eh, you wake up in the morning,
you hear the work-bell ring,
n' i march you to the table!
to see the same ol' thing.

ain' no food upon the table,
n' no... something something...
cos' you better not complain boy,
you'll get in trouble with the man...

let the midnight special,
     shine a light on me...
let the midnight special,
           shine a de Wallen red light on me -

cos Soho turned amber to all things queer,
and with queer turned all the stoppage
lights gearing you up to marriage a full
ahead go -
                              or in alt. castrated pop of
the Vatican **** charts - some sang some
other traffic coordination -

cos Soho sang of the green pristine ironed shirts
and the 9 and 5 daily tortoise and
birds - once it was the bees and the birds -
now it was all about birds and worms -
Soho my man, is all queer to mind you,
extortion on real estate and ****** -
but what if i paid with a diamond clad ****?
or cut my organic one off and used a *****,
half price?
                        i'd vote in solely for de wallen
section of Amsterdam, **** those little hubs
of quasi-hippies toking the cool off a joint...
i didn't go there for the cafes, i went for the brothel
cubicles...
                  ha                         ­     ha.

now, please understand me, i can understand a date
being a walk in a park, a promenade,
i understand the French concept of dating - coordinating,
walking and talk, an Islamic calendar month of binge eating
at sunset without recitation
from the book- but all this cinema,
this restaurant and drinks?
how about just a walk and talk session girl?
because, boy, you're so ******* outdated - i'd prefer
watching horror movies in a thunderstorm with lightning,
at least i'd be part of the Addam's family of Scottish Economy...

promenade! promenade with me! the airy bit of it all,
i'll have your oyster platter if i'm "sulking" an empty
stomach, and your words bouncing off inanimate things
while we seem to be walking parallel tangos,
but end up in the crypt of Caduceus.

i never finished the Soho song about the area being that
of privileged queers, and de Wallen known to the English
being shame alley - well... you should have heard the laugh
of that bubbly Puerto Rican girl... 'you know how
many i have had in me?'
what? tongues, i'm guessing the first.

i still don't know how to vote this out -
if i'd vote out, Soho couldn't compensate me,
if i'd vote in, at least de Wallen would -
well, given the statistics, i rather walk and talk
like some Aristotle tutorial -
rather than sit on my **** in a suburban semi-detached
before a television waiting for dementia.

I'd have Kyra Sedgewick's face as the face,
a combination of the bodies of Kathryn McPhee and Serena Williams as the body,
the wardrobe of Martha Quinn the old MTV personality broadcaster
Kylee Harting
the personality of Lucille Ball,
the character of Jane Addam, perhaps, the founder of Social Work in old time Chicago
the voice of Caila Ali
the sense of humor of Phyllis Diller,
the posture of Condaleeza Rice
the leadership ability of Elizabeth Warren
the lifestyle of either Monica the soul singer or Janet Jackson
and then name her Kyra Williams in honor of Kyra and Serena
plus the creativity of the know by some - black poets Nikki Giovanni
and the athleticism of pro tennis player (ex) Jennifer Capriati
with a little of pro tennis player Maria Sharapova

for me, each and every book feels like
a womb -
     until i reach the tadpole maturity,
until the time comes with finishing a book,
i am bound to say: this is me,
in complete -
    with every unfinished book akin
to abortion -
              i can never imagine a completion
of a man's deed necessitating writing -
with man having a compendium -
    a collective works bound to a single
volume, akin to a walt whitman -
        my my, what a strange experience -
best summarised by i.e. jack spicer:
   my vocabulary did this to me -
     what can you expect, well, what can you?
to leave everything in a tidied room,
         exposed, complete...
  there has never been a man to stand upright
on this orb - who didn't have pieces of
himself missing, who ever was more complete -
by having fathomed cul de sacs of himself,
better still, missing limbs of his psyche,
  scuttling around freely, imbued by the frenzy
of the chaotic approach, akin to the addam's family
thing -
             as in a non-pompous briefing of
philosophy as merely a genre of writing:
       lingua ad abstractum -
                        language toward abstracting -
nearing numbers, or, let's just say:
bordering on numbers.
              you can actually read a philosophy
book for a year, and shorten the year,
and actually mind what happens between your
reading sessions...
                         the seasons change,
    the sky morphs from imitation kenya in
the spring through to summer -
  to the sky: imitation alaska -
       going to bed by night, waking into night.
but such is the nature of books -
    you enter a book akin to *****,
    you mature in it to resemble a foetus -
and after a good few weeks pass -
you're walking with baggage of literary
exploration...
                    thank **** there are so few people
in this world who can manage
  a sexed-up version of reading...
            rather than calling it: bricklaying.
point being, philosophy has become a pompous
word...
               the affirmative aftermath of reading
nietzsche is naturally heidegger -
and the age old question:
   body vs. mind
                object vs. subject - yadda yadda -
whatever is concierge in yiddish -
              was jew ever offensive when ***
was like ****, shortened, i.e. ***- / ****- /
does the hyphen inclusion 'elp?!
              point being - yes, one time me & my pa
were at chessington world of adventures -
he was spat on... on the top of his head...
  from a ride, rummaging through a safari park...
    years later i returned the favour,
like any decency of exploiting evil:
  choose the innocents -
   so me and peter richardson stood on the
roof of a car park in ilford, and started spitting
from the roof... my... i got one...
   right on the cranny (cranium) -
          and we got away with it.
ah, right, the conclusive remark:
when heidegger stresses being does he
mean the all-encompassing?
  i only ask because he deviates from
   the said question, into a dilemma of
pluralism entering the subject vs. object debate...
there's an outright differential point to
be made regarding (a) being & (b) beings...
                  i.e. a man will always question
himself as subject of interrogation -
but, but, and this is necessary -
   a woman will always question herself
as object of interrogation -
     albeit in no fathomable guise of consistency...
the pluralism of being (beings) is obviously
asexual...
                  both man and woman interrogate
the posit of if not for interrogation deemed
necessary...
              to compare:
    introspection and intra inspection,
    and inter inspection,
                   mind you, A O is not a grapheme
similis...
             but does a plural elementality of
the said concern (anti-heidegger -
   where heidegger stresses a "care"
in the form of da-sein, i stress "concern" -
                 the nun-sein, jetzt) -
there's only one parallel to the idealism
of attempting a meditation with subsequent
narration -
              it's solely bound to an immediacy,
a sterility of promere in continuum,
like an animal,
       rather than excited by sensual prompt -
merely agitated by the overbearing
frequency of experienced sense-orientative
             modus (operandi).
         - have you noticed how secretive women
are in literature?
  and how man remains ****?
                          man will disclose almost
everything there is to be known,
while a woman will disclose what is
"required" to be "known"...
      always the ideally loved, the ideally ******,
the ideally hated, but never, ever,
   the "necessarily" standing before
            an otiose "obstruction";
mind you, in philosophy there's one necessary
equation, i.e.       . = ?
              a question is perpetuated toward
the extreme, as counter to the aristotelian
"thesis" of awe / exclamation...
             only when something is truly found
do the two observable parallels merge,
              epitaph . and a satisfaction for the earned
    epitaph i.e. ?!