perhaps with could be, something borrowed from
marcel schwob's first intentions -
but i hardly think: a "girl of the streets"
is equivalent to the "lady of the night"...

if, "culture war" has any traction left in it,
i can only begin to imagine
the beatniks and the 1960s' counter-culture...
well... if there's a "war" happening,
then there must be two opposing armies...
and for that you'd require generals, the infrantry...
etc. and the scouts... i like to think myself as a scout...
i'd hate to be in the cohort of the infrantry,
those poor mindless buggers who retweet and caption shit...

two things i can't ever imagine not happening,
well, three: falling asleep not listening to music,
fucking, not listening to music - and fucking in a cocoon
(i.e., under the bedsheets) -
in a brothel i'd compete with the prostitute
over the song we were supposed to listen to,
sometimes we "forgot" to fuck
and we exchanged tastes in music,
obviously i had to play her SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT
by christopher young from the hellraiser movie...
she was still stuck in dance music fucking,
nothing atmospheric or haunting,
like seeing herself being fucked looking into a mirror...
or having her body washed by a stranger's
hands... hair fiddled with like
someone working on cotton fabric
being weaved...

chromatics, the besnard lakes - people of the sticks;
hammock - ketonic, trentemøller, portishead,
morning view by incubus, zero7, poliça -
there are so many bands to name... and now...
on the outskirts...just mustard - wednesday -
nothing can be said...
one can trully appreciate music when the rhythm guitar
doesn't barge forward all the time, silencing the bass guitar,
like in the case of metallica... aren't guitar solos overrated?
if only the guitar were to stick to the rhythm
and not bother to solo...
that pop tested ergonomic of jerking off imitation...
sure... when it works, it works...
the dandy warhols vs. the brian jonestown massacre...
well... aufheben of the latter broke my opinion
about liking the former more...
a band that respect bass is a band worth respecting...
you need... a membrane between the drums
and the rhythm guitar... imagine jazz without the bass...
just drums and piano / trumpet / saxophone...
tier 1 of rhythm (drums), tier 2 of rhythm (bass) -
the subtle bass...
imagine modern psychology with tier 1 (the unconscious),
tier 2 - the missing schematic pivot (bass / subconsciousness)...
tier 3 of the rhythm guitar... oh sure...
technicalities of music "analysis"...
but when it comes to stealing kisses from prostitutes...
i'll be there... i'd sometimes pay all the 120quid
for an hour without having to gravitate
to gratifying any base desire...
sure... if you lifted the money veil aside...
marriage...
but marriage doesn't buy you an hour's worth of intimacy
without consequences...
without familiarity... i like the touch of strangers...
i once made myself vulnerable:
where i invested something more
than a bodily interaction with someone,
i'll reference what this felt like:
it felt like having to lodge a horcrux into someone -
a piece of me became missing,
lodged into the identity of someone else...
the aura arrived at with sleeping with prostitutes
borrows something from Kierkegaard...
one prostitute even said so,
after several months worth of an interlude;
she said: you're still the same...
Kierkegaard notes something similar:
the changelessness of god... well...
if there's anyone worth imitating...

i can't begin to comprehend the horror stories...
the english kids don't know how to drink...
obviously if you drink warm vodka
and orange juice... you'll end up in A&E getting
your stomach pumped...
i've been to the A&E... with a dislodged finger...
but i have never been there to get
my stomach pumped...
maybe i have a tapeworm that likes
to go on a bender in my intestines...
one night: a beer or two and 1.5L of whiskey...

and all the stories of S.T.D.'s?
do some people merely fuck for soap
opera dramas to fill the voids of their
fuck-lives? are these the sort of people
who fuck in cocoon?! under bedsheets?
with the lights off?
in the brothel (i'm not boasting,
i'm just bewildered)...
we would fuck on the bedsheets...
with dimmed lights...
and if we started to resemble two beached
whales... we'd cuddle and share
the flab between us...
she's give some from her thighs...
i'd give some from my waist...
she's give me some of her tits...
while i'd give her some of my puffy cheeks...
but never did i have to worry
about an STD... she would always say:
i get regular checks...
and everything would be so bloody
condom-honest...

what high moral authority,
what "superiority",
the same allowed for people going through
the motions of a one-night-stand?
at least... an honest transaction...
conversation and making yourself
familiar to each other has
to take a quickened step...
but the odd surprise of stealing a kiss...
schoolgirl giggling
when you'd bite her nose or chin...
kiss her eyelids shut...
and she would do a magic trick
of disappearing in your embrace...

because that's what they were...
pristine encounters...
there was no baggage of personality,
or pair-bonding...
or the passing of time...
again and again:
if i were to be called once more
'a good man' by one of them...
i would forfeit...
and none of them wanted a horcrux...
plus...
immunity to feminism...
prostitutes abhor feminism...
i've actually heard one prostitute say:
every woman should become a prostitute
for a while...
no feminism... i'm immune...
there's none of this narrative:
of the exploited women...
the women who need to be pitied...
they're just women with
numb vaginas that need...
some persuasion to finally arrive
at the misery of finding out...
size doesn't really matter...
'it's the second time, it has happened to me...'
orgasm on the "job"...

feminism can't wriggle its way into
a brothel...
nor can some high aspiring moral argument
regarding "responsibility" or a variant
of "protecting the western spirit"
(might as well cite this as ditto " ditto plight)...

how many number of pointless
dates i didn't go on...
because in the brothel two extremes can meet...
the super horny drunk...
and the already horny numb cunt...
all the sex needed -
and no window-shopping of the soul
to be given -
no life story... no future ambition...
just the sexual act...
no dating profiles...
no moral zenith, no moral nadir...
no acting, no moral acting! no, moral, acting!

oblivion.