you catch,
Some said snatch.

P.S. Another example of paying Ovid forward…

I like Titian…
And Botticelli…

I love their women’s eyes…
Lips…
Breasts…
Hair…
Expressions…
Positions…
Postures…

Perhaps even their aromas…
And tastes…
As they form in my mind…
Inspired by said images…

Imagining their jokes…
Movements…
Sounds…
Sexual techniques…

But I wouldn’t want to see their X-rays…
Or intestines…

I’m happy to know how bodies work…
The bones…
Fluids…
Sinews…

But I don’t need to,
Indeed, don’t want to,
See them of every woman,
I’m attracted to…

Skin serves a great purpose!
Not only for its possessor,
But also for its admirer,
Assessor…

Same with feelings…
And ideas…

I don’t need to,
Indeed, don’t want to,
See,
Or know,
All the inner intestines,
And structures,
And bowel movements,
Of every girl-I-wanna-fuck’s thoughts,
And emotions…

I like intellectual,
And emotional,
Skin!

And Jane is primarily little-girl intestines,
Without enough skin!

‘Should I do this,
Or should I do that?
But if I do this,
He’ll think that,
And then she’ll think this,
So perhaps I should do that,
Or maybe this…?’

(I, too, write my own intestines,
And micro-particles,
For the world to see…
And I would never blame anyone,
Male or female,
For wanting to look the other way,
In search of some big-boy skin…)

*After refusing to talk about Jane Austen for two hours in exchange for a blowjob and some ass-licking.

Love has come and inspired me to praise it!

‘How decadent!’ you say.

‘All around the world,
Children are starving,
And slaving,
And you wanna waste time praising,
A dream called love?’

‘How insensitive!’
‘Indulgent!’
‘Unidealistic!’

But I will do so nonetheless!
Since after the wars are all ended,
And hungers all filled,
And illnesses all cured,
Love will remain,
The reason to live for…

The tingle to fight for…

The dream to endure for…

And why leave her unpraised,
Ignored,
And neglected,
While eternally conquering sorrow?

Can’t I ever feel hate,
Without being a Sadist?

Or enjoy a bit of pain,
Without being a Masochist?

Those name-givers,
De Sade & Masoch,
Felt overwhelming amounts,
Of what I, too, posses in moderation…

But I also feel Love,
At least for some people…
Defining Love as the pleasure,
Of giving pleasure…

Not the pleasure of being subservient,
And not the pleasure of making the receiver subservient,
But the pleasure of seeing them smile,
Simply because I Love them.

I need not define the word Love with any other words.

Or find any other impulses behind the Love impulse.

(Although I’ll concede that it is a form of Selfishness,
Since I am getting pleasure from giving my loved ones pleasure…)

Thus, my Selfishness,
My all-powerful Authority,
Alternates between Sadism, Masochism and Love.
My ever-fluctuating Trinity…

Come on bitches,
Crucify me!

And watch your granddaughters,
Dream about sucking on my cock,
Like your grandmothers,
Dreamt about sucking on Jesus’!

And watch your grandsons embrace their deathes,
Just to avenge mine,
Like your grandfathers embraced theirs,
Just to avenge Jesus’!

German beauty,
So much of it,
Past and present,
Enshrined in a black cloud,
Brought about,
By a suicidal outburst
Of violence,
And aggression,
Over sixty years ago…

How long will the cloud last?

I wonder…

When will it pass?

I wonder…

Will it be followed by another?

I wonder…

I don’t think any rational creature,
Can resent contemporary Germans,
For what their parents,
And grandparents did.

But I think they fear contemporary Germans,
For what their parents,
And grandparents,
Showed themselves capable of.

No one is sure,
How much is nature,
And how much is nurture,
But if it’s at all nature,
This place is a scary mother-fucker!

*Written in Berlin, 2013

I’ve heard it said and repeated,
Many times before,
But modern-day Europe,
Is truly a bore!

Nicely ornamented,
With relics of giants passed,
But still shocked & suffocated,
By ghosts of those gassed…

Clueless politics,
Shattered sexes…
Confused identities,
Endless complexes…

All leave the air,
Tired and scared,
Which would have choked,
Even those who dared –
Blake, Caravaggio,
Nietzsche, Van Gogh,
Etc.

Where are they all today?
Have they all defected to America?
Have they all been killed in Treblinka?
Or have they all killed themselves,
To avoid Le Grand Dead-End?

Perhaps our grandkids,
Will get to enjoy new wonders,
But for now it remains,
A continent of blunders!

Wouldn’t take an African spaceship to the moon,
Anytime soon…

But I’d ride their rhythms,
And laughter,
To timeless ecstasy,
Any ol’ afternoon!