incels incels incels (cannon fodder -
if there were, any, cannons,
to aim at a propaganda bust of
a Wilhelm IV):
how many words and "descriptions"
are to caste the dire pawns full
charge into the void of:
just meeting the average?

now i can imagine...
an alt. story:
when...
when a patriarch met a matriarch...
only 2 weeks ago...
i watched with an "unabashed" sense
of: all that and all that will
come to pass...

a funeral, a matriarch was
being taken to the alt. of womb: her grave...
and oh my, what a parade!
the funeral cordon...
it spanned the better half of
10 minutes...

and the daughters and the sons,
the uncle here and there,
an aunt... and thus the brigade of
cousins and half-sodden truths of piss
shit and... how there was not media
coverage...

and thus: it all had to fade into grey...
like a memory of last year's autumn...

but all these stories "in between"?
parenting one (at best)...
two or three? what's that to compensate
for / with with none?
isn't claustrophobia starting to
itch, itch, itch, just a little bit?

if i were to have a child...
with all the current chinese wall bureaucracies,
cherub my delight...
all these "revisions" of: pedagogy is to be made
available for pedophiles: this sort
of... an... "inquiry"?

i know i am a burden being the only child...
where is my "get-up-and-go" sex libido?
oh shit... it drifted... it drifted and didn't say
goodbye... the dead-wood of me...
the story where a Robinson Cruseo will
never meet his Friday...

it's also called: fierce individualism
on Thursdays...
i feel not shame in that i have allowed
myself to: jerk off myself over
cleavage... i stopped being able to tell
the difference... is that a cleavage
of the breasts, or the ass?
because? prompted return to porn?
i'm happy to say:
jerk off until i am happily confined
to a: "curious case of impotence"...
why would i oblige fear into impotence?

i am quiet comfortable having
made it a purpose to cut off "working bits"...
or... something that gives me equal status
with the men with a receding hairline...
there's always something to be ashamed
of... i require a limp dick:
something.. equivalent to...
when was it not gratifying to enjoy a month
without a Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst...
then again: is there a counter sex imperative...
akin to a rhetorical impetus:
talk?! talk of what?

if i were rich: i'd breed like a bunny rabbit...
i'd want what...
if i were poor: i'd breed like a lottery ticket...
i'd want what...
this harangue of:
a personalised investement of genes into
a history... or rather for...
i keep forgetting that most atheists
replace hormones with genes when they
become for blatant and boring and at the same
at their rhetorical hard-on zeniths...

if not ego: since no ego could compete
with the existence of a god...
then... a cock that could over-shadow and...
at the same time... topple over an Eiffel...
so much and so little when
a woman would have to start to brag...
like she might say: i sometimes just enjoy the tip...
the tickling / teasing tongue...
it might be 9" by 6" (length by girth)...
but i still rather enjoy the tip...

here's to male sexuality being eaten up
by an iron maiden...
and the "power" i feel from "sentencing"
the opposite sex to a "purely" objective
"circumstance"... well... am i a... Roger Aisles?
we always talked gospel choir and
our favorite songs in the brothel...
true be told: we never did...
she was a whirlwind of romanian in her head
and i was... blank...

but i have found a way to silence my libido:
should it have ever balanced on
having "expression"...
the times that it did have a chance
to express itself... were so limited to begin with...
and no... it's not anything worthy of envy
or superstition...
it's like the basic arithemetic of no. 1, no. 2;
and that no. 3...

what am i going to say:
that this one time when i had a russian girlfriend:
i should have jerked-off more so that
she wouldn't become a girlfriend for a few months?
the hard-on and the inter-personal...
because that is never a bothersome topic to have
when you can cook your own food...
and better... that whatever "she" devises...

i can imagine the point of having children...
when you have 3 on the cards...
this other former girlfriend of mine?
she's onto her... wait... let me count...
2 twins... girl... girl... oh... and another girl...
i made a passing comment when her last one
was born and she posted a photo on a social
platform and i said:
what a most sad face...
she focused on... being exhausted from having birth...
but underlying my comment was
the obvious fact: i'm sorry that no. 5 isn't
a son...

frogs... apparently temp. has a lot to do
with what sex the spawn is born into...
too hot / too cold: a female is spawned...
too cold / too hot: a male is spawned...

you'd think: after 4 girls... this woman would
be "blessed" with a boy...
here's to not looking at a former maggot...
later the source of transliterated egoism...
never the full shaft: just the tip...
just the tip...
full flex and gimp suit and still no: full shaft...
just the tip...

so i, exfoliated...
jealousy? not as much as i am jealous
of myself having too many hours in the afternoon
after my: house-bound husband role is
satisfied to a ghost-and-phatom wife that
would otherwise work her publishing house job...

there really isn't even a signature relief statement:
should it happen and the roles
are inverted...

the otherwise over-exaggerated status of
sex... oh fuck me, it does happen...
once ina life time, for about 3 to 4 or 5 months...
great sex... but the rest isn't exactly
adhesive...
the talk doesn't "rhyme",
the politics is all letters but no syllables...
afterwards... what?
a baby... and having that sado-masochism
tendency of investing in
a being that would rather breathe a memory
of freedom and of thought
that having to have to cuddle to the bondage
of: social-norm expectations dictated
by procreation's ultimate end?

da pacem domine...
i listen to words sung by a brotherhood
less embarassing...
should the whole "incel" "thing" bother me?
i'm not paying, why should it?
i'm also not bothered by:
an inability to conceive:
i'm also not... infertile...
consciously-coupled...
browsing the carboot sale of a nunnery
of: used wombs...

crown: jerking off to the point of
reaching the crescendo of the ultimate limp dick!
whittle whit-chard will not rise:
not today, not tomorrow, not ever:
i rather feel inclined to transgender myself as
thinking: this be not, a stiff rod
of god's wrath to cut open and split atoo
the red sea to part...
i'm starting to "think" what if my whittle-Richard
curled up... and started to resemble
a mollusk shell?

hard-ons tend to matter in one-night-stands
in the end...
unless you're blue-pilled viagara charged...
and unless it's a whore... in a brothel...
and there's: clarity...
there's absolutely no reason as to why
you should have a hard-on...
in the same way as... to... why...
a women is to be aroused...
wet... when she's being raped...

believe me: south african private school teacher...
SANCHIA... blonde... bust and ass and all...
a perfect dinner date...
movie... then sex in a fucking cocoon of
the bed-sheets...
dry cunt... i almost wished to be circumcised...
it felt like circumcision...
she was dry... i was somehow erect...
like eating an oyster, first,
being wrapped... in breadcrumbs...
i can't over-state that sensation of an unaroused
dry cunt still wanting to fuck...
like me managing to "somehow" jerk off
a near limp...

but miracles... do happen!
hence the conundrum...

there's absolutely no reason as to why
you should have a hard-on...
in the same way as... to... why...
a women is to be aroused...
wet... when she's being raped...

i can't help with feminine shame:
i know my own...
a limp dick on a one-night stand is not something
i'm exactly ashamed of...
Tamara... picked her up one night
and she took me home
which she shared with her 3 homosexual
agony-aunts...
she tried the cocoon sex under the bedsheets
for 2 nights... we, even, had, a bath,
together, to relax... sucking of:
no Neil Armstrong...

but a robin did visit the garden
i was sitting in, while smoking a cigarette...
why don't i feel no sexual antagonism
that has to equate itself with violence?
perhaps i have stepped into
the rank of being an angel...
Tamara did call me that...
she picked me up, obviously drunk,
she "pretended" to pay for the cab fare
while opening the door of the cab
while it was still mobile and doing
the Bruce-Willis-tank-top spectacular
of a Die Hard movie scene...

drunk and under the bedsheets i was:
you're an angel...
my my... what caviat!
well... if one cannot compliment oneself...
there's hardly anyone else
to give a 3rd person bias, either; is there?

i might as well entertain entering the rank
of angel...
when i think about all those muslims
and their 72 virgins...
and the fact that: no sperm is allowed in
Jannah (heaven)...
and how all those 72 virgins will be
expecting to fuck a castrato-martyr...
among such martyrs...
the angels seem to have the balls...
but no phalluses...
while all the martyrs have all the cocks
in the world... strap-ons and what not...
but no balls...
which is good... since heaven doesn't
entertain the concept of sperm...
why would it...
everyone is sucking up their respective
ambrosia, everyone is being reincarnated
for the repeated feast of Ragnarök...
it's not like those 72 virgins need to become
the 72 mother-superiors...
to be inflated by subsequently giving birth...

martyrs all cock: no balls...
angels... all balls: no cock...
what a wonderful: and death is harrowing me...
to immediately abandon this
daydream...
this wedding to death i am dreading most...
it's such a hidden sincrecity to abandon
the second child: that child of day-dreaming
and: all things practical for entertaining
the masses... but having to ensure
the individual remains bounds to
a reasonable "solipsism" of: returning the masses
to their respective individual capsule of
the universal basic rules not
corrupted by however many:
particulars in a particular...
given... all the universals seem to be independent
of each other...
and even if they're not?
they congregate into the glue of ONE...
and that's like 0 / 0 - a double negation...
or pataphysics by the likes of alfred jarry...
prescriptum of dada...