the gradation of feeling in my fingertips:
still feels more alligned to -
what became of hurt by nine inch nails
when johnny cash would come to sing it
as a quasi epitaph...

there are many gradations at the
deposit of the finger tips...
given the modern neuro-science?
what is the brain is not a fatty sponge
with an electric current -
that last household of the soul -
now? well explained...
is there a need to add to an already
fleeting "more"?
no, not really...

if i could have my nostalgia...
my cameo cinema of memory,
the non-errosive contraption of memory
via fakery historicity,
of rubrics of math,
of science: bed ridden by dogma...
crammed heap-load of dust:
and some post-scriptum waking moments
that would lead anyone to better
fathom sleep...

there are gradations of feeling...
it can only become in braille...
you would really require tender
finger tips to read this script...

the same question i was asked
by the anaesthetist before i had my wisdom teeth
pulled out: when i asked:

quo, vadis?
⠟⠥⠕ ⠧⠁⠙⠊⠎

i can't read braille...
i learned to play the guitar...
the nearest i could ever come to braille?
morse code... i could slide you
a slick reading:

− − · − 
· · − 
− − − 
· · · − 
· −
− · · 
· · 
· · · 

(sometimes a man just has to drink,
a little bit more,
having hear of the world,
a shared solidarity of incubated wrong-doing
by the third / other party)...

there are gradations of feeling via
the finger-tips...
there are the trinity tips of thumb,
index and middle finger associated with
the ears of an agitated cat...

the same fingers that come between
a phallic insertion, the foreplay,
the buttering cusp of an oyster's external
manifestation of an organ...
the glut the pussy the glue
and sickly floral pattern bogus...

there are gradations of feeling
associated with fingertips...
i could read you morse-braille...
but braille-braille?
good luck!

no man who'd play the guitar
would tame reading braille...
every sight-baron will tell you that...
playing the guitar numbs the finger-tips...
i would, if i could,
read you morse-braille...
but having played the guitar once...
the tactic used by the serial killer
in se7en...
trimmed?!
there are gradations of
sensation...
i do not know the Dante's worth
of caste...
the actual tickled vulva...
tickling behind the ears...
gently biting the knose...
sucking the lips...
the collarbone sketch...
tickles via the antithesis of a footfetish...
hard karma sutra biting of the ass?!
kissing eyelids...
what sort of metaphorical sex
is left, available?
primitive canvas...
having to pet cats...
gently biting the tips of fingers...
the chin...
kissing cheek with cheek rather than
lips... then massaging the cheek with cheek...
performance art oral...
namely? max of 3 fingers and all
the slobbering a mouth can sustain
beside ingesting a leg of lamb...
she sleep in your bed:
you sleep on the floor...
you become a skeleton,
she becomes an oyster...
neither a braincell,
nor a muscle...
something quasi-in-between...

the conundrum:
if she's not good at house-keeping:
cleaning... if she's not good at cooking...
what the hell is she?
a semi-stastus prostitute
with a gaming addiction?!
a latent would be mother coming
home from a 9 to 7 hour dies-muto?!

then comes playing the guitar,
then, touching yourself:
to be honest?
i never met a woman who could
jerk me off as well as i managed
to jerk myself off...
which is a bit sad...
i would never gravitate toward
the sort of disinhibition whereby
a woman could take the lead
in the antithesis of a tango...
better for me to have
not lost what i could not have,
never have gained...
like that quote by Kafka,
which i will to reiterate...

my fingertips are numb...
my heart has deserved itself to serve
a thousand worths of incubated
births from the pain of drowning -
and, thus? i am no ally to
the myth of the pain of giving birth
by the woman "in charge"...
esp. when being offered:
the cesarean section;
forgive me your inclined deluded decision
of minding the outdated poetics...

woe... you have been freed from
the pain of giving birth to a child via
the cesarean section...
but you didn't make it universal...
i don't know who or what is idiotic...
perhaps that's why i didn't include
a temporal sense of me,
with a genetic argument bias...
because...
that's just fucking stupid...
what's argued and what's the counter
argument... is not worth
the pleasure of / for sex...
please... rid me of the bounty
of the mines of king solomon...
please! heave and worship your virgin
harems of when muhammad made it
an ambition to equal king solomon...
fuck it... whatever...
just ensure me one gratification:
the chance to be asleep...
whether i was proven wrong,
or whether i was right;
i tire of the waking hour,
i tire, of whatever hour comes making
second tries:
to make constitutions worth
a history of a day in a month in a year.